My Oscar reactions as they happen. Unedited, literally, what I’m thinking as I watch (pardon all my crapass spelling, I have no time nor inclination to fix and search for correct spellings):
Holy shit, seriously, are you crying? I don’t know who can’t be crying right now. The montage scenes always get to me. My favorite part of the Oscars was always the end, not because I was usually stuffed and tired, but because I got to see the death montage. Oh, but this year, on Oscar’s 80th, I got to experience it a few times. First in the cartoonish version, loving to hear Eddie Murphy’s laugh, and then the clips of the acceptance speeches over the years. I’m totally crying watching Cary Grant cry, and then a cut to Audry Hepburn, in her do-good humanitarian years. I wonder how we’re all remembered. If people remember us for who we were when we were young, or if they remember us as we last were. I stop to think about the people in my life who’ve died. While I remember my grandfather at the end, it’s not really who I remember. I remember the advice he gave, the person he was, the way he carried me throughout the house and later told me how I needed to touch each picture on the wall.
I love Jon Stewart. Love, like, man would I have his babies. I actually cannot think of anyone I love more in Hollywood, aside from Applebee in Stealing Home. Stewart is lovable, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t get along with anyone who felt otherwise. You know who else I love? Barbara. There, I said it. I do. I really love Barbara Streisand. Okay, so the montage, man, I miss Chevy Chase. Though I do kind of hate how women can’t be funny in the same way. It’s not funny when a woman pretends to be caught picking her nose. My favorite part, aside from seeing my girl Diane up there, is when the energy changed from tap-dancing glory and Michael Jackson old-school to the overly syrupy Celine Dion titanic music, and I get to relive Stevie Wonder jumping up, seeing Annette cry, proud of her husband. Kevin Spacey quivering with gratitude for Jack Lemmon. I’m a total sap. I fall for it every time.
Ratatouille better win. Best movie ever. No question. Yay! Wait, what was that? Since when do we begin the night with best costume? This decision was made by a marketing exec responsible for ratings. People watch the beginning and tune in at the end, skipping the middle.
"Happy Working Song" is very, very sad. She might be talented, but the song is annoying.
Catherine Zeta too many names. Her hair looks really good in those clips with Michael Douglas.
Duane Johnson? Who’s that? Oh, The Rock. What a powerfully striking man, even if his first name is "The."
Interesting to see that Calista and Ford are still together. Comforting really, despite her hideous involvement in that Sally Field atrocity of a show.
Oooh, Dianne Wiest. Oh, how I live for daily episodes of In Treatment. Oh, I just cried again. Cuba Gooding Jr. I love the energy, the surprise, the pure passion. It’s so heartening when people allow themselves to get a little messy, to break a few rules, to really go against convention and embrace their lives. I need more of that in my own life.
I think Philip Seymor Hoffman is sexy. I do. It’s not just his talent. He’s just, well, everything.
Oh look, the woman from Designing Women. (Had to IMDB her) Dixie Carter.
Wait, I thought Owen Wilson was dead, or that he tried to kill himself. Something. Maybe that was the other Wilson, Luke. I don’t think so. Wait, where’s Owen Wilson? Kerri Russel, I’ve met her, at the Hotel Gansevoort, actually. I took her photo and talked to her for at least a half an hour. She was very normal, like she acted as though she never acted.
Ugh, I hate all that music and interpretive dance crap. Speed it up. Ah, Owen and his nose: they’ve arrived. Clearly he can read, even if his delivery is kinda deadened.
The Tonto Woman, that should be my new nickname. It sounds so badass, despite the fact that I’m well aware that it means no such thing. My Spanish teacher when we were in 5th grade split the class in half, naming one half Tontos (idiots) and the other Burros (jackasses), basically his version of dumb and dumber. Way to inspire good self-esteem, Senor. Jerry Seinfeld’s voice is on, and all I can think about is his wife and her cookbook and the whole business with Lepine and the lawsuits. I own both "sneaky food" books. Man, I still love that Diane Weist. Oh, and Olympia Ducacis, I love her too. Mostly, I think I like women who get fed up, who take control of their lives and smack people around once they, themselves, wise up. I loved Dianne Wiest in that cagebird movie with Robin Williams. Damn, what was the name of that movie? The one with Sparticus unable to walk in shoes. The Birdcage.
That lady from Michael Clayton, Tilda Swinton, while a redhead, she still looks dead, as if she’s wearing someone’s black futon, and her eyes look like small vaginas. Would it kill her to wear some makeup? Jack Nicholson. Yes, we get it. You’re God, and it’s not the Oscars without you. I’ve met you though, have sat with you over dinner, and you weren’t all that personable. Still, you are Jack, and you have performed with my girl Diane, so I like you. Especially when you show your vulnerable chick flick of a side.
Best Adapted Screenplay, okay Cohen Brothers. You’ll win, but still, Alice Monroe stories are always brilliantly penned.
Accounting Humor: Keep it in your pants. Price Waterhouse Cooper. Yawn. Love that Jon Stewart, henceforth known as My Man, just called them out on how dull that was. Oh please, please Academy, cut all these musical numbers. That blond singing about sending yellow flowers when the sky is red, I think she was the blonde who sang Popular in Wicked.
It also wouldn’t be a modern Oscars with Halle Berry. Instead the dudes from SuperBad and Knocked Up stand in.. and they deliver the worst news… that Ratatouille didn’t win. Bourne Identity part 30. Sound engineering. The recipient of the award thanks everyone, except he forgets to thank his mullet. I cross my fingers for Ratatouille again. Ugh, foiled again. Sound mixing. Kills me Bourne Ultimatum. All the sound people have ponytails.
There I go again with the tears. She’s gotta pull out the sign language . Oh, and when they thank their dads. When people cry up there, when they summon the dead and pray they’re watching over them, I cry. I can’t help it. I’m proud of them too. And she’s signing again, this time to her mother. It moves us to see how moved she is in her life.
Away from her, Alice Munroe’s film, was quite moving actually. Laura Linney is associated with too many independent films and she delivers everything the same. It becomes a little grating. She plays the same uptight part in every film. Good. I’m glad La Vie En Rose woman won. It was a moving film, though way too long. And they uglied her up good in that film. I mean you really believed she got chased by dogs or something, but now, she looks like a Frenchwoman who’s trying to look American. I love that she’s shaking and thanking love and life and saying there are angels in this city. Even when she’s ushered offstage, she’s still shaking. She’ll fall asleep tonight, eventually anyway, and she’ll relive that moment, angry actually that she didn’t say more, that she didn’t thank the right people, or even the muse she transformed herself into.
Colin Farrel is gross. I don’t see what the draw is to him. I’d take Philip Seymour Hoffman over him any day. I’d also just like to say, this acoustic version of "Falling Slowly" from the movie Once is really good. I love it actually. And wouldn’t you know it, along with La Vie En Rose and Away From Her, I also rented Once. Not bad for a mama who never leaves the house. At least I’m caught up on the nominees. Though that No Country for Old Men and titles with Blood just sound dull to me. Man, I love the acoustic guitar. It’s so enchanting and makes me feel drunk. I love that song. It’s official. And afterward, camera pans up, and dammit, three women sitting in the front row are just sitting there thinking about the after parties, deciding if they’ll change into their backup outfits now that they’ve seen the color of the night is red. Not one claps.
Best Picture Montage:How Green Was My Valley sounds like porn. Kramer vs. Kramer, God was that good. The Departed… doesn’t belong on that list. Not even close to Annie Hall. Some years the movies just suck. I don’t like Renee Zellweger’s dress. She looks like Christmas tinsel. Nicole Kidman sounds like a robot, like that freaky redhead from Cashmere Mafia, just awkward and too enunciated. She seems cold. Others read, stuck to the script, but Jennifer Garner, for example, came off adorable (but damn thin). And Kidman delivers an aloof appearance, a Stepford role. She stands there like a woman without a heart. Renee’s dress looked like tinsel and Kidman stands like the tree, hacked down for holiday presentation. That necklace might be fashion-forward but it’s annoying on screen.
They always put the family of the big-time achievement award winners in boxed seats so they needn’t listen to people badmouthing the speaker. Oh how I love all the closeups of actors pretending to listen, pretending to care, squinting, fingers on chins, deep in thought, even the lovely Diane Lane, acting mesmerized about… nothing. He said nothing. Robert Boyle. Gotta cut him some slack, though, he is 98-years-old. I hope I can still speak at that age, you know, something other than "Mama."
I LOVE that ONCE won for best song. The movie was kinda suckass, but the music moves me. And it really sucks that she didn’t get to give her–oh, but she did. That’s the way. See, Jon Stewart is dreamy. Cameran Diaz, I know guys think she’s hot, but really, she’s typecast for a reason. Someone needs to pull her dress up, or down… I can almost see the shadow of a nipple, well, the areola, anyway. "No," Phil says. "You’re making things up." He pauses. I walk up to the screen and point. "No, they’d be down here," he says pointing lower. "No, those boobies are squished up in there with tape and stuff. That might just be the shadow of an areola." That, or I’ve had too much to drink.
Hillary Swank. She’s kinda mannish. Not kinda. She’s mannish. I can’t quite get past her role in Boys Don’t Cry, and I keep imagining her with a rolled up pair of sweat socks stuffed into her crotch.
Wait, the death montage. Since when do they list agents and stunt men? No one good died, just Deborah Kerr. Ingrid Bergman. Fine. Oh, and of course best for last Heath, which kinda changes the mood. That sucks.
And the quote of the night: "Without you, honey, this would just be hardware."