Wrote my last post the night before the Oscars. Now it’s the night after and I’m back with a few reactions. The show was actually okay for me. As Woody Allen’s character in “Annie Hall” said, even the worst sex he had was still sex – and therefore pretty much on the money. This was the Oscars, after all. Playing out at that venue that’s not the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion anymore. But still looks pretty deluxe. There were wall-to-wall movie stars on display and Academy Awards did get handed out.
I actually found the comedy from Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin pretty terrific (“Over here is the Inglourious Basterds section, over there the people that made Inglourious Basterds” or “That Damn Helen Mirren”). And their targets generally seemed to be pretty good sports about it. The show could’ve actually used a lot more of the Baldwin-Martin patter. When they weren’t around, things seemed to be a little detached and unfocused. Certainly that fizzless female voice from the network that wearily wrangled us into and out of commercials was no help.
Among the young set, Zac Efron came off as a junior Tyrone Power. Putting him leagues ahead of his peers. Kristen Stewart managed to look lifeless and annoyed at the same time. And Taylor Lautner? I don’t get it. Does the world really need a watered down version of Robbie Benson? Miss Miley Cyrus, who co-presented with Amanda Seyfreid, screwed up her entrance. Then had the nerve to say “we’re nervous”, unfairly implicating the perfectly professional Seyfried in her doofusness. Or maybe at this point, the royal “we’ is the only pronoun she knows. Whatever the case, I’ve seen her here before and she always looks inelegantly pissed off that they still haven’t given her the Academy Award she’s got coming to her. I’d predict a great many years of testy Oscar night dissatisfaction ahead for her.
I like the way they highlighted the screenplay awards, with script pages juxtaposed against the pertinent scenes. George Clooney had star quality to burn. It was great to see Sigourney Weaver, ageless, beautiful, classy. Also Michelle Pfeiffer and Julianne Moore, with their warm tributes to Bridges and Firth respectively. Vera Farmiga looked great. And I loved her dress (even though that scary Cojo from ET pronounced it awful the next day, using it as an excuse for one of his annual post-Oscar catfits ).
The musical segments were mainly duds. Poor Neil Patrick Harris (whom I like) had to come out and flail his way through that mess of a production number that almost kicked the whole show into life support mode right off the bat. Poor guy. You could almost see the flop sweat. Which made me all the more impressed when Baldwin and Martin pulled it out of the toilet so quickly.
Show organizers managed to gum up the In Memoriam segment for the second year in a row, insisting on live singing to accompany it. Not that James Taylor did badly, but with live performances you’re conscious of every little wobble. Canned, studio-perfected music, preferably instrumental, is what’s called for here. To enhance the mood without distracting from it. Plus, like last year, they insisted on filling the first few seconds with an establishing close-up of the onstage singer. Leaving home viewers, squinting at a postage stamp version of a monitor image, unable to read the name of the artist being honoured.
Of course, the painfully extended dance routine to the nominated scores was probably the biggest dudpuddle of the night. I’m sure Adam Shankman was happy being able to get so many of his protégés onto the Oscars. But, frankly, it all seemed chaotically inappropriate. Breakdancing to “Sherlock Holmes”? Most of the time – with all the leaping and spinning - it just looked as if half a dozen competing gym teams were crammed into the same space to warm up for an athletic event.
This year’s “streaker” moment came when the director of the winning documentary short had his acceptance speech hi-jacked by someone the press has now dubbed Lady Kanye. She just suddenly landed in the middle of his business - a one-woman swat team - and proceeded to toss out non-sequiturs like hand grenades. It appears she was a co-producer of the film at an earlier stage, but left following “creative differences”. With an Oscar waving around onstage, she seems to have re-attached herself to the project pronto. Leaving director Ross Williams with an unfinished speech and a world-wide audience wondering (a) what was his film about? and (b) what the f... just happened?
As for the actual trophy dispersal... well, I was okay with it. I’d already resigned myself to the fact that my favourite Colin Firth probably wouldn’t win. And since I didn’t have to see Meryl Streep rewarded for her Julia Child shtick or wince through a Best Picture victory for “Avatar”, I was basically okay with the way things went.
I was still at work till shortly before show time. So the only Red Carpet footage I caught was the official half hour segment that precedes the broadcast. As always, it was strained and phony. Interviewer (and I’m stretching it by calling her that) Kathy Ireland appeared to be about 7 feet tall. Her grinning sugar-charged assaults had most of her victims cowering. Even Mary Hart seemed reticent in comparison. Everytime Ireland finished gushing they couldn’t yank the cameras away quick enough to avoid the obvious beginning of an awkward silence. Even seasoned Hollywood egos seemed a little non-plussed to be that up close and personal as Ireland relentlessly dialled the perkiness up to 11. Never a good decision for a giantess. Oh, well, even supermodels have to eat. Wait a minute, come to think of it, do they?.