Oscars Recap: Boring Dresses, Boring Hosts…and What Did Farrah Fawcett Ever do to the Academy?
Last night’s Oscar telecast will, it’s safe to say, not be going into the vault as one of the top 10 most memorable of all-time. Of all the evening’s moments, the only one future generations of clips packagers will likely deem worthy of celebrating was Kathryn Bigelow‘s win for best director – because a woman finally got that particular prize, yes, but more importantly, because it marked the moment when someone in Hollywood finally had the nerve to stick a pin in James Cameron‘s zeppelin-sized ego and shrink that sucker down a bit.
In a stunning reversal from the assumptions of two months ago, Avatar did not win any of the major awards – not best picture, not best director, not even best screenplay adapted without credit from numerous obscure science fiction stories. Yes, it did manage to garner a few of the piddly technical awards, but James Cameron himself was never called to the podium despite having three chances, as editor, director and producer. James was forced to sit there while his underlings tramped to the stage to receive their accolades, had to content himself with acting happy for them, while they sent him their obligatory shout-outs, which invariably included the word “vision.”
It was humiliating enough for James to watch helpless as his no-name hirelings took all the credit for Avatar – leaving viewers with the impression that movies are some kind of collaborative art-form and not the product of one genius’s excruciating mental and physical exertions – but it was doubly-humiliating for him to have to remain stuck in his seat while his own ex-wife Kathryn Bigelow was called to the stage to receive the best director Oscar once believed to be his by right.
What could’ve been going through James’ mind while the woman he once mentored and nurtured and basically built up from nothing stole his Oscar right in front of his face? He may have recalled the many times he had a knife in his hand while her back was turned. The numerous occasions when she lay sleeping beside him and he could’ve easily strangled her. The countless opportunities he missed to bash her in the head with something, stick her body in the trunk and dump the remains in some secluded place where they would never be found.
Kathryn, for her part, showed dignity in victory, choosing not to turn to James, who was sitting right behind her all night, and give him the old “In your face King of the World!” Unlike the already-sufficiently-deflated James, the viewing audience probably would’ve preferred a little trash-talk. “Dignified” may be the right way to go when winning an award over someone you hate, but it makes for boring television.
The night was filled with examples of humility and class winning out over the sort of entertaining low-rent human behavior that regularly abounds on the tube. When Mo’Nique won for best supporting actress, for instance, she did not do any sort of revolting end zone dance – instead she acted grateful, and sent a shout-out to Hattie McDaniel, the first large black lady to ever win best supporting actress. When Sandra Bullock set aside years of mediocrity to win her first significant award of any kind, instead of giving the finger to every critic who ever bashed her, every talk show host who ever made a bad joke at her expense, every audience member who ever ran gagging from a screening of one of her horrific romantic comedies, she said funny, graceful stuff about her fellow nominees, then tearfully acknowledged the people who helped her get where she is.
Sadly, the trend toward repression extended also to the evening’s outfits. Every year, it seems like at least one low-level Hollywood hottie takes her shot at the big-time by walking the red carpet in a dress specifically designed to give us a glimpse of her nipple when she bends over just the right way – but not this year. This year, even the skanks who could benefit by a little cheap publicity decided to cover up. And as for creativity and courage in the area of gown design…let’s just say there are no more Chers, no more Bjorks. There aren’t even any goofballs like Trey Parker and Matt Stone willing to go in drag. Evidently, the days of the Oscars as an outlet for wanton exhibitionism have come to an end. Now it’s all conservative chicks like Rachel McAdams and Zoe Saldana giving us nary a glimpse of their sweet, sweet goods.
With the winners being hesitant to gloat, and the ladies unwilling to flash even a hint of side-boob, it fell to hosts Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin to provide the entertainment. To say they fell short would be like saying Glenn Beck is a bit wanting in the sanity department – a gross understatement. In fact, Steve and Alec almost bombed. Their opening shtick was tame, their ad libs were tired…and where, oh great Hollywood liberal Alec Baldwin, was the political humor? An entire night passes by and Alec doesn’t take a single dig at Sarah Palin? The right stands up targets so big any decent lefty sniper could take them down at a thousand yards, and Alec doesn’t even level his cross-hairs at them. Instead, he and Steve make safe jokes about Meryl Streep, and take a cheap, Jimmy Kimmel-level shot at Woody Harrelson‘s drug habit. And then, just to up the suck ante, Alec and George Clooney do some silly staredown bit they ripped off from Conan O’Brien and Max Weinberg. Yes, that’s how far Oscar gag-writing has sunk – they are cribbing routines from fired talk show hosts and members of the E-Street Band.
The evening’s prepared material was, by-and-large, dull and predictable. The single big clips package, a salute to horror films, was so obvious as to flirt with self-parody. The interpretive dance extravaganza was an interpretive dance extravaganza – nothing more needs to be said. The only novel touch was to eschew the usual cheesy best song nominee performances in favor of more clips from the 10 best picture contenders, which probably sped the show up a little, but sadly screwed us out of not one but two chances to doze off to generic Randy Newman tunes.
And then there was the dead-person reel. I don’t know about you, but I look forward to this particular Oscar bit every year – not because I am touched by the clips of those who left us, but because I am always fascinated to hear which dead people get the loudest ovation. There is something incredibly wonderful yet at the same time awful about a segment that adds an applause meter to a slideshow memorializing the deceased. This year, the surprise was Michael Jackson getting only a smattering. The music industry may still be gripped by MJ tribute fever, but the movie side of show-biz has clearly moved on. Besides, outside of The Wiz and giving Vincent Price a gig when no one else would, what did Michael Jackson ever do for movies?
Actually, this year’s dead-reel was memorable less for whose clip didn’t get clapped at than for whose clip was left out entirely. In the night’s sole memorable gaffe, whoever put together the reel neglected to remember that Farrah Fawcett died in the last year – Farrah Fawcett, that legendary screen star, whose hair will always be remembered for its awesomeness, whose smile will live on in our hearts until the last person who masturbated to Charlie’s Angels has passed on to their eternal reward. Really Oscars, forgetting Farrah Fawcett? The star of Saturn 3 and Logan’s Run? The woman who put up with Ryan O’Neal for all those years? A lack of sex appeal and entertainment value I can live with, but snubbing beloved ’70s icons who showed courage in the face of bad relationships and cancer? Hang your head in shame, Oscar.
Filed Under: Features
