 It
was Oscar's diamond jubilee, and it turned out to be one for the
books. Everything that we expected, and more than a few surprises.
What could be better?
Well, perhaps the choice of host. It's not that Steve Martin
was bad, it's just that he's so much brighter than his audience.
Intellectual quips fall on fairly barren ground with this bunch,
and that's pretty much Martin's stock-in-trade. But let's get
to the awards...
In a change from previous years, in which the first award has
always been the supporting actor gong, this year we started with
cartoons. Or "animation" as we're now supposed to call
it. Still, things started well with the Best Animated Feature
award going to Spirited Away, a work of imagination and
innovation, rather than to Disney or DreamWorks' latest effort.
This was followed by the Specia Effects award, which went to
(surprise!) Lord
of the Rings: The Two Towers. Most handicappers had LOTR
winning in the tech categories, with major awards on hold until
the third installment. So, on to the first one that most people
cared about - Best Supporting Actor. As predicted by almost everyone,
this went to Chris Cooper for Adaptation. Even he didnt
seem surprised.
Then came something truly amazing... Jennifer Lopez looking practically
virginal in a swath of pale green fabric. This, of course, is
her signal to the industry at large that she now wants to be considered
as a "serious" actress (stay tuned). Anway, she delivered
the first of many awards to Chicago,
for Art Direction/Set Design.
At this point things started to get strange.
First, there was the nominated song from Chicago which
featured an enormous number of frenetic dancers leaping around
Catherine Zeta-Jones and Queen Latifah, who were almost static.
Presumably in deference to Zeta-Jones' extremely pregnant
state. The girl's game, you've got to give her that (certainly
more so that Renee Zellweger, who sang the song in the movie,
but declined in favor of Latifah for the live event).
There then followed...an ABC newsbreak. Yes! Right in the middle
of the Academy Awards we got news of death and destruction in
Iraq! Was this supposed to give the show more gravitas? Was it
supposed to ground it in reality? If so, all it did was to make
the whole exercise even more bizarre, as Peter Jennings delivered
the "serious" news report, immediately followed by "Back
to the Academy Awards..." If Kander and Ebb want to
make a sequel to Chicago, perhaps they should consider
network news...
The return to the show offered up the Best Animated Short (The
ChubChubs) and the Best Short Film (The Charming Man),
both of which were presented by Jennifer Garner, who appears to
have the broadest shoulders ever bestowed on woman. (Note to Hollywood
actresses: work out less; muscles are not attractive.)
Chicago then won another gold guy when Colleen Atwood
snagged the gong for Best Costume Design.
Pause for another song. (It's not surprising these things take
forever!) This time it was Paul Simon with a song from The
Wild Thornberry's Movie, an interlude which probably qualifies
as this year's most embarrassing Oscar moment. It was immediately
obvious that the lead guitarist (not Simon) was grievously out
of tune, and it was all downhill from there. There was nothing
for it but to go to the kitchen for a refresher.
 Back
to the couch for the Best Make-Up award, which went to John Jackson
and Beatrice de Alva for Frida. Frida was the film
which seemed to make the most impression on Academy voters this
year. It won a slew of the more technical awards, which usually
indicates a movie that everyone admired, but couldn't quite bring
themselves to vote for in the major categories. (Is Hollywood
strange, or what?)
The second major award of the night was Best Supporting Actress,
awarded by Sean Connery, who seems more and more like a parody
of himself. Still, he was gracious (and pleased) to be able to
give it to fellow Celt, Catherine Zeta-Jones for Chicago.
Was it my imagination, or did her husband seem less than thrilled?
As she waddled up to the stage, it was Richard Gere who had the
sensitivity to give her a hand up the stairs. And, okay, her speech
was pretty much the same as at the BAFTAS, but she's so wonderfully
earth-mothery and not concerned about trying to look skinny when
she's pregnant, so good on her!
There then followed a bunch of those awards which are important
chiefly to the recipients: Best Foreign Film (Nowhere In Africa),
Best Sound (Chicago), Best Sound Editing (Lord of the
Rings: The Two Towers). And then the third song nomination,
which was from Frida and was by far the best perf so far.
And then...Best Documentary Feature. And Bowling for Columbine
actually won! (It's the end of civilization as we know it.) It
is a truism of the Academy Awards that the best documentary in
any given year doesn't even get nominated, let alone win. Michael
Moore brought all the other nominees up to the stage with him
and stated: "We like non-fiction and we live in fictional
times..."
He then went on to draw attention to the "fictional election"
and the "fictional war" that it had produced. All to
loud boos (and some cheers) from the audience, though being Michael
Moore such criticism didn't even begin to pentrate.
 The
Best Documentary Short went to Twin Towers to no-one's
great surprise. Equally unsurprising, though more clearly deserving,
was the posthumous Best Cinematography award to Conrad Hall for
Road to Perdition.
Colin Farrell then showed up, full of Gaelic fire, to introduce
U2 and the final Best Song nominee, "The Hands That Built
America." A typically lugubrious anthem from a band that
has increasingly specialized in the achingly politically correct.
(Meandering politcal correctnes...time to go make a pot of tea.)
Martin Walsh snagged the Best Editing nod for...you guessed it:
Chicago.
And then, the first big surprise of the night. The Best Actor
award had been regarded as a shoo-in for Daniel Day-Lewis, and
if not for him then for Jack Nicholson for About Schmidt.
But the critics were way off base. The award went to Adrian Brody
for The Pianist, who was (to say the least of it) stunned.
These are the moments the Oscars are all about. The moment that
the awards go not to the actor with the "history" but
to the actual best performance.
 And
then the second big surprise of the night. Best Song --
Eminem! The man himself had declined to show up to perform for
the jewelry-rattlers, so his song was not performed (which made
it doubly strange). But it was undoubtedly an historic moment
-- the first time a rap number has won the Best Song nod.
But just in case things seemed to be getting a bit too
twenty-first century, now came the moment for the Lifetime Achievement
Award. And that meant we were treated to one of the great rakehell's
of the last century: Peter O'Toole. The tribute began with
the obligatory montage, and what a collection of flicks it was,
from Lawrence of Arabia through My Favorite Year;
a range of performances that would (and should) cow younger performers
with its depth and passion. As if that weren't enough, there was
the man himself, aged in profile, but still Lawrence when he faced
us all, his voice full and strong. Certainly far stronger than
the mere neophytes who had trod the stage before him. A man who
could remark that he would "totter into antiquity,"
while still clearly being capable of taking on anyone in the room.
An actor for whom the stage was home, and this award not the ending,
but a step along the way. As he remarked when he initially turned
the honor down, it seems possible that he "might still win
one of the lovely buggers outright."
 After
that the Best Actress award seemed almost an anticlimax. As expected,
Nicole Kidman took that "lovely bugger" home.
There then followed Olivia de Havilland, which would have been
great, except for that totally affected "musical" way
she spoke. Did they teach them that in old Hollywood? She introduced
a tribute to past Oscar winners, all seated like those old MGM
photos - only these were just the actor winners (writers, producers,
etc. need not apply). Even so, it took forever (though who knew
that Luise Rainer was still alive!). And then they
brought out the newest winners. Would this evening never end??
Commerical break and back for the screenwriting awards. Oooh!
Screenwriting used to be buried earlier in the evening...maybe
writers are getting more respect. (Yeah, right.) Anyway, the Best
Adapted Screenpaly was another surprise. Expected to go to Chicago
scribe Bill Condon, the Academy selected instead Ronald Harwood
for The Pianist. The Original Screenplay award went to
Pedro Almodovar in a slap in the face to the Spanish film community/board/or
whatever brain-trust elected not to promote Talk To Her
as Spain's official entry. Almodovar took the opportunity to make
an anti-war statement and got treated to the same brainless hooting
as Michael Moore for his trouble. (This is Hollywood after all
-- you can't expect these people to think for themselves!)
Think the evening's over? No! There's yet another surprise. The
Best Director award, regarded as a shoo-in for Rob Marshall (given
that he'd snagged the DGA award), or failing that, Scorsese (who
should've been given it at least twice before), actually went
to...Roman Polanski for The Pianist. Let's hear it for
the Hollywood community, which can be really crass, but seems
to recognise genuine talent and real injustice when it trips across
its field of vision.
 Which
left us with the evening's big award: Best Picture. This one came
as no suprise to anyone: Chicago.
And so it is over. Another year, another crowd of golden men.
The golden girls and boys head off to the after-parties, aglow
with victory or drowning their sorrows. Yes, it seems a far cry
from the reality of war and destruction, but let's face it; what
does it ever have to do with the reality of everyday life? And
would we really want a world in which the fantasy of Hollywood...
or Hogwarts... or Hobbiton didn't exist?
I didn't think so. See you next year.
|
