Ragging on Bj?¶rk never gets old - or at least, you wouldn't think it would.
But as Sunday night's telecast of the 78th Annual Academy Awards proved, there is, in fact, such a thing as too much of a good fashion crime joke. And contrary to host Jon Stewart's proclamation that the Oscar's theme this year was a "return to glamour," the entire evening was tainted with the unpleasant feeling that the Oscars were simply beating a dead swan.
With the exception of one massive upset that came at the end of an overlong three-and-a-half-hour program and Charlize Theron's giant, man-eating bow, the Oscars proved to be pedestrian and unexceptional, leaving this last bastion of the Hollywood mystique to fizzle and fade into mediocrity.
Strike one ironically came with the Academy's selection of fan favorite Jon Stewart to play master of ceremonies. Surprisingly, their pick turned out to be more blah than bold, as Stewart checked his beloved, biting commentary from "The Daily Show" at the door. Instead, the political pundit opted to let pre-taped segments featuring veteran host Billy Crystal shacking up "Brokeback"-style with former emcee Chris Rock deliver all of his punch lines.
Stewart was perfectly likeable, but his jokes, for the most part, were perfectly canned; he played it safe, sacrificing that necessary electricity whose presence should be able to keep both the live and at-home audiences on the edge of their seats and rolling in the aisles.
Of course, Stewart wasn't the only culprit. The vast array of celebs who helped him dole out awards were jokes - and not very good ones at that. With the one shining exception of Ben Stiller, whose green-screen spoof skit was up to usual Frat Pack comedy standards, the presenters were ill-rehearsed and awkward, a characterization epitomized in co-presenters Meryl Streep and Lily Tomlin, whose ridiculous banter lasted almost as painfully long as Robert Altman's (or should I say Old Man River's) acceptance speech for his pity Oscar.
And then there were the montages. With no real purpose in mind, some overambitious technician at ABC decided to splice together every stray clip he could find in the Academy's archive, creating long slide shows of vaguely related snippets pasted together and headed by some ambiguous category title that supposedly paid homage to a particular film genre. These were haphazardly inserted throughout the whole program, leaving the defenseless Stewart to explain their presence, the randomness of which was only superseded by that of the disembodied, eerily colorless clapping hands that flashed on the screen to introduce each category.
But what of the actual winners? Once again, the Academy went for comfort over speed, making choices that were as lifeless as the look on Dame Judi Dench's face during Reese Witherspoon's acceptance speech for Best Actress. Exhibit A of the People v. the Academy, Witherspoon's selection was as predictable as it was undeserved. Apparently, when in doubt, the Academy will pick America's sweetheart over real talent any day, sending Folsom Prison inmates into a riot at the thought that Joaquin Phoenix's brilliant portrayal of Johnny Cash in "Walk the Line" would be forever overshadowed by Elle Woods' lackluster performance.
Witherspoon's work in that film was sufficient, but just about anyone could have delivered that odious "Baby, baby, baby" drawl that she spat at Joaquin Phoenix's character in one "Oscar-worthy" scene. But on the other hand, could you really see just any Jane Doe - especially pretty little Reese - trading roles with Felicity Huffman in "Transamerica"?
In the same way, Best Supporting Actor George Clooney was fairly unremarkable, barely managing not to get lost in the labyrinth that was "Syriana." But all it would take is one viewing of "Pulp Fiction" or "Reservoir Dogs" to remind everyone that Clooney's much-hyped torture scene was nothing more than a mani-pedi gone sour.
Rachel Weisz, on the other hand, was a delightful surprise, snagging a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for her portrayal of a bleeding heart diplomat's wife in the obscure summer thriller, "The Constant Gardener." Of course, all preceding awards shows made the Academy's choice an easy one, but it was nice to see they stuck with a winner when they knew they had one.
Then there was Philip Seymour Hoffman's Best Actor win for "Capote," making it Hoffman's 16th award for that role. Please, another biopic? Been there, slept through that. If the Academy was half as manly as Ennis Del Mar, they'd have broken from the misguided pack and recognized Heath Ledger for his role in "Brokeback Mountain," or even more deservedly, Terrence Howard for his breakout, career-making turn in the under-appreciated summer gem "Hustle & Flow."
As for that movie, the only credit it received was a Best Original Song win for the catchy track, "It's Hard Out There For a Pimp." The credit was not undeserved, but to the members of Three 6 Mafia who butchered the song in Sunday night's live rendition: when you follow an act like Dolly Parton, and she still comes out looking classier than you, it's time to hand in your mic for good.
Leave it to Hollywood, though, to finish off a hum-drum event in a blaze of glory. All of America - or at least the blue states - were poised for "Brokeback Mountain" to sweep the awards, but as the night wore on, hope began to dwindle. Had the cowboys that had lassoed our hearts suddenly lost their giddy-up?
Hopes soared when "Brokeback"'s Ang Lee ascended the stage to accept the Best Director statuette, but then the Academy dropped a bomb that hit with a resounding "Crash."
It marked the only gutsy move of the evening, and while "Brokeback Mountain" was truly sensitive, beautiful, and culturally significant, that film was more about Heath Ledger's performance than the tight cast and gripping story that made "Crash" the ultimate winner. Kudos to the Academy for recognizing the film's ability to strike a perfect balance between strong acting, creative storytelling and sharp social commentary.
But was ending on a good note enough to stop the Oscars' downward skid into Grammy-like mediocrity?
Well, as Paul Giamatti likes to say, "There's always next year."
