There’s this crazy report going around saying that James Franco and Anne Hathaway have been chosen to host this year’s Oscars.  Now, we know ratings have been a problem for the Oscars in recent years, leading producers to try all sorts of desperate stuff in hopes of getting people to watch.  Remember last year when suddenly there were ten best picture nominees?  And two hosts?  And more than the usual number of black people in the crowd?  All gimmicks, all apparently unsuccessful.  So the next step is to try and draw in the hip young people by choosing two of their own to emcee the event.  Once again, the Oscars show how clueless and out-of-touch they are.  Yes James Franco and Anne Hathaway are young, but they are not really that hip.  You want hip?  Go with Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Sasha Grey.  They’re hip.  Franco and Hathaway?  They’re what Hollywood wants us to think is hip.  Well, okay, I’ll admit that Franco is sometimes a little hip, like when he’s pretending to be an actor pretending to be a character on a soap opera.  Subversive moves like that do win you points.  And yes I suppose Anne does have a little edge, what with all the lesbian rumors and that whole thing where she dated a con man.  But come on Oscars.  You really think you can fool young people into watching your boring self-congratulatory awards presentation by hiring younger, more attractive hosts than usual?  Sorry but young people are hip to you.  They know you’re nothing but a bunch of squares.  They know that you aren’t getting funky with their youthful jive.  They know that after ten minutes of Oscars they will be passed out from a combination of liquor and boredom, so it doesn’t really matter who’s hosting.  They might stay up if you promise that in hour four James and Anne will get naked and start penetrating each other in the assholes with cement dildos.  Well, I might anyway.

George Clooney had a blast on the red carpet last night – signing autographs, messing with the other stars and, at one point, giving reporters a look at his flask of liquid courage.  I guess he figured he had no shot against Jeff Bridges, so, might as well get loaded.  Turned out he was right.  (Video via: Popsugar)

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.

Many wondered what the deal was when Sacha Baron Cohen was unceremoniously dumped from the list of Oscar presenters.  The assumption was that the Oscars were just being PC namby-pambies, bumping Cohen out of fear of what he might say or do – but now it’s been revealed that Oscar producers knew exactly what Cohen meant to say and do during his presentation skit, and their fear over the potential consequences of this outrageous bit caused them to pull the plug.  To put it bluntly:  the Oscars said no thanks to Sacha Baron Cohen because they were worried his routine would offend James Cameron, who will be on-hand to receive a sickeningly huge helping of Avatar accolades.  According to New York Magazine’s Vulture blog, Cohen’s intended skit, a teaming with Ben Stiller, would’ve featured Cohen in full Na’vi make-up and regalia and Stiller as his translator, and was going to climax with Cohen revealing he was “pregnant” and confronting Cameron as the father.  This may very well have been hilarious – it certainly sounds better than most of the crap the Oscars spoon-feed us every year – but we’ll never know now, because big-shots familiar with James Cameron’s legendary lack of a sense of humor about himself or anything else on earth decided they would rather have Cameron remain in his seat, un-pissed, than allow Cohen to entertain the audience with his crazy bit.  Upon news of the skit’s nixing, Cohen told Oscar producers he would prefer to stay home than fly all the way to Hollywood to deliver some watered-down awards show nonsense, hence his striking from the presenters’ list.  The only humiliation Cameron may have to face now is watching his ex beat him for best director, something everyone in the world hopes will happen.

The Hurt Locker has been a major Hollywood success story – an Iraq war film that not only won over critics but garnered a large audience as well, and now stands poised to be crowned Best Picture at the Oscars (if it can defeat that girlie flick Avatar).  Unfortunately, this feel-good story of the little movie that could has a dark underbelly – apparently, the lead character’s crazy bomb-disposal exploits were taken from real life, but the guy who did the stuff for real has never been acknowledged or paid by producers.  That at least is what Master Sgt. Jeffrey Sarver, who is currently suing Hurt Locker producers for millions of dollars, would have us believe.  In Sarver’s version of things, Hurt Locker screenwriter Mark Boal based Jeremy Renner‘s adrenaline junkie bomb disposal man on his actual activities in Iraq, and as proof, Sarver offers up a Playboy profile of him written by none other than Mark Boal.  Says Sarver’s lawyer Geoffrey Fieger, “The movie disingenuously claims that it’s a fictional account, which is absurd,” adding, “The only fiction here is that they claim that it’s fiction.”

The man at the middle of the controversy, Mark Boal, says Sarver’s version of things is a load of crap, and claims Renner’s character was a composite of various guys he met and wrote about while working in Iraq. “Like a lot of soldiers, [Sarver] identifies with the film, but the character I wrote is fictional,” says Boal.  “The film is a work of fiction inspired by many people’s stories, not the life story of any one person.”  Sounds to me like Boal is trying to hide behind this fancy Hollywood word “fiction.”  Well, I know the real truth when I see it, and the real truth is, brave warrior Sarver is getting shafted by a bunch of crafty elitists, who don’t want to admit that their big brains aren’t clever enough to imagine great explodey action scenes by themselves, so they have to rip off real stories then not give due credit to the bad-asses who don’t just sit behind computers all day but actually do that courageous, death-defying stuff for real.  I hope Sarver gets all the millions that are coming to him.  And I hope that one day he gets to take a poke at Mark Boal, who should be ashamed of himself.  Oh, and by the way – Kathryn Bigelow is way hot, even though she’s grandma-old.

Mo’Nique is an accomplished performer and, because of her acting in Precious, the odds-on favorite to win Best Supporting Actress at the Oscars – but all anyone wants to talk about is her hairy legs, which she showed off on the red carpet at the Golden Globes, and may or may not flash again ahead of this Sunday’s Academy Awards presentation.  At long last, Mo’Nique has addressed the concerns about her leg-hair, saying in an interview:

I tried shaving one time, and it was so uncomfortable and painful I said never again would I do that to myself.  I’m 42, and I’m very hairy.

According to Mo’Nique, her husband Sidney Hicks loves the hairy legs.  And you know what he will love even more?  All the money his wife makes after she scores an Oscar and starts landing plum parts.  So, yeah, he’s on-board with the hairy legs, and any other parts of Mo’Nique’s body that she chooses not to shave, pluck, wax, comb or wash.