Oscar on life support

Antonio Banderas, looking like he just took a swim in Julio Iglesias' sebum pond, was sitting in what looked like an adobe Mexican prison set, or El Grande Castillo del Taco Bell, braying with Carlos Santana, who was grimacing with simulated guitar-passion behind his Blueblockers. It was a Latin musical travesty to rival J.Lo's swan-dive into obsolescence at the Grammies. "J.Lo has finally found a duet partner!" said Wayne Brave. Jesu Christo. Next time, instead of letting Banderas disgrace himself to represent Hispanic culture, perhaps the Academy should just cut to a shot of stuffed bullfrogs dressed like mariachis. Or maybe a cute terra-cotta lawn sculpture of some drunk guys wearing sombreros, having a siesta. Or a piqata, shaped like a burro. Ai caramba.

Why was P. Diddy presenting an Oscar? Why? And why was he forced to say the utterly ass-punking line, "Listen up and hook into that inner child"?! Was this a public eclipsing? Did Jay-Z just devour P. Diddy, legend and all? P.Diddy looked frightened, small, embarrassed, exposed. He must now kill whoever wrote that line if he ever wants to be A-list again.

Best actress: Hilary again! I loathe those "Um ... I want to thank everyone I know ..." speeches. Say something about euthanasia, say something about the war, say SOMETHING. Don't use this 30 seconds of the world's attention to thank your lawyer.

Don Cheadle was clearly bummed out. Cheadle is a beautiful actor, but he didn't have the personal charisma to out-sexy Jamie Foxx this year. Jamie was very moving, when he won, talking about his recently departed cruel grandmother. Oprah gave him the black power salute, then looked around to see if anyone else was doing it with her. Cheadle wasn't.

Well, we knew "The Neverending Finding of Neverland at Poo Corner" wasn't going to win, because it ate a wee platter o' tiny faerie dicks. I never want to see another goddamned dream sequence with a circus in it, just like I never want to hear another goddamned white woman sing "Summertime."

"Ray" -- Jamie Foxx notwithstanding, not that good a movie, really.

"Sideways" -- lovely little film; fat chance. Sofia Coppola Screenwriting Award for Best Little Quirky Upstart.

Now, "Million Dollar Boobies": That was NOT the best movie of the year. That was the Champ, the Jackie Coogan, 1930s, gloves, tears, sweat 'n' snot classic, rewritten for a younger female and older male, who exercise their sexless intimacy through broken noses and mercy-killing. It was a solidly good film, but for me, it was like paying $325 a night to stay in a four-star hotel -- Clint, Morgan and Hilary are pretty much the gold standard, and if it you can't pull the wagon with those three majestic Clydesdales of the Thespian Craft, it has no wheels. That film had tasteful wallpaper, thick towels, a rose on the bedspread, and no real funk or character. But you can cry a world of hurt while watching that has nothing to do with the film itself, and I think that's why it won: It was cathartic. We're in a lot of collective pain, we're weary and confused, and Clint hit the right release valve. Big Daddy's going to put you out of your misery now, Tiger. You just rest.

"The Aviator," despite the fact that Leo DiCaprio still doesn't look anything like an adult, was the year's best film, in my not-so-humble O. -- expansive, sprawling, lush, highly capable entertainment. Scorsese ought to get some Hollywood props, now that he's more like Cecil B. DeMille than Sam Peckinpah. Gone is the angry young man who gave us the coke-fueled and gritty, abusive realism of 1970s yesteryear -- enter the respected and law-abiding elder, with the fat line of credit and the soft spot for Luxicolored Prettyscapes in Technifying Epic-scope, with a cast o' thousands. That's what America needs right now -- not fight, but flight.

What the fushizzuck was that Oscars, y'all?

Clint? How about you turn Oscar's ventilator off now, too? He's suffered enough.

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