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Media Whore
Hey, where's my creamy nougat filling?
Have I lost my mind or was the 73rd Annual Academy Awards telecast positively brisk? At just three hours and twenty minutes, it ran approximately one hour shorter than last year's opus, but its swiftness was every bit as much psychological as it was physical. There were very few long speeches--those who were allowed to speak beyond their allotted times were dutifully entertaining. Miss Julia Roberts flat-out told conductor Bill Conti, "You're so quick with that stick. But why don't you sit, because I may never be here again." There were no Debbie Allen-choreographed dance numbers. Renee Zelwegger's recap of previously presented technical awards was whiplash-brief--and all the more watchable for Renee's Veronica Lake fashion homage. Steve Martin did a host turn that was decidedly low-key, operating without the safety net of previously taped segments and with very little in the way of long-winded set-ups. According to Variety's Army Archerd, Martin's writers called for some props and physical comedy that he outright rejected in favor of a much more sober style. And even the honorary Oscars were presented with montages that were very nearly terse in their reminders of the great bodies of work realized by the honorees.
Is it just me or did it all fall a little flat for its lack of frothy and endlessly monotonous filler? The 73rd Annual Academy Awards telecast was like a soufflé that didn't rise, like Regis without Kathie Lee, like Survivor without Jeff Probst. We like to complain about long-winded speeches by documentary filmmakers we've never heard of (and every once in a while we're arrested like we were in 1997, when The Long Way Home won for Best Documentary Feature and a Holocaust survivor delivered a speech so moving it silenced even the room full of dishy fags I was sitting in). We relish Debbie Allen dance numbers--especially in the age of more frequent but ever breezier and more entertaining commercial breaks--because they provide ample time to go to the bathroom, mix another Manhattan, or chat up the Louise's Tratoria delivery guy, perhaps convincing him to quit his job and join the party. An epic recap of the technical awards can serve the very same purpose. We crave Oscar lameness like children crave Pixie Sticks. It's just colored sugar and it'll burn off by the time the credits roll, but it's awfully good while it lasts.
In Los Angeles, the Academy Awards telecast is akin to a religious rite. We must gather and worship at the feet of those who built our temples. We host parties laden with 6-foot subs or pizzas or--if you happen to be invited to the post-show Governor's Ball--Wolfgang Puck's yellow Finnish potato with crème fraîche and Osetra caviar, Chino chopped salad and roasted Veal Oscar with sweet Maine lobster. Since I was not among the 1,600 or so VIPs at this year's official Oscar soiree, I watched the program with my friend, John, and my lesbian roommate, Angela. Angela and I wanted to host a party, but I'm the recent perpetrator of an unwise purchase: a brushed organic cotton sofa in natural buff. I was worried about visitations by everything from Cheetos to merlot upon its virginal innocence of soft, un-Scotchguarded fibers.
"Wouldn't you rather have friends and a nice dark brown or olive couch than a life of bitter loneliness and that beige monolith?" Angela asked as I whipped out my credit card to purchase the beloved sofa.
"It's not beige," I gently corrected. "It's buff."
You can imagine my embarassment when I had to weasel out of hosting an Academy Awards party in deference to the couch that Angela had so recently predicted would ruin our social lives. I tried to blame it on everything from a sudden disdain for all of our mutual friends to a general ennui over what was, after all, an uninspiring year in film. She wasn't buying any of it.
Putting the couch aside, let's be fair. It was a pitiful year at the movies. Any year in which Gladiator can boast 12 nominations must be considered, by definition, weak. I'll give it technical kudos: it's pretty to look at, the CGI guys seemed to have a swell time rebuilding Rome, it employs the proverbial cast of thousands and Russell Crowe is lovely to look at in his general's garb (but he was such a glowering crank at the awards ceremony that I found myself actively rooting against his win most of the night). Ultimately, the film has no heart. As in ancient Rome, bloody theatrics often mask a lack of human substance and the moral center is difficult to discern. The characterizations are insultingly broad, to be kind. Is there ever any doubt that Joaquin Phoenix's Commodus is evil, evil, evil? Or that Crowe's Maximus is a pillar of integrity?
Our petite contingent could be heard clapping and hollering for winners who were completely unknown to us--as long as they had nothing whatsoever to do with the making of Gladiator.
What did I root for?
I'm delighted that Cameron Crowe won an Oscar for Original Screenplay. I'm thoroughly engaged by Almost Famous and enjoy it in precisely the way Crowe intended it: as a love letter to popular music and the whole twisted industry that by turns nurtures and destroys it. Almost Famous and Wonder Boys are the films that I personally think were unjustly shut out of the big awards categories this year, and Crowe's win--in a category that is in many ways more significant to me than any other--was very gratifying.
I am not at all opposed to the Julia Roberts zeitgeist that has overtaken the nation of late. The woman is a natural charmer who looks fabulous in a Valentino gown and reminds me more of Audrey Hepburn every day. What more can one ask for in a movie star?
Goldie Hawn's goofy and unselfconscious exhuberance on stage was completely infectious. Even while misreading teleprompters and surrendering to giggle fits, Hawn shows why she's a personality we'll never forget. Daughter Kate Hudson is already exhibiting many of the charms that made her mom a star; here's hoping she'll get some good roles to cut her teeth on.
The camaraderie and general merriment of the Taiwanese Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon contingent was inspiring. Many of these folks were enjoying their first and last Academy Awards presentations and their obvious collective joy was an antidote to the blasé attitudes of many--though certainly not all--entertainment industry stalwarts. Ang Lee brings a refreshing element to filmmaking, and it's nice to see that his attitude permeates his crew, from art director Tim Yip to composer Tan Dun. Really, I just wanted to mention those guys because their names are so darn much fun to say.
Finally, I am completely crushed out on Steven Soderbergh, so even if neither of his films took Best Picture, I jumped up and down when he took Best Director honors. This was the first time in 54 years that the winner of the Directors Guild of America's top award didn't go on to win the Academy Award for directing. (Ang Lee won the DGA honors this year.) Gladiator director Ridley Scott seemed to spontaneously combust when Soderbergh's name was read, and I wasn't sure whether to sympathize with him or dance on his film's grave (thinking for all the world that this meant Gladiator would not win Best Picture). The 63-year-old director may not have another shot at the coveted award unless he pulls out another miracle like 1991's Thelma & Louise, which brought Scott his only directing nomination prior to this year. Thelma & Louise is an exponentially more human film--Scott would be wise to hit up (T & L screenwriter) Callie Khouri for another script. Unfortunately, you can't plan a Thelma & Louise; movies like that can only evolve from some mysterious and unknowable alignment of the planets and stars.
Even though Gladiator won Best Picture, Scott didn't get to take the stage, as he was not listed as a producer on the film. And the victory rang somewhat hollow, since the most-nominated film of the year lost more awards than it won. The 73rd Annual Academy Awards will be remembered--if for nothing else--as the first time since 1949 that a film managed to take Best Picture without receiving a directing or screenwriting award.
And while I admit that I am completely and utterly biased--being as I am putty in the hands of men who exhibit such effortless nerd chic--I thought Soderbergh was much more sporting about losing Best Picture than Scott was about losing Best Director. After all, Soderbergh had good reason to expect to win Best Picture for the very fact that it looked like a historical certainty once he won Best Director. On the other hand, Scott had no real claim on the Best Director award (since the night had not exactly belonged to Gladiator at that point) unless he had put an awful lot of stock in prognosticators or allowed his ego to get just a wee bit overinflated. I despise overinflated egos.
I'm doubly delighted that Soderbergh chucked the ubiquitous laundry list acceptance speech--noting that he would prefer to thank the appropriate people in person--in favor of a few words that will ultimately be far more memorable. "I want to thank anyone who spends part of their day creating," said Soderbergh. "I don't care if it's a book, a film, a painting, a piece of theater, a piece of music--anybody who spends part of their day sharing their experience with us. I think this world would be unlivable without art." Well said. Now, if you ever leave your wife...
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