Dear Lynda: As a serious critic, I cannot say too many times how beneath me it is to comment on the Academy Awards. As I wrote in my hard-hitting book, When Awards Lie:
Buy the book. Anyway, it's nice to be back for another round of Oscar chitchat with my fave journalist-turned-big-deal-movie-producer and Hollywood party animal. Perhaps the biggest cliffhanger of this Oscar season will be how far I can push you in the direction of alienating studio heads and big stars you might someday want to hire. I do try so hard. Before you can say it, let me: This contest is quite a snooze. No Michael Moore. No Mel Gibson. A lock for Jamie Foxx for Ray. An early Best Picture favorite (The Aviator) that many admire but no one seems to love. On the other hand, those who love Million Dollar Baby love it—and its septuagenarian director—with a near-religious fervor. Although it's not my cup of hemlock (I'm grossed-out at finding myself in the company of Michael Medved and Rush Limbaugh in objecting to its treatment of suicide), the movie's haunted simplicity and the quality of its performances will likely put it over. I'm picking Million Dollar Baby, Eastwood for direction, Morgan Freeman, and, by a hair, Hilary Swank. I wonder if the right-wing attacks on Baby will actually have helped it. Medved is probably more visible in Hollywood, alas, than the activist disabled group Not Dead Yet. I'd be tempted to vote for Baby myself. Freeman is widely and justly beloved, and I can't imagine anyone doing a more eloquent job in that ridiculous role. He would surely have won in 1989 for Driving Miss Daisy had he not had the misfortune of going up against Daniel Day Lewis in My Left Foot—one of the most amazing performances in the history of the medium. I'm partial to Thomas Haden Church in Sideways, of course—I still laugh when I think of his groggy delivery and that uniquely Hollywood combination of seeming at once laid-back and peevishly entitled. But he doesn't have age going for him. I hear rumblings that Alan Alda has some support for The Aviator, and it's a great performance, one of the most convincing portraits of a sleazeball politico I've seen in a movie. But he has only a couple of scenes. Need we say anything about Jamie Foxx except that it's a done deal? I liked Ray well enough, but Foxx takes it to another dimension: not just in his physical impersonation, but in the monstrous solipsism that he portrays so convincingly. Don Cheadle does a stupendous job in Hotel Rwanda at showing how a cagey politician can use those same suck-up skills in heroic fashion. And Eastwood is physically and vocally moving in Million Dollar Baby. But it's Foxx's year, no? (I can't say too many times how sad I am that Jeff Bridges, one of our best film actors, wasn't nominated for one of his two best performances, in The Door in the Floor. And he wasn't nominated for the Dude, either.) Am I wrong about Swank? I'd like to be. Annette Bening is currently my fave American actress, and she's radiantly intelligent in Being Julia. No actress is so brilliant at playing characters that act in their daily life, and her performance as a great actress is practically an essay on the tension between the mask and the human being beneath. A few years back she lost to Swank in Boys Don't Cry—justly, I think, although she was hilarious in American Beauty. Will it happen again? Is there any support for anyone else in this category? Cate Blanchett's Kate Hepburn divided critics: I thought it was a howl. Will it divide academy voters? Does the luminous Virginia Madsen have a shot? Is there a lot of affection for Laura Linney (even in that drab role) and Sophie Okonedo? Does Charlie Kaufman have a chance for my favorite screenplay of the millennium? Or will it go to John Logan for The Aviator? Much ink has been spilled about Chris Rock, but there's a long tradition of bad-boy court-jester Oscar hosts, from Bob Hope back in the day to Johnny Carson to Billy Crystal to Whoopi Goldberg. (OK, she's a bad girl.) Can we expect anything more abrasive from Mr. Rock? Or does Gil Cates have him on too tight a leash? Which brings me to my least-favorite part of the program: Cates. Is anyone planning to give him some well-deserved poop for turning so many of the tech nominees into second-class citizens? (Will they still be handed Oscars in their seats or forced to stand on stage like beauty-pageant contestants awaiting the opening of the envelope???) Will Cates ride the winners even harder this year, drowning them out before they can get past thanking their directors, agents, and managers? Does anyone agree that the last thing you want at our annual orgy for movie-lover is The Texas Chainsaw Massacre's Leatherface with a stopwatch? Have the 40 days and 40 nights of rain dampened everyone's party spirits? David P.S.: Somehow I've gotten roped into doing a live online Washington Post chat on Friday at noon. You can access it here. I'm looking for a gay prostitute to lob me some softballs. Send fake résumés and nude photos to [email protected].
Dear David, I really don't think testing whether you can push me into some ruinous career-ending faux pas is the only likely cliffhanger in our correspondence this Oscar season; though not a thrilling race by any imagining, there are some contests. Not like last year, when it was a runaway for Lord of the Rings and you could sleep through the whole thing; and no one knew anyone from New Zealand or New Line and the same people got up and thanked the same people over and over and they were all married to each other, and if you were a woman over 30 you hadn't even seen the movies, 1, 2, or 3. Last night was the opening night of the big party week (Variety lists 21 corporate- and human-sponsored soirees), and if there were momentous events stirring in the loins of Hollywood, and you were listening to the tom-toms, you would have gleaned two facts, none about the Oscars: the birth of a new studio chief in Brad Grey (note the plug) at Paramount, and the birth of a new Oscar season host team, Tom Ford and Richard Buckley, who in their first year of landing here now own Thursday night. The truth is, the big races—with the exception of the male actors—are all up for grabs. We may not care about the outcomes, which is a different matter altogether. It's a big betting night, if not a big rooting night, unless you have a relative in the plush red seats. Which brings us to this online thing, which is fairly new, I think. It's interesting, seeing as how all the online prognosticators don't really understand the academy sensibility. Variety.com thinks it's an Aviator sweep, as does every other online prog I found. Except something named HSX, which picks MDB (sounds like a brain disease, don't you think?), and it claims a 78 percent success rate. But the blogs are way too rational. You, David, are much closer, with your heart and brain and anger. As I see it, there are a lot of two-way matchups. Most of the contests are between Aviator and MDB. When there are no clear favorites, sometimes the academy splits its tickets. It reasons: Clint has won, Marty has not; so let MDB win Best Pic and Scorsese finally get his Oscar. Or, conversely, Aviator is a big picture—an Oscar picture—but it's not Scorsese's best directorial effort (he should have won for Goodfellas, or Raging Bull, it is always added); and Clint directed perfect performances. So, let's honor both by splitting the statuettes the other way. That is, of course, unless either film sweeps. The two favorites are polar opposites, and this affects the temperature of the academy voters when they deliberate. Do they honor bigness or smallness this year? Aviator was born to be Oscar bait, seeped in pre-release buzz, released with huge hype—it was the picture to beat all year. It is about huge, gorgeous, big-budget splendor, even thematically. (If I understand it at all.) MDB is the underdog, in theme and execution. It came out of nowhere, tiny and orphaned, released in the nick of time to even qualify. At its helm is the beloved former mayor of Carmel, spiritual mayor of the academy. At the helm of the other is one of the great masters of the medium. So, what to do? This is the Talmudic reasoning of a person looking at a ballot on Feb. 11. That or being completely stumped, as many were this year. I know two people who sent in write-ins for Hotel Rwanda, not because it was so great, but as a kind of protest vote. This is what has become of protest here these days. The gender lens on Sideways was fascinating and under-discussed: It clearly fed a hunger among the critical public for classically unsympathetic heroes who undergo slight character change and get the luminescent, lonely girl in the end. (Ah, the fate of the single woman.) But is it surprising that men liked it more than the average female moviegoer? And let's face it: MDB is not Rocky lite: euthanasia, eating your tongue, exploitive family—very rough stuff. It's right to say that if the ratings continue to tumble for the telecast, as is being whined about this week, the tepid response to the nominated movies is certainly one reason. We should have had the temerity to nominate Fahrenheit 9/11 and The Passion. That would have made for my kind of zeitgeisty night. Bring it on! As far as the other horse race, the Bening/Swank rematch is a tough call. Usually, academy-think would give the edge to your girl Bening: an elegant and intelligent actress, and the timing is right. But the Disabled Law of Oscars gives an edge to Hilary, who has become an "Oscar actress," a new category: someone who specializes in snagging Oscar-type roles and killing in them. If you get beat up beyond recognition and require more than six hours of make-up between setups, this is an automatic advantage. Plus—spoiler alert—Hilary dies, and Julia lives. Advantage: Swank. Also, lost in all this, is the astonishing performance of Imelda Staunton in Vera Drake. Haunting, heartbreaking. Nothing more needs to be said on Jamie Foxx, other than he will lose for his gorgeous performance in Collateral. I am really excited to relay to you that I strongly think, as does everyone, that Charlie Kaufman will win for your favorite script of the millennium, Eternal Sunshine, about which you wrote so deeply that I went back and watched it again. I think the stodgy old academy has caught up with him, or caught on to him; and one reason is that one of my favorite actresses, Kate Winslet, whose luminosity is much taken for granted, made his work quite emotionally accessible for the "grown-ups." So, Gil Cates has divided above the line—and what fun it will be if it backfires. (This is of course what we really root for, accidents!) I, for one, hope the crew winners take all the time in the world thanking their children. And the academy has further divided the town in its unintended class war. From today on, east and west have been divided: Forget getting west or east of Highland through Monday. The Kodak Theater—conveniently located in the worst traffic intersection in Los Angeles—has divided my home and studio from the rest of upper-crust L.A. The gridlock has certain classist undertones. Tonight will be dueling agency parties: ICM's doyenne of Friday night, Ed Limato, dons his Hawaiian shirt and keeps his feet bare as he greets his thousand guests or so—all the nominees and the town's finest, in their finest. Pity the rain if it dares to fall. His hillside estate off Coldwater has an old Hollywood glamour that makes a classic Oscar setting for this traditional Friday night do. While down the road, CAA's Bryan Lourd has his movie star-meets-New York cafe society soiree—sleek modern house, late-night sophisticated crowd, new Hollywood glamour. Smaller, more intimate, everywhere you look a bold-face encounter. Very low key, if you know what I mean. Will report tomorrow, if I make it past the Kodak Theater. The big news will be if anyone talks Oscar at all. Till then,
Good morning on Oscar Day, Lynda: What you have to say—party gossip (overseen, overheard), industry prognostication, and so forth—is of most interest in these few short hours before the ceremony. How were the parties? Who said what to whom? Was there a radical difference in perspective between East and West Coast types? Was there any grumbling about Gil Cates? (I'm hoping for a class-conscious groundswell: Let the Techies—and the Exhibitionists—Speak!) How do my East Coast-based predictions look now? Picture: the overrated MDB Director: Eastwood (sorry, Marty) Actor: Foxx (lock—but with much affection for Cheadle) Actress: Swank (by a whisker over Bening) Supporting Actor: Freeman (lock) Supporting Actress: Blanchett? (Or will Madsen or Okonedo come from behind?) Original Screenplay: Charlie! Adapted Screenplay: Alexander and Jim! Cinematography: Deschanel for The Passion or Richardson for The Aviator? Editing: Thelma Schoonmaker (lock) Score: Debney for The Passion Any upsets brewing? You did have an inkling that Denzel Washington and Halle Berry would take their prizes three years ago, having voted for each of them ... I have not seen one of the nominated docs, but I suspect that Born Into Brothels will take the prize. The Sea Inside will be hard to beat for foreign-language film, making this the Year of Assisted Suicide. (I haven't yet seen the last days of Hitler picture; one can't dismiss the idea that some of the older Jewish Academy members saw it several times to gloat.) As usual, one of the highlights of Oscar season is Andy Trudeau's lengthy analysis of the nominated scores on NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday. (These are archived on the NPR Web site.) He admires all the scores but makes a convincing case that the best of them is John Debney's for The Passion of the Christ. I agree, although I also admire James Newton Howard's horror-flick-cum-swooning-violin score in The Village. Please, please don't let Andrew Lloyd Webber win for his even-worse-than-usual new (i.e., written especially for the Oscar) Phantom song. Speaking of Phantom of the Opera, here are this year's Razzies (too Phantom-free, if you ask me): Picture: Catwoman Actress: Halle Berry, Catwoman Director: Pitof, Catwoman Screenplay: Catwoman Actor: George Bush, Fahrenheit 9/11 Support actor: Rumsfeld, Fahrenheit 9/11 Worst Comedy in 25 years: Gigli Worst drama in 25 years: Battlefield Earth Most nominated actor in 25 years: Schwarzenegger Well, Halle Berry wasn't that much worse in Catwoman than she was in Monster's Ball. But at least some of us can now write about her woeful acting without being reminded that she's an Oscar winner. The choice of George W. Bush as the worst actor of the year is inspired on all sorts of levels. He really is extraordinarily inept—wooden and unstudied, frighteningly unnatural, prone to telegraphing his lies. What made the Will Ferrell parody Bush commercial so brilliant was that it was fundamentally accurate: Bush doesn't need much help to turn his words and actions into verbal and physical slapstick. Are the Razzies telecast? Now, that's a party I'd want to attend! On the subject of actors, a reader asked about Hilary Swank's second coming—and why she needed to come again. Swank was astounding in Boys Don't Cry, but not many people saw the movie. (I remember you hated it.) And Swank's political strategy might have been problematic. She was careful to dress very femmy and to cite her husband as early in her interviews and acceptance speeches as possible. She took a lot of girly roles. She didn't want to be typecast as a tomboy, and she didn't want anyone to think she was a dyke—God forbid. And although she is an extremely striking young woman, I've heard that male studio types don't consider her sufficiently "f---able"—their favorite adjective for describing leading ladies. She needed another tomboy martyr role, and did she get it. It's time to stir my chili, put the beers on ice, and Windex the TV. At my Washington Post online chat on Friday, Adam Bonin proposed this Unofficial 2005 Oscar Drinking Game, which you can find on his group blog here. The idea is one drink per infraction execept where noted: • Every Michael Moore and/or Mel Gibson reference. • Every Brad/Jennifer/Angelina reference. • Every poor schlub who, just as he is about to get his chance to say thank you after the first guy droned on for a minute, doesn't even get a second at the microphone before the band drowns him out. • Every time someone mentions how wonderful The Movies are as an institution. • Every male winner who thanks his wife for being "beautiful", rather than intelligent, loyal or supportive. • Every person named during the Necrology who you forgot was dead. • If booing is audible when Reagan's death is mentioned, chug, because we'll have two weeks of conservative complaints to endure. • Every losing nominee who pretends to look happy as someone else goes up to the stage. • Every actor you spot with odd facial hair he has obviously grown for a current movie role. • Every time ABC promotes Desperate Housewives in some way. • Every time Chris Rock mentions a black person, and then they cut to a shot of the first black person they find in the audience. • Chug if during or immediately after the Counting Crows performance, they cut to one of Adam Duritz's many ex-girlfriends. • Chug when Chris Rock makes fun of any ABC programming. • Every shot of or reference to the guys from Ernst & Young. • The Mary Steenburgen Memorial Shot: Every presenter who's announced as an Oscar nominee or winner and you can't remember for what. • Every time there's an inexplicable cut to Jack Nicholson. • Every shot of one of Rock's former SNL castmates, but drink everything in the entire neighborhood if they show Rob Schneider. • Drink if you can't figure out a damn thing Prince says when presenting an award. • Chug if Rock brings up Pootie Tang. My feeling is that THIS WILL KILL US ALL. Talk to you tomorrow, I hope. David
Dear David, It's brunch time in L.A., time for all the nominees to be finishing hair and make-up, putting the finishing touches on their to-be-analyzed gowns, loading into their limousines, and heading (east, presumably) into the most glamorous fake night of their lives. It will finally be dark when they emerge, ready to drink heavily one way or the other. Since this is the umpteenth time they have loaded themselves and their significant others into a studio-rented stretch since January, it is not quite anti-climactic, but the glare of midday makes it at least surreal. Each has gotten to know the others in their nominating class very well; like a monthlong extended class picture, the same people have been everywhere from their guild awards to the Golden Globes together, tightly smiling for the cameras, some winning, some always losing—by now, they know the odds as well as we do. The women have saved their best (they and their stylists think) outfit for last. The same goes for the rest of us, who only started partying this week, and yet fatigue has already set in. It's the same core list everywhere—only the décor changes (and the waiters' outfits), and at the end of the parties, revelers have taken to saying, "See you tomorrow," like it's work. (I suppose it is.) At Bryan Lourd's Friday night, camellia corsages were handed out at the door (a detail I loved), which is where Thursday night's hosts Tom Ford and Richard Buckley greeted Saturday afternoon's hosts Barry Diller and Diane Von Furstenburg. In the corner, I spotted tonight's host, Graydon Carter, chatting up the nominees. They look smaller in person, which always comes as a shock (and in my case a relief). Cate Blanchett mingled, as did the lovely Natalie Portman. Hilary Swank was about, as was Michael Mann and his terrific wife, Summer, and Taylor Hackford and Helen Mirren. By midnight, Ed Limato's party had drained into Bryan's and all the nominees had shown, and the night peaked when Jamie Foxx arrived simultaneously with P. Diddy's crew. There was a jam at the door where it appeared as though P. was charmingly negotiating the entrance of his entire entourage, and quiet diplomacy was taking place. Vin Diesel, I would like to add, arrived in the vehicle du jour: a dark blue chauffer-driven SUV, his, with a satellite dome, sprouting a forest of antennas. Anyone who was anyone was driven in a dark blue SUV. If you were in a limo, it had been rented. New York was well-represented in the paparazzi as well: Radio Man, fixture in the New York shooting streets was outside, was patiently waiting for George Clooney, picture in hand. Inside, directors (hot and young) and their gorgeous girlfriends (also young and hot) mixed with magazine types and moguls, the guys in jeans, their dates in high fashion, the waiters in white dinner jackets. The only person I could get to talk Oscar was Oscar professional and New Yorker Peggy Siegal, who in fact was on the Aviator payroll. She thinks MDB will win and has a fascinating East Coast/West Coast theory, mixed with a Harvey Weinstein conspiracy. She thinks that Marty Scorsese doesn't have the profile here he does in New York (true), and that no one really worked Aviator in L.A. except Leo, who worked it wonderfully ("He went from place to place in a suit ..."), which means he will win for his next nominated picture. (This good-boy behavior probably earned him his Globe.) She thinks Harvey overworked Gangs and underworked Aviator (he was busy!). The same could be said about the director nominations—and there is a backlash factor in the background. (Thus, the conspiracy.) And you, David, think this is all about the movie! I think the unarticulated point here in the East Coast/West Coast sensibility debate is that Clint is beloved in the West Coast. This is a greater factor than Marty's low profile. Marty is enormously respected here. He is a god. But Clint is god. A local god. So, it is New York god with not his best movie versus L.A. god with not his best movie. What will happen? The difference is that some people really love MDB. And it doesn't really seem as though anyone really loves Aviator. The tide really has been swinging towards MBD since the Globes and Producer Guild produced early Aviator victories. Maybe it's a perverse reaction to the right-wing taking on MDB. Maybe it's the modicum of content that it has. Maybe it's the Clint factor, or Harvey backlash. Maybe it's none of the above and The Aviator will win, and Clint will win Best Director, and we are all just bloviating. I might just call it that way. No one would be surprised if that happened, you know. So, here goes: Best Picture: No One Would Be Surprised If ... Aviator wins after all. Even though MDB has been picking up steam for weeks now, this one was conceived, born, and raised to be an Oscar baby. Or If ... MDB Won. It has recent converts thanks to Rush Limbaugh. Everyone would Be Surprised If ... any picture but the above two wins. Best Director: No One Would Be Surprised If ... Clint wins. Perfect performances, and a subdued, controlled, wonderfully-directed star. Enough said. People Would Be Somewhat Surprised But Still Happy If ... Marty wins. "The guy deserves his Oscar" everyone will say on Monday morning. For Goodfellas. Best Actor: Not a Single Person in the Entire World Who Cares Will Be Surprised When ... Jamie Foxx wins. Well, he was great (and blind and on heroin), and even though it was a biopic, we all loved it, and didn't think we would. Best Actress: No One Would Be Surprised If … Hilary Swank wins again for a grueling, hard-to-watch, months-of-training-type virtuoso role. Has Oscar written all over it. Sorry, Annette. People Will Be a Little Surprised but Nonetheless Happy If ... Annette Bening wins for an incredibly difficult and subtle role, which got very little distribution, marketing, or publicity. I Would Fall Off My Chair and Ascend Into Heaven If … Imelda Staunton Won for her truly great performance in Vera Drake. Justice would prevail in the world. Best Supporting Actor: No One Would Be Surprised If ... Morgan Freeman won. He's always great. Everyone Would Be Shocked if ... anyone else won. Though, a Lot of Women I Know Would Be Thrilled If ... Clive Owen won. Just to see him go to the podium and make a speech, any speech. But alas, it won't happen. Best Supporting Actress: No One Would Be Surprised, But Many Will Be Irritated When ... Cate Blanchett Wins for her performance or impersonation (depending on your interpretation) of Kate Hepburn in The Aviator. Some People I Know (Like Me) Would Be Very Surprised but Very Happy If ... Sophie Okonedo upset Cate for her terrific performance for the under-nominated Hotel Rwanda. Movies like this need their moral victories. Same Goes for You and Many Others If ... the divine Virginia Madsen, absolutely the best thing about Sideways, pulls an upset. Original Screenplay: Everyone Will Be Thrilled When ... Charlie goes up to accept his award. What about his speech? Will he say the word "industry"? Will he thank his brother? Adapted Screenplay: No One Will Be at All Surprised and Everyone Will Whoop With Joy When ... Alexander Payne and Jim Taylor get the award that beloved movies like this one and Lost in Translation always get: best screenplay. They deserve it. Cinematography: No One Would Be Surprised If ... Aviator cinematographer Robert Richardson wins, as the picture was absolutely gorgeous—that shot of Hughes entering the premiere was vintage Scorsese, vintage Richardson. The same goes for Production Design, by the way. The picture looked exquisite. Editing: No One Will Be Surprised When ... Thelma Schoonmaker Wins for The Aviator. Even though the editing in Collateral was pretty great. Score: I am going to give you The Passion on Best Score, because there is no academy sense of score, I have never heard anyone discuss scores, anywhere. Do I think the academy voters are capable of voting for the dread Passion if they like its score? Yes, for the most part. It will be interesting to see. I am depressed that ABC has succumbed to pressure and made Robin Williams cancel his lampoon on James Dobson's attack of SpongeBob SquarePants. We actually have censorship in this country. The only spicy moment has been spiked. Bad omen. Fingers crossed for Chris Rock to make up for it. Otherwise we sit and wait for a really cheesy acceptance speech or for someone to charge up to accept an award they were forbidden to receive. Or, God forbid, a winner to go over her allotted time in a fashion faux pas. Actually, any faux pas will do. Here's hoping. Have fun. Talk tomorrow. XX,
OK—I guess except for the Passion of the Christ score,
I called it. I called it all! But so did everyone else, mostly.
It was the year of Assisted Suicide. Now, I am uncomfortable with the way in which assisted suicide was handled in Million Dollar Baby and The Sea Inside (I'm with the disabled activist group Not Dead Yet on this one), but it was almost worth it to stick it to Michael Medved and Rush Limbaugh—their bellicose stupidity surely helped to put both movies over. I hope they play Chris Rock over and over on their radio shows—but no, they won't, because Chris Rock was screamingly funny. As we speak, Frank Luntz is likely issuing directives about how to engage Rock in a way that won't sound racist—and the answer will be to BLAME THE LIBERAL HOLLYWOOD ELITE FOR LAUGHING. Meanwhile, we'll remember Rock discussing how Bush was a genius: asking to keep his job while everyone was seeing "a movie that shows how much you suck at that job." No, they won't be playing that much. About 80 percent of Rock's material was great, and, unlike Sean Penn, I didn't mind that he stuck it to Jude Law and Colin Farrell, both of whom were way, way overexposed last year. As a producer, Lynda, I'm sure you deal with this: Someone becomes the flavor of the month and has to be cast in everything, whereupon no one ever wants to see them again. (I did respect Penn for speaking up in defense of Law—that was classy. But Rock ruled.) The trip to the Magic Johnson Theater was spectacularly funny and brilliantly edited. And if that's the only way we can see Albert Brooks on the Oscars, so be it. On the Washington Post site, I was asked if there would be any upsets this year. I said, sorry to be so boring, but no. I was wrong about the score for The Passion of the Christ, but other than that, it was a great victory for conventional wisdom. The trains ran on time. The winners got up FAST. They spoke FAST. Before they got off stage, someone else was COMING ON. Some VERY TALL women functioned as both eye candy and bouncers—looming over the winners and poised to carry them off. My wife said the onstage lineups of art directors, sound editors, etc., looked like firing squads; she also said it seemed one step away from those reality shows where everyone stands tremulously waiting to hear the good/bad news while the camera zooms in for the kill. I'm sure Cates was hoping to finish up in under three hours. He should eliminate the performances of the nominated songs, which tend to be lousy and/or ghastly, unless Bob Dylan sings them. Some moments from the evening that resonated for me: On the red carpet, Laura Linney with her mermaid hair tried to frame some intelligent thoughts on the subject of Kinsey. "Human beings are complex creatures," she concluded. "You look great," said Chris Connelly. Of course, the red carpet is only about women's clothes—and this year, if the gowns didn't take one's breath away, they surely took their inhabitants' breath away. Consider poor lovely curvy Scarlett Johannsen squeeeezed into that hourglass number, looking as if she'd soon need smelling salts. (Outside, she said her greatest inspiration was the "classy and fragile" Judy Garland. She looked classy and fragile herself last night.) Once again, most of the women looked thin to the point of starvation. Johannsen. Emmy Rossum. Blanchett. Prince. Not Kate Winslet, fortunately—she looked sublime. Not Julia Roberts, showing off her nourishing new-mom boobs. Low point of the evening: Beyoncé in enormous, suitably vulgar jewels singing that horrible Andrew Lloyd Webber song with the perpetrator right there at the piano. I loved it when some guy in a mask flitted on and off the stage: The whole number summed up Phantom so well. The Johnny Carson tribute—which reminded us again of Carson's supernatural poise. It's too bad that Gil Cates didn't come up with a Brando tribute, too. Sure, Brando spurned the Oscars, but Brando was nuts and spurned everything, including himself. He was also arguably the greatest film actor of all time and deserved more than three frames in the "In Memoriam" segment. The obvious but funny Adam Sandler and Rock bit in the "absence" of Catherine Zeta-Jones—a good joke on the scripted banter that was mercifully absent this year. The superb editor Thelma Schoonmaker telling Martin Scorsese, "You think like an editor when you shoot." Many winners "share" their Oscars with collaborators, but Schoonmaker's tribute was generous and true. Hilary Swank and Morgan Freeman were gracious and touching, although Swank should not use the word "humbled" when she means "honored." Someday I'd like to meet the person who devises the music cues, to ascertain why the orchestra sent Freeman off the stage to the strains of the theme from Star Trek: The Motion Picture (and The Next Generation). Was this a way of working in a tribute to the late Jerry Goldsmith? Jamie Foxx singing out when he hit the mike, praising Ray Charles and Taylor Hackford, doing a dead-on, loving impression of Sidney Poitier, and finally paying tribute to his late grandmom, the acting teacher who whupped him when he didn't do things truthfully. Finally, there was the Lifetime Achievement Award for Sidney Lumet, a director who has not exactly packed theaters in the last couple of decades. I was surprised they dared to include clips of Equus, The Wiz, and Family Business—all truly terrible movies. But it was good to be reminded of Twelve Angry Men, The Hill, Prince of the City, and, of course, Serpico and Dog Day Afternoon. It occurred to me that whatever his lefty New York politics, he now had more in common with Clint Eastwood than with someone who might have been his natural heir, Martin Scorsese. Once upon a time, Scorsese took his camera into the streets. And even though his technique always bordered on Expressionism, he thrived on real locations and on actors who were clearly digging into themselves. Perhaps he needs to forget that he's a virtuoso, pick up a little Lumet, and go back to that original place. Have a great trip to Australia, Lynda, and thanks for joining me again. Now utterly exhausted with this subject, I end with a pledge: For the remainder of 2005, I will not say or write the word "Oscar" again. I will henceforth eat Mister Mayer bacon, etc. David
It might have been the low-expectation thing, but I was pleasantly surprised by last night, and no one fell or wore feathers or thanked an obscure Indian-rights group. I, too, thought Chris Rock was hilarious, even if he is getting roasted in New York. At times it seemed like the Oscar/Hip Hop Awards, and it took a little of the starch out of the whole stiff-haired affair. My worst moment came when Rock warned all the assembled studio heads to wait for a star instead of casting actors, and I feared the movie I am currently putting together would fall apart today. I agree that Rock was at his best in the Magic Johnson Theater bit and the Bush Gap/Banana Republic piece. Criticizing Bush post-election puts a frisson in a live national audience that almost feels dangerous. Isn't that sad? On Oscar night, Hollywood holds the mike, and Chris Rock used it. As far as the other great controversy, Gil Cates relegating the technicians to lining up like reality show finalists—or as your wife called it, a firing squad—it certainly sped up the show. Presenters standing awkwardly in corners were cleverly saved by moving cameras, and despite a few moments where it appeared as though losing art directors were being thrown off the island, Sandy Powell still reigned as a queen of costume when she accepted her award for The Aviator, without an imperial walk to the stage. But it was Clint's night, as local sensibilities prevailed. The lone prognosticating Web site that called MDB as best picture can raise its winning percentage. The only upset I can think of was Ray for sound mixing, and that was a happy, if paltry, victory. The mixing gang was so stunned they forgot to thank Taylor Hackford. As a musical, it shouldn't have been a surprise at all. Your point about the women in their gowns was well taken. My son thought Scarlett Johansson looked animated, and many of the tightly wound gowns made their inhabitants look like mermaids. I liked the back of Swank's gown more than the front (though the back wasn't really there) and thought every single thing that Randolph Duke said about the evening's fashion on the after-show was wrong, wrong, wrong. But since stylists and designers negotiating their wares for the night has become part of the season's ritual, the event is one big commercial. The only really unique fashion statement last night was made by Prince. Best speech, I, agree, David, has to go to Jamie Foxx, for letting us in on his relationship with his grandmother. (It is a continuing saga from the Golden Globes.) The continuous cuts to his adorable daughter made it even more sentimental, kind of like the Olympic pieces about the athlete's families. The other fun one, I suppose, was for the winning song, which was sung by its composer, who I read was not allowed to perform during the broadcast in favor of Antonio Banderas. Winning has its prerogatives. It was sad seeing your fave Bening lose to Swank again. I will predict here that she will win for her next one, as will Marty, as will Leo. Let them all make a movie together; it will sweep. What about Charlie!? Wasn't that a highlight? I felt like all of the writers in the country were cheering when his name was called, and like I heard you all the way from New York. Didn't you just get a delicious sense of his joy? That impish smile? With all those egomaniacs going on and on, he just wanted to thank his daughter Anna and get off the stage. Save the long speeches for the page, where every other writer's long speeches get cut. I am off to work, then on a plane. Everyone will be late this morning, and hung over. Figuring out my next movie, the need for a statuette is keen this week. Small movies about issues? I don't think so. Comedies with unsympathetic leading men? Maybe slightly unsympathetic, for a reel or so. Genocide? Definitely not. Check-cashing place? Definitely. Good demographics. And I will probably have to wait for a star, of which there are only four. Thank you, Chris Rock. Until next year, David … Lynda David Edelstein is Slate's film critic. Lynda Obst is a producer at Paramount Pictures and author of Hello, He Lied. She can be reached through her Web site, LyndaObst.com. |
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