Why? Why do I do this to myself? Every year I gnash my teeth at all the Oscars hype, and every year I vow to rent a movie instead of watching the Fashion Disaster Ego Parade, and every year I wind up glued to the TV, horrified and fascinated at the same time. (I would make the inevitable comparison to a car accident, but people involved in car accidents dress better and cry a lot more convincingly.) I could read a book. I could enjoy the counter-programming. I could clean up around the house, pay bills, or catch up on my sleep. Instead, I watch the Academy Awards – in short, I spend several hours watching a largely despicable group of people grabbing attention they don’t deserve, wearing unsightly and poorly-fitting clothes, thanking the bottom-feeders that made it possible for them to annoy the entire world and not just the people they know personally, delivering patently insincere and deeply boring speeches, and generally acting as though they had discovered a cure for cancer. Unfortunately, in order to make fun of the Oscars effectively, I sort of have to see the Oscars.

I use the word “see” figuratively, of course, since I spent the majority of this year’s broadcast with my head in a bucket the size of Rhode Island, hurling uncontrollably, and since Helen Hunt’s collarbone nearly put my eye out, but even if I had stared unwavering at the TV the entire time, I still wouldn’t have understood Whoopi Goldberg. I wouldn’t have understood her look for the evening, which seemed like an ill-advised to attempt to channel Forrest Whitaker and Aretha Franklin at the same time; I wouldn’t have understood why she couldn’t have put in a pair of contact lenses; I wouldn’t have understood why she didn’t deliver a savage beating to the writers who stuck her with a string of exhausted Monica jokes; and I wouldn’t have understood, really, why the Oscars ceremony requires a host at all. What does the host do? The host tells dumb jokes, and the host introduces the presenters. Why not have the presenters walk out onstage, tell the dumb jokes themselves, and cut about an hour and a half off the telecast? I dig Whoopi okay – she sure beats Billy “If You Think I’ll Ever Run Out Of Gefiltefish Jokes, Think Again” Crystal – but if the producers really want the show to end before daylight, they might want to rethink the whole celebrity-host concept.

The producers should also consider doing away with the musical portions of the program. All of them. Forever. I challenge you to find a single person who gives even the tiniest crap about the mandatory interpretive-dance number. I do not need to see Savion Glover’s explication of the Saving Private Ryan score; nor do I need to see a chick in a tuxedo-kini flapping hither and yon with the entire bottom part of her costume jammed into her crack. They should have retired this portion of the program ten years ago, when Rob Lowe hoovered up a double handful of cocaine in the wings and got jiggy with Snow White, but no, we still have to sit through it every year. The Best Song nominees I could tolerate if the songs didn’t suck. Alas, the songs always suck. Furthermore, the songs belong at an awards ceremony devoted specifically to songs – namely, the Grammys. If I wanted to see Mariah doing her bolster-pillow imitation, I would watch the Grammys. If I wanted to admire Steven Tyler’s suburban-matron frost-and-tip job, I would watch the Grammys. If I wanted to check the progress of Peter Gabriel’s slow transformation into Dr. Evil, I would watch the Grammys. (Note to self: continue to avoid watching the Grammys.)

Ditching the host and the music would improve the Oscars telecast – but only slightly. Viewers still have to contend with the following factors:

1. Attempts by male nominees to create “trends” in formalwear. This year, all the guys – Ed Harris, Geoffrey Rush, Nick Nolte, Jim Carrey – had the “black on black on black is the new black” thing going on. Apparently, they’d all received a memo about this outfit-of-the-moment, complete with instructions on how to tie the Goombahs-R-Us black satin cravat, and they all put the “wank” back in “swank.”

2. Stars trying, and failing, to look like other stars. Billy Bob Thornton tried to look like Sting. Lynn Redgrave tried to look like Ivana Trump. John Travolta tried to look like Orson Welles. Lisa Kudrow tried to look like Gwyneth Paltrow, who tried to look like Calista Flockhart. A number of the women tried to look like Jennifer Aniston, ironing their hair down flat and tanning themselves to an unattractive walnut shade. Others borrowed elements of another celeb’s look – Helen Hunt wore one of Cher’s dresses, Geena Davis raided Tonya Harding’s costume trunk, and Uma Thurman draped herself in a 300-thread count sheet and gave Madonna’s faux-sourball accent a spin, while Val Kilmer used Andy Gibb’s mullet and Roy Rogers’s horse to do an unconvincing impression of an actor who still has a career.

3. Jack Nicholson’s obstinate refusal to stay home and decompose in private. The glasses Nicholson borrowed from the guy in Run-DMC did not detract from the overall impression that he lives in a jar of formaldehyde the other 364 days of the year.

4. The baffling inability of the female presenters to walk in high heels.

5. The “I made a lot of sucky movies back in the day, but now everyone considers me An Important Actor” competition to see who could take himself the most seriously. Tom Hanks jumped out to an early lead; his failure to shave implied that he had weightier things on his mind (like, for instance, how to ditch Rita Wilson for a younger model with less prominent gums), and he applauded with a gravity befitting Outstanding Self-Involvement By A Lead Actor. John Travolta, who had evidently lunched on a blimp immediately prior to the ceremony, nearly caught Hanks on the backstretch, only to suffer a blow to the head backstage from one of Ben Affleck’s shoulderpads. Alas, Nicolas Cage beat them all going away. Cage, who once delivered every line in a film through his sinuses, gave a sonorous and self-satisfied speech and hoped we would forget the grooves that his bicuspids left in the scenery of Vampire’s Kiss and Raising Arizona.

6. The use of Marlon Brando as shorthand for “film classic.” Brando’s repeated denouncements of the Academy – not to mention the Little-Feather incident – don’t stop the producers from putting His Marble-Mouthedness into every highlight reel, no matter how irrelevant.

7. The Montage O’ Dead People.

8. Winners and presenters from other countries consistently out-
classing winners and presenters from the States. On the one hand, we have Sophia Loren – stunning, sincere, and voluptuous. On the other hand, we have Helen Hunt – overpainted, vague, and spindly. (Memo to the skeletal women of Hollywood: Sophia Loren, as usual, got more wolf whistles and appreciative groans than the rest of you put together. Sophia Loren, you see, has actual breasts. Sophia Loren has an actual FIGURE. Sophia Loren has on occasion EATEN SOLID FOOD. Sophia Loren hasn’t seen the good side of sixty in a while, and you could have parked a beverage on that pneumatic rack of hers, but who would Benigni have traded his Oscar for? SOPHIA LOREN. I mean, for god’s sake, hook up an IV or something, will you?) On the one hand, we have Dame Judi Dench, who spoke self-effacingly
– and, more importantly, briefly – and tendered probably the only genuine thanks for the mere nomination in the history of the Oscars. On the other hand, we have Gwyneth Paltrow, who babbled and hiccuped uncontrollably while thanking several hundred people and managed to earn a look of nonplused befuddlement from her own mother.

9. The baffling inability of people who act for a living to read from a teleprompter.

10. Kevin Costner.

And let’s not forget the spectacle of Hollywood-ites pretending they know thing one about politics and “issues.” This year, in addition to numerous dedications to the World War II dead, viewers also got to witness the flapdoodle over Elia Kazan’s Lifetime Achievement Award. I didn’t pay much attention to the kerfuffle over this at first, but when Kazan stepped forward to receive his award, the entire thing began to infuriate me. First of all, the Academy had obviously done a good deal of second-guessing on this decision. As the Couch Baron noted, Martin Scorsese and Robert DeNiro got sent out to wash down the bitter pill, and they both seemed uncomfortable (although we can probably attribute part of that to DeNiro’s Rocky-Top-State-Hospital haircut). Second of all, a number of attendees refused to stand and refused to applaud, choosing instead to sit with their arms folded in a childish show of disapproval. Now, I don’t agree with Kazan’s actions, but he did what he had to do, and as others have pointed out, the Lifetime Achievement Oscar rewards great film-making, not humanitarian efforts. But when denizens of Hollywood, the world capital of compromised integrity, not only sit and glower at an old man but also pretend that not clapping constitutes some form of radical protest, I start launching things at the TV set. Ooooh, Amy Madigan DIDN’T CLAP! Boy, she really PUT HERSELF OUT THERE with that one – seldom have
I seen such a courageous STATEMENT, such a DEVASTATING COMMENT in defense of HONOR! Way to equate RUDENESS with A BRAVE POLITICAL STANCE, Amy! I can see you felt REALLY STRONGLY about this, which would explain why you didn’t just STAY HOME. You know, it really surprises me that, with a firm moral compass like yours, you haven’t managed to GET A FREAKIN’ JOB. I mean, Jesus – like Elia Kazan cried himself to sleep because Nick Nolte sulked in his general direction. Grow up, you big babies.

I should admit before I wind this up that I did like a couple of things about this year’s Academy Awards. I liked Roberto Benigni. I liked the way he bounced up and down in his seat and admitted he couldn’t understand Whoopi’s comments. I liked the way he completely tweaked out when he won. Benigni gets on the odd nerve, and I can see why, but I don’t think a statuette has given anyone such uncomplicated joy in a long time. I respected Kevin Costner for joking about the length of his movies, although I would have preferred a solemn promise to stop making movies of any length. Jim Carrey’s “I don’t have anything else to worry about” bit made me laugh, as did the numerous mocks on Jim Cameron and the fact that Anne Heche’s mic shorted out during the Science and Technical Award segment. Best of all, I liked an actress that didn’t even come to the ceremony itself – that little girl on the Pepsi ads. When she did the Don Corleone voice and then the guy snapped his gum and all the customers ducked under their tables, I almost fell off the couch.

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