“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the Academy Awards, or as it’s known in our house, Passover!” – Bob Hope, 18-time Oscar host
Well, I’m not proud of myself, but I did it again. I sat through yet another bloated, self-congratulatory, tedious spectacle. Somehow it is still one of the most shamelessly onanistic celebrations ever conceived and executed. Because if Hollywood isn’t going to celebrate itself, by God, who is? That’s right, last Sunday night, along with approximately 36.3 million of my fellow Americans, I watched the 81st annual Academy Awards. Maybe watch isn’t that best word as the Oscars are more like a frontal assault on the senses and the viewer’s stamina, albeit a very well-heeled and sparkly assault. Come for the pageantry, stay because you fell asleep during Hugh Jackman’s opening monologue.
Jackman’s opening number, incorporating the big movies tribute/kiss up to the stars song, hearkened back to the golden days of Billy Crystal, something I never wanted to be reminded of. But, wait, weren’t you thinking that in this wintry economic climate/twilight of the American empire era what would really comfort Americans are more show stopping song and dance numbers? A little bit of razzle-dazzle for the poor folks who lost their jobs or can’t make their mortgage payments? Here’s your bailout, America! Come on kids, let’s put on a show! Economic crisis? Gotta sing! Gotta dance! What really would have comforted me is if Angelina Jolie would have punched Jennifer Anniston in the throat (and John Mayer, while she’s at it) or Mickey Rourke would have thrown up on somebody. But musical numbers are what we got. Hey, at least Beyonce (“All the single ladies!”) was in one.
If there was a theme to this year’s nominees it was in keeping with the spirit of the times- feel bad movies: marriage disintegrating in the suburbs, abusive priests, endangered children, evil clowns, nauseating camera work (I’m looking at you Rachel Getting Married). . .and that’s not even the best picture nominees which gave us disgraced presidents, slain gay activists, backwards aging for three hours, blinded children and Nazis. Seriously, what would the Oscars be without Nazis, dead musicians, and the handicapped? Slumdog Millionaire may have had the advantage because, despite some of its dark elements, it was a love story with a happy ending. A happy ending with a Bollywood dance number no less.
As always, the ceremony may have been dull, but at least it was long. As my companion said during the best supporting actress award, where they brought out five former winners to talk about the current nominees, “This is going to be the longest show fucking ever.” It wasn’t, thankfully, coming in at around three and a half hours, which is still a sizable chunky of time. Thank God I live on the West Coast where it was over by 9:00. The longest, by the way, was 2002′s show, which was four hours and 23 minutes (phew). The shortest was in 1959, which clocked in at a mind-blowingly swift hour forty. One can only imagine. Within the loose, bulky 210 minutes (I could’ve watched The Godfather again) were about 25 worthwhile minutes, at least three of which were Penelope Cruz, who won for her sensual, tempestuous Spanish artist in Vicky Christina Barcelona, making this two years in a row for Spanish supporting actors (Vicky co-star Javier Bardem won last year).
I usually appreciate any moments of comedy, which come as a breath of fresh air in the hothouse of self-importance, clothes that cost as much as my yearly salary, and star egos. Ben Stiller, appearing with a ravishing Natalie Portman, did a nice riff on Joaquin Phoenix’s recent erratic, bearded behavior. Tina Fey and Steve Martin, presenting the screenwriting awards, carried on like a veteran vaudeville duo. But the highlight may have been the Pineapple Express short with Seth Rogen and James Franco laughing hysterically at such glum, high-brow Oscar bait as Doubt and The Reader. Since the Oscars are more scripted and managed than the inauguration, anything that seems even remotely spontaneous is a minor miracle, which may have been why the cast and crew of Slumdog, who seemed thrilled to be there, were so appealing. Even a hardened cynic can’t help but think those kids are cute. I’m pretty sure Brad and Angelina picked one up at the post-party.
There were the expected montages (some year there’s just going to be a salute to montages), one of which celebrated- wait for it: movie romance. There was also the egregious use of Coldplay not once, but twice throughout the evening. Queen Latifah sang “I’ll be Seeing You” over the montage of those who died, which is always moving in a somewhat awkward way. It was informative, though; I had no idea Vampira of Plan 9 from Outer Space passed on. She was Finnish, you know. The other emotional moment was Heath Ledger’s expected posthumous win (the first since Peter Finch) for The Dark Knight. Again, it’s always a little discomforting to have genuine emotion (other than of the “Oh My God I Won!” variety) surface in such an over the top, narcissistic spectacle.
But back to those musical numbers! There was Jackman’s opening gambit, which at least revealed Anne Hathaway as a decent singer. Then there was the big medley for. . well, I’m still not quite sure, but it featured Jackman, the kids from High School Musical, Beyonce and songs ranging from “Lady Marmalade” to “Singin’ in the Rain.” It was confusing, crowded, and a little bit annoying, all which made perfect sense when Jackman pointed out that it was choreographed by the Michael Bay of Australia, Baz Luhrmann.
While there were some mild upsets, there were no real surprises. Kate Winslet, after six nominations, finally won her Oscar, which hopefully means she’ll stop making dreary movies like Little Children and The Reader, as she clearly has a good touch for comedy (see her guest spot on Extras). As my brother Matthew pointed out, three of the four winners in the acting categories were non-Americans (who probably hate freedom). They’re stealing our jobs! Thankfully, it was an all Yankee crew for actor. I had picked slab of white-clad meat Mickey Rourke for best actor, as everyone loves a comeback, but Sean Penn won for Milk. Although he won a few years ago for his overwrought performance in Mystic River (another total bummer of a film), he was an ironclad choice as he offered voters three things they love in a character: historical, gay, dead. Penn acknowledged he can be difficult to appreciate and then showed why by neglecting to thank his wife and castigating supporters of California’s Prop 8. While I can respect actors who are outspoken, liberal political statements at the Oscars are kind of like saying you like guns at an NRA convention; a little obvious and a little easy.
Like many, I had a bet going. Some key categories I missed were foreign language film, which went to a movie I hadn’t even heard of, the Japanese Departures. Waltz with Bashir seemed a lock, but maybe a movie about a war in the Middle East is a little too close to home right now. I also thought Trouble the Water would get best doc, as it’s about cause du jour Katrina. But it went to the more inspiring, Man on Wire, which allowed the irrepressible, possibly mad French tightrope walker Philippe Petit to balance the Oscar on his face, perhaps a first. He also gave a shout out to Werner Herzog, who received his first nomination for his documentary Encounters at the End of the World. As out of place as Herzog was, it was vindicating to see him finally there. And though I still don’t understand the difference between sound editing and sound mixing, I thought Wall-E would clean up, as it is so dependent on sound and is virtually dialogue-free for its 45 minutes. I love that little robot. I ended up with 15 correct, by the way.
The big, mostly expected winner was Slumdog and those cute kids. While not exactly an underdog anymore, I was glad to see it win because everyone involved with it seemed so good-natured and enthusiastic and it offered a welcome break from overdressed, complacent stars. And in a year where Mike Myers (attempted) to mine cheap laughs at the expense of Indian culture, it was a belated acknowledgment of someplace outside of America, which is, after all, the world’s biggest democracy and a producer of more films than Hollywood. It was a global hit, a movie Tom Friedman could love. I don’t know if Slumdog was the best movie of the year, but I do know that, along with Wall-E, I enjoyed it more than just about anything else I saw. Director Danny Boyle has a canny (or lucky) way of plugging into the zeitgeist, whether it be with heroin addicts in Trainspotting or zombies in 28 Days Later and this film, which didn’t shy away from actual poverty and crime, provided an appropriate image for where we are right now: covered in shit, but grinning ear to ear. And despite all its clichés, plot-twists, and contrivances, which would do Dickens proud, it was alive and brimming with energy and maybe, however corny it sounds, this is what we needed more than serious movies that depressed the hell out of us.
So we emerged, nearly three and a half hours later (four if you count the red carpet), a little dazed, a little bruised, a little wiser. See you next year. I will have more alcohol on hand.
