Award Police: Part II

(Part II of III)

Oh, the anticipation! Oh, the glamour! Oh, the drama! Oh, Jack Nicholson’s Britney head! The Oscars certainly arrived, last night, in style, vogue and Jennifer Hudson’s god-given tears.

The night began off as a partly cloudy late afternoon with the biggest names in showbiz right there, in front of Kodak Theatre. Now, before I begin to evoke a meteorologist, I should say I forgot it was only four P.M. in Los Angeles. Oh, what the hell, let the party begin.

The Barbara Walters special was actually quite interesting, considering that Helen Mirren would “take her kit off” again and Eddie Murphy’s …er… love of recluse. Yet, fuck that. The Oscars was why I was watching television. The evening began with those tiresome celebrity interviews with those blurbs of info at the bottom of my television screen. Also, some large black man describing the process of Jennifer Hudson choosing her not-particularly-stylish dress (get rid of that snakeskin jacket, sister!) and her “comfortable” stiletto heels. Are stiletto heels really oh-so-comfortable? Only at the Oscars.

So now that were done with the milling around on the red carpet, let’s move into Ellen DeGeneres’ hut of golden statues and everyone that really matters in film (well except for poor Judi Dench, who was having surgery on her boobs). Sadly, the normally snappy DeGeneres failed to make the night come alive (with the exception of a few jokes), attempting to portray some sort of celebrity soothsayer. Forget calming down and Christian Baptism hymns, bring on the jokes, bitch! I want my Jon Stewart. Hell yeah, I could be a better host. Anyway, praying that we’ll get a more interesting host next year; let the awards commence.

Art Direction? Who really cares other than Guillermo Del Toro? Make-up? Psssh… Sound mixing and sound editing? Their only virtues were some random guy sticking his hands into mud for Apocalypto. I don’t remember the order…because don’t people have lives? Do they really need to sit there with their eyes glazed over at whether a impossibly cute Jaden Smith and a similarly cute Abigail Breslin (although, maybe you should take some improv classes, little one) presented Live-Action Short before Animated Short. And then there was Supporting Actor.

Now before I announced my bewilderment over Supporting Actor, let me say this: I don’t give a damn about any technical, or any other category besides the big eight besides Original Song and Costume Design. Or scrap the screenplays. That was boring. Let’s move onto to Alan Arkin’s little golden statue. Supporting Actor was among the categories with the most weight (besides Picture). So, the drama was heightening as gorgeous Mark Wahlberg furrowed his eyebrows his eyebrows at the damn sexy woman named Rachel Weisz, as she proudly declared “And the winner is…” Alan Fucking Arkin. In actuality, he and Breslin were thankfully the only highlights of an otherwise mediocre film. However, his acceptance speech was a few lengths short of deviating my attention from my fingernails. I miss his jaded cynicism from Thirteen Conversations About One Thing, or his heroin-and-porn addiction from Little Miss Sunshine. Bring on the love, grandpa! I want you to tear me away from my lengthening fingernails!

OK, I’m finished ranting. Let’s move on. Jennifer Hudson, Dreamgirls. No surprises here, except her mention of Jennifer Holliday in her heartfelt acceptance speech (hers, Whitaker’s and the female Best Make-Up (“It’s very heavy!” upon receiving her Oscar) recipient had the only remotely digressing acceptance speeches). I want her acceptance speech. Thank god, and her heartfelt (overused word?) dedication to her grandmother, more heartfelt than Reese Witherspoon’s peppy grandmother dedication.

Then there was costume design, whose elaborate sets, a live dog, a sashaying Annika Noni Rose wannabe and a suddenly living sword, were eye candy. Speaking of eye candy, the succulent Marie Antoinette received an Oscar (“Let them eat cake!”) while the even more delicious Marky Mark failed to obtain his much deserved statue. Now let’s move onto Original Song. The Cars song was awfully dead, compared to the explosive power of Dreamgirls or the environmental slides of “I Need To Wake Up” from double-winner An Inconvenient Truth. While the three glamorous Dreamgirls songs might have missed out, Melissa Etheridge’s heartfelt kiss to her lesbian makes all those ranting wannabe liberals (Crash was actually a better film, face it) forget about last year’s Brokeback “snub.” Although “Listen” is stuck in my head, “Patience” brought the real power to the Original Song category. Patience, little brother… Patience, little sister… Maybe it was too much of a reference to Catwoman to win.

Now let’s get onto the big dawgs.

Leading Actress: Helen Mirren. “This is the queen!” Otherwise, no surprises here.

Leading Actor: Hallelujah, Forest Whitaker took home the other queen! The great actor finally took home a “queen” in all his grander. His acceptance speech brought out the tears in me (again, I also cried when Jennifer Hudson won and during the “In Memoriam.” They should have had a more tear-worthy actress besides Jodie Foster do that next year), I loved his story of how one can be raised up high by dreams. How a little boy in the back seat of a drive-in car could be such a Forest Whitaker. I love you, Idi.

Now let’s move onto the three amigos and Marty. Poor, poor George Lucas never won and Oscar, and him in all his geeky glory brought back memories of watching Star Wars. Not really. But anyway, the three white-bearded amigos presented the award (bad Steven Spielberg should have had poor statueless Lucas announce the award) but Scorsese seemed plenty gratified to have his three amigos from the ‘70s present his award. But it just seems so belated to give him it now after Raging Bull, Taxi Driver and GoodFellas. But someday you’ll win an Oscar. Maybe not on your third film. That’s life, Alejandro. But then when you do get it, it’ll take a few pounds of Meryl Streep to calm Leo and Marky Mark down.

And then came the Best Picture. I swear, there must be fingernail marks on the chair where I was sitting. Oh, the drama! Diane Keaton, who didn’t deserve to be up there after Because I Said So, although delivered the oodles of enthusiasm that Jack Nicholson/Britney Spears lacked. (I have to say, though. Nicholson looks better without any hair than the rehab skipper/Justin cheater Britney) Pop culture tidbit: I saw Cameron Diaz and Jessica Biel hanging around the podium, but no ScarJo and no Timberlake. Make that ScarLake. ScarLake was probably off in some faraway bed fucking the hell of each other and not paying attention the blaring Television screen displaying Justin’s three ex-girlfriends, two sexy with terrible fashion (see Part III later this week) and one standing with Diane Keaton. Back to Keaton. While Jack didn’t really do anything but hand his assignments over to Diane and open the envelope (remember when Catherine Zeta-Jones could barely open the envelope in 2003 due to her fingernails!). But when Diane peered around Britney/Jack, she raised her hands up high and defiantly declared The Departed! with such enthusiasm for what must have been her favorite BP nominee that you could hear Greta Garbo chuckling somewhere, far off. Oh, whatever. The most deserving film of the year won (well, sans the twenty films above it). That means something to me. I love you Diane, no matter how many terrible romantic comedies you make.


Also: later this week, I don't know when, I will be posting the fashion and afterthoughts, the last segment of Award Police. Anyway, do I sound less like Breakfast?