Friday, May 16, 2008
Movie people act all serious while Marines die, the Academy actually provides some surprises (Adrien Brody, anyone?) and Michael Moore pees on the furniture. And Nicole, honey, write a speech, OK?
Mar 24, 2003 | I once heard about a stripper in San Francisco who worked in one of those Talk-to-a-Naked-Girl-in-a-Box things. She would sit on a chair, spread her legs, and conceal her face with a large hardback copy of "Ulysses." Who knew if she was actually reading it? It didn't matter. I'm not really showing you my crotch, I'm reading the world's most difficult and serious literature.
Wow, her customers thought. She looks smart.
Hollywood looked smart last night with its book-and-crotch act, and the book was Suze Orman's "9 Steps to Opinionated Speaking Without Alienating the Big Money."
What a conundrum. Hollywood vocally opposes the war, but the war is real popular in all those icky noncoastal parts of the country full of fat people who buy lotsa movie tickets, guns and bacon. Whaddaya do? Well, you take back that hot-pink, Galliano gownless evening-strap and don a serious wartime pantsuit. Actors: Act serious and respectful. Directors: Act thoughtful and concerned. And everybody: Act like the Oscars aren't really happening -- the movie industry isn't really masturbating for itself in the mirror again, for a paying audience, because there's a war on and that wouldn't really be proper.
Welcome to the Humble, Self-Effacing Oscars! And what better person to deride the landed gentry of the industry from the soft pink insides than wacky old Steve Martin. All the sacred cows, gently nudged. Oh, naughty Steve. Teasing Tom Cruise for being rich. Nicholson referred to as gay, in jest. Mickey Mouse called a "black actor." Oh, ho ho ho. Hey, for the Oscars, and somebody of Steve's age, that stuff is downright "edgy," and chuckles did abound. Steve Martin was pretty funny, and some of the movies this year were pretty good. But nobody was able to justify the existence of the Oscars this year. Oscar shot his self-rationalizing power-wad defending himself after 9/11. Tom Cruise and his napalm-eyed Rent-a-Passion was not around to hypnotize us into submission this year.
There were no more black people to cry tears of overdue praise for. Everybody knew the night was doomed, and they all just wanted to put their pants back on, take their tips and shut the curtain.
But the show must go on, because it was already sponsored by JC Penney and other corporations.
At least JC Penney got all dressed up for the occasion, with its new, Sheryl Crow-esque "I Am Woman, See Me Wear Tiny Dresses" campaign. And the Victoria's Secret ad featured a Bob Dylan number, bringing soulful dignity and depth of thought to bra-and-panty sets. I'm beginning to see a trend brewing with this James Joyce beaver-shot thing. Like when Jennifer Garner's teleprompter script had her referencing Benjamin Disraeli. On the flip side, there was Led Zeppelin shilling for Cadillac, which is sort of like putting the cover from a copy of Hustler over the text of Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People."
There were a lot of security precautions this year, such as the really, really loud and insistent "Get the Fuck Off the Stage" music, and the wondrous disappearing microphone. Third man on the sound-editing totem pole? "I love you, Deborah!" was the best you could hope for, as the trumpets renounced your welcome and the mike sank into Mordor.
On a happy note, the Academy seemed to smell that everyone in the world expected the wholly expectable, and actually gave out some shockers to some deserving and unlikely candidates. Example No. 1: Best supporting actor Chris Cooper (for "Adaptation"), who is whompingly amazing. I couldn't believe he's the same actor who played the gay Nazi dad in "American Beauty"; what stealth. What alchemical shape-shifting.
Example 2: Michael Moore. I thought he was less likely to get an Oscar this year than O.J. Simpson was. Everybody knew he was going to stink up the room if he won, and, sure enough, he displayed his usual talent for getting kicked out of buildings. It's our night, fat man, said the Academy, and we're not about to be whined at by a guy with cole slaw on his pants. If Moore had been only slightly more graceful and less abrasive, he could have said anything he wanted to; he had the support. But he's just not a pet you can bring in the house. He craves disgrace, he has no self-control. Last night, it wasn't what he was saying that was the problem, but the waddling, honking and gland-spraying with which he said it.
(By the same token, I was surprised to see Susan Sarandon onstage. She looked great, and they didn't even make her wear a rubber ball in her mouth. She's such a lefty I'm surprised both of her eyes haven't traveled over to one side of her head, like a halibut.)
Example 3: Adrien Brody, who succeeded beautifully and effortlessly at rallying the anti-Bush sentiment Michael Moore was trying so sweatily to shove home. And Brody's impromptu molesting of Halle Berry was a phenomenal plus.
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