Million Yawner Oscar
Well, in spite of high hopes and Chris Rock, the Oscars were duller than ever before. I yearn for an unscripted Oscar moment, like when John Wayne browbeat the audience into singing God Bless America, and dammit, he wasn’t leaving the stage until they did. I’d even put up with a Vanessa Redgrave political rant just to see some LIFE in the old show. But no, not even a perilously exposed cleavage to liven up the night. By the end, I was desperate for something to mock.
I had a bad feeling about it from the get go—the pre-show was full of tasteful gowns and ingratiating compliments and even Joan Rivers was boring. Army Archerd—hosting his 43rd Academy Awards for the two people in Peoria who listen on radio—looking as if he’d been embalmed and propped up next to the giant Oscar statue was THE most exciting moment of the pre-show.
The opening montage of old films was a thrill for a movie fan like me, who smugly called out the title of every movie they had clips from, but I can’t imagine the average viewer not nodding off to Dustin Hoffman’s clichéd voiceover (“Movies are our past…and our future”). Then Chris Rock took the stage, to thunderous applause and a standing-O. Thence came his best line of the night, “Sit your asses DOWN,” and a stinging monologue that really stuck it to the Hollywood—and George Bush, of course. A real howl. But that was the end of that.
Round about hour two, I was praying for Salma Hyack to trip coming down the stairs (why do they always have stairs for gowned and stiletto-heeled female presenters to navigate?), do a triple gainer and land with her Versace Couture up around her ears. Even Chris Rock looked like he wanted to drop the F-bomb by that point. They tried to speed up the show, assembling nominees for the lesser awards on stage like a herd of nervous cattle. This prompted Rock to swipe, “Next year they’ll be giving out the Oscars in the parking lot.” If they use a hidden camera and get Simon Cowell to comment on the acceptance speeches, then I’m in.
Anyway, enough of the complaining, here’s my assessment:
The Awards:
1. Poor, pitiful Marty Scorsese. He just can’t get a break in that town. At least Clint didn’t kick him in the head going up to get his Oscar like Roberto Begnini did to Spielberg in ’99. Ah, sweet, un-dull memories of Oscar’s past.
2. The best acceptance speech: Morgan Freeman. Short and pithy, and how can you not love a man who looks at Oscar and remarks, “Heavens to Murgatroyd?”
3. Worst “speech:” That dude who won for best original song, who accepted his award by singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” (or something like that).
4. Apparently Hilary Swank didn’t get the memo about nixing the laundry list of people to thank. I really had to pee by that point and was hoping for the commercial, but yak, yak, yak… At least she remembered to thank her hubby Chad this time (IMHO, the main reason she won this time—the Academy wanted to give her a chance to right such an egregious wrong). Thankfully, she didn’t kick Annette Bening in the head.
5. Isn’t it ironic the winner of documentary short was cut short? And when the guy who won best score went on and on to Hilary Swank lengths, they never played the music to cut him off; some kind of music man conspiracy?
6. Of course, Jamie Foxx. His sweet, emotional speech guarantees him another shot at the gold guy, even if it’s for Booty Call II. Hollywood loves big, tough guys who can cry. BTW, I think I saw Paul Giamatti try to kick Jamie in the head when he ran up to the stage.
The Stars:
1. Three words for Renee Zellweger: No, no brunette!
2. Raccoon eyes are back! Blame it on The Incredibles and their raccoon-like eye-masks. Either the girls wanted to look Incredible and slathered on the mascara or there was a crap load of make-up wrecking crying going on backstage. Laura Linney was the worst abuser; she went for the raccoon-hedgehog hybrid look with black eyes AND a hairdo you could ski jump off of.
3. Separated at birth: Johnny Depp/Vincent Price; Annette Bening/David Bowie; Clint Eastwood/NH’s Old Man in the Mountain (except Clint’s granite cheeks have yet to crumble)
4. Was it me, or did Adam Sandler look like he’s been on the Orson’s Welles “too-many-candy-bars” diet? And Mike Myers, get thee to a barber, pronto.
5. Best Old Hollywood look: Scarlett Johanson, Drew Barrymore, who’s got the pedigree and the snout to look like she just stepped out of 1933, Charlize Theron, Mickey Rooney. Whenever someone mentioned Hollywood history, they cut to the Mickster. Because he’s old, he was there, and everyone else from Tinseltown’s Golden Age is dead.
6. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, Halle Berry is the most beautiful woman in movies. Now, if she could just pick a decent role…
7. Puffy Combs looks damn fine in a tux and no, that wasn’t his gun that went off when Jeremy Irons took the stage (the big bang prompted Irons to quip, “I hope they missed”).
8. Prince wore a purple tux (SHOCKING!) and looked like he was going to my prom in 1976.
9. Who were those people they kept cutting away to in the audience? With no Jack Nicholson or Meryl Streep for the camera to ogle, there wasn’t a familiar face in the theater; and there’s only so many times they could focus on Mickey Rooney before the home audience began to shout, “I get it; he’s not dead!”
10. Sean Penn is the last person I’d invite to a dinner party. A funeral, yes, but a place where there might actually be the opportunity to smile, no.
The songs:
1. Excuse me, is Beyonce (who should be locked up for glittery eye-shadow abuse) so broke she’s gotta sing every damn nominated song? Except for…
2. That other song, the one in Spanish that Antonio Banderas “sang.” He spent so much time slapping his thigh I wondered if his pants were on fire (and does that mean he’s a liar, liar?)
And finally, the Dead-O-Meter: The show went on so long and was so deadly dull, I expected to find Mickey Rooney’s name on the Death List by the time they rolled it out. And even THAT was predictable; though the applause swelled for Jerry Orbach, Ossie Davis, and Tony Randall, the most whoops came for Marlon Brando. The clips showed the dear departed smiling and looking very glamorous (as they did back in old Hollywood before hedgehogs and raccoons became fashion statements), except for the creepy clip they chose to honor the late, great Janet Leigh—her being stabbed to death in the shower.
The Oscars closed with Dustin and Barbra Streisand, both looking as embalmed as Army Archerd, handing out the award for best picture. Barbra and Clint made out for a few minutes, which had me calling for the music man to play them off, and finally the thank yous all around signaled that I could go to sleep. Which I’d been doing off and on through the evening anyway.
Until next year, Janet (No power in the 'verse can stop me)
I had a bad feeling about it from the get go—the pre-show was full of tasteful gowns and ingratiating compliments and even Joan Rivers was boring. Army Archerd—hosting his 43rd Academy Awards for the two people in Peoria who listen on radio—looking as if he’d been embalmed and propped up next to the giant Oscar statue was THE most exciting moment of the pre-show.
The opening montage of old films was a thrill for a movie fan like me, who smugly called out the title of every movie they had clips from, but I can’t imagine the average viewer not nodding off to Dustin Hoffman’s clichéd voiceover (“Movies are our past…and our future”). Then Chris Rock took the stage, to thunderous applause and a standing-O. Thence came his best line of the night, “Sit your asses DOWN,” and a stinging monologue that really stuck it to the Hollywood—and George Bush, of course. A real howl. But that was the end of that.
Round about hour two, I was praying for Salma Hyack to trip coming down the stairs (why do they always have stairs for gowned and stiletto-heeled female presenters to navigate?), do a triple gainer and land with her Versace Couture up around her ears. Even Chris Rock looked like he wanted to drop the F-bomb by that point. They tried to speed up the show, assembling nominees for the lesser awards on stage like a herd of nervous cattle. This prompted Rock to swipe, “Next year they’ll be giving out the Oscars in the parking lot.” If they use a hidden camera and get Simon Cowell to comment on the acceptance speeches, then I’m in.
Anyway, enough of the complaining, here’s my assessment:
The Awards:
1. Poor, pitiful Marty Scorsese. He just can’t get a break in that town. At least Clint didn’t kick him in the head going up to get his Oscar like Roberto Begnini did to Spielberg in ’99. Ah, sweet, un-dull memories of Oscar’s past.
2. The best acceptance speech: Morgan Freeman. Short and pithy, and how can you not love a man who looks at Oscar and remarks, “Heavens to Murgatroyd?”
3. Worst “speech:” That dude who won for best original song, who accepted his award by singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” (or something like that).
4. Apparently Hilary Swank didn’t get the memo about nixing the laundry list of people to thank. I really had to pee by that point and was hoping for the commercial, but yak, yak, yak… At least she remembered to thank her hubby Chad this time (IMHO, the main reason she won this time—the Academy wanted to give her a chance to right such an egregious wrong). Thankfully, she didn’t kick Annette Bening in the head.
5. Isn’t it ironic the winner of documentary short was cut short? And when the guy who won best score went on and on to Hilary Swank lengths, they never played the music to cut him off; some kind of music man conspiracy?
6. Of course, Jamie Foxx. His sweet, emotional speech guarantees him another shot at the gold guy, even if it’s for Booty Call II. Hollywood loves big, tough guys who can cry. BTW, I think I saw Paul Giamatti try to kick Jamie in the head when he ran up to the stage.
The Stars:
1. Three words for Renee Zellweger: No, no brunette!
2. Raccoon eyes are back! Blame it on The Incredibles and their raccoon-like eye-masks. Either the girls wanted to look Incredible and slathered on the mascara or there was a crap load of make-up wrecking crying going on backstage. Laura Linney was the worst abuser; she went for the raccoon-hedgehog hybrid look with black eyes AND a hairdo you could ski jump off of.
3. Separated at birth: Johnny Depp/Vincent Price; Annette Bening/David Bowie; Clint Eastwood/NH’s Old Man in the Mountain (except Clint’s granite cheeks have yet to crumble)
4. Was it me, or did Adam Sandler look like he’s been on the Orson’s Welles “too-many-candy-bars” diet? And Mike Myers, get thee to a barber, pronto.
5. Best Old Hollywood look: Scarlett Johanson, Drew Barrymore, who’s got the pedigree and the snout to look like she just stepped out of 1933, Charlize Theron, Mickey Rooney. Whenever someone mentioned Hollywood history, they cut to the Mickster. Because he’s old, he was there, and everyone else from Tinseltown’s Golden Age is dead.
6. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, Halle Berry is the most beautiful woman in movies. Now, if she could just pick a decent role…
7. Puffy Combs looks damn fine in a tux and no, that wasn’t his gun that went off when Jeremy Irons took the stage (the big bang prompted Irons to quip, “I hope they missed”).
8. Prince wore a purple tux (SHOCKING!) and looked like he was going to my prom in 1976.
9. Who were those people they kept cutting away to in the audience? With no Jack Nicholson or Meryl Streep for the camera to ogle, there wasn’t a familiar face in the theater; and there’s only so many times they could focus on Mickey Rooney before the home audience began to shout, “I get it; he’s not dead!”
10. Sean Penn is the last person I’d invite to a dinner party. A funeral, yes, but a place where there might actually be the opportunity to smile, no.
The songs:
1. Excuse me, is Beyonce (who should be locked up for glittery eye-shadow abuse) so broke she’s gotta sing every damn nominated song? Except for…
2. That other song, the one in Spanish that Antonio Banderas “sang.” He spent so much time slapping his thigh I wondered if his pants were on fire (and does that mean he’s a liar, liar?)
And finally, the Dead-O-Meter: The show went on so long and was so deadly dull, I expected to find Mickey Rooney’s name on the Death List by the time they rolled it out. And even THAT was predictable; though the applause swelled for Jerry Orbach, Ossie Davis, and Tony Randall, the most whoops came for Marlon Brando. The clips showed the dear departed smiling and looking very glamorous (as they did back in old Hollywood before hedgehogs and raccoons became fashion statements), except for the creepy clip they chose to honor the late, great Janet Leigh—her being stabbed to death in the shower.
The Oscars closed with Dustin and Barbra Streisand, both looking as embalmed as Army Archerd, handing out the award for best picture. Barbra and Clint made out for a few minutes, which had me calling for the music man to play them off, and finally the thank yous all around signaled that I could go to sleep. Which I’d been doing off and on through the evening anyway.
Until next year, Janet (No power in the 'verse can stop me)
posted by Janet at 11:35 AM
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