Special Oscar Edition of the Galaxy of Fame.
Wow, Jessica and Heather of Go Fug Yourself are livin' large on MSNBC this year.
Tim Robbins, who has a much better sense of humor than Sean Penn, responds to Chris Rock's crack about his politics boring us to death.
Remember how I told you Robin Williams was supposed to sing something? Here's how the song was going to go.
Gwynevere from the FT POTO thread contributes this excellent piece of trivia: You remember when I said (desperately flailing for a name and not coming up with one) that "some guy" accepting Best Song was so glad that The English Patient didn't have a song? Yeah. You know who won Best Song that year? Andrew Lloyd Webber and Tim Rice for Evita. Something stirring in my memory suggests that Tim Rice is the one who actually said it, but--heeeeeee.
Cintra Wilson takes no prisoners over at Salon:
Now, "Million Dollar Boobies": That was NOT the best movie of the year. That was the Champ, the Jackie Coogan, 1930s, gloves, tears, sweat 'n' snot classic, rewritten for a younger female and older male, who exercise their sexless intimacy [WARNING! END OF THE MOVIE GIVEN AWAY!] through broken noses and mercy-killing. It was a solidly good film, but for me, it was like paying $325 a night to stay in a four-star hotel -- Clint, Morgan and Hilary are pretty much the gold standard, and if it you can't pull the wagon with those three majestic Clydesdales of the Thespian Craft, it has no wheels. That film had tasteful wallpaper, thick towels, a rose on the bedspread, and no real funk or character. But you can cry a world of hurt while watching that has nothing to do with the film itself, and I think that's why it won: It was cathartic. We're in a lot of collective pain, we're weary and confused, and Clint hit the right release valve. Big Daddy's going to put you out of your misery now, Tiger. You just rest.
"The Aviator," despite the fact that Leo DiCaprio still doesn't look anything like an adult, was the year's best film, in my not-so-humble O. -- expansive, sprawling, lush, highly capable entertainment. Scorsese ought to get some Hollywood props, now that he's more like Cecil B. DeMille than Sam Peckinpah. Gone is the angry young man who gave us the coke-fueled and gritty, abusive realism of 1970s yesteryear -- enter the respected and law-abiding elder, with the fat line of credit and the soft spot for Luxicolored Prettyscapes in Technifying Epic-scope, with a cast o' thousands. That's what America needs right now -- not fight, but flight.
Things I learned from the 77th Academy Awards:
Sean Penn has a defective sense of humor.
The hot color this year was... yellow?
The hot hairstyle for men this year was... awful?
Gwyneth Paltrow: Seven years later, still incapable of finding a dress that fits.
Chris Rock is seemingly incapable of going five minutes without making a joke about race. And I say this as someone who has about half of Bring the Pain memorized.
I could be at my dog's funeral, but you could play the opening Phantom theme ("DUN! DUNDUNDUNDUN DUHHHHH!") and I would still crack up.
Beyonce is capable of sucking in two different languages. But not three.
Cate Blanchett rocks my socks and my fox and my box. But you knew that.
Kirsten and Orlando are so doing it.
Jeremy Irons? Comedy superstar.
When in doubt, wear the chandelier.
Having both Josh Groban and Clay Aiken has created a major redundancy in the universe. But Groban can stay.
So does having both Penelope Cruz and Salma Hayek. But Salma can stay. Because she could probably take me down with her bare
Someone bought Vin Diesel hair for Christmas, and he really needs to take it back.
Best heels: Prince.
The guy who won for the Motorcycle Diaries song totally should have performed it himself, but he's not famous, so he can go screw.
Occasionally, the people who really deserve it will actually win.
Once again, everything is about Julia Roberts.
Barbra Streisand should be shot and put out of my misery.
You can rent a Phantom!
So, let's see:
Cate Blanchett wins and is classy and thanks all the right people, and everyone at home goes, "Well, maybe the show is going to be pretty normal after all." Check.
Thomas Haden Church can't get over the fact that he went from Wings to this. Check.
Jamie Foxx is pretty happy, too, because he knows he's winning a different category and so he doesn't care. Check.
Morgan Freeman wins, and everyone is happy and gives him a standing ovation. Check.
And while everyone's distracted Alan Alda tries to get something started: "You gonna take that sitting down, man? [...] I thought you were the tough guy! Go kick his ass!" and Clive Owen's all like, "I can't! My agent has me on this whole Not As Working-Class As You Think thing!" And Alan Alda's like, "You disappoint me, man." You cannot convince me that this did not happen.
Out in the audience, Johnny Depp starts drinking from a pocket flask. Just because we didn't see it doesn't mean it didn't happen.
Jamie Foxx gets up there and whoops and hollers and starts thanking everyone he has known since birth. Check.
Clint Eastwood, the only person there who seems to think someone other than Foxx could have won, is all pouting because he wanted Best Actor rilly, rilly bad. Check.
Colin Farrell's hookers and blow have arrived. Check.
Eastwood wins Best Director, and Scorsese bursts into tears. Check... on the inside.
Back in LA, Robert DeNiro makes a discreet call on his cell phone to a trusted associate back in New Jersey. After tonight, Clint Eastwood is never seen again. Have you seen Clint today? I'm just saying.
Santana and Banderas and Johnny Depp are all playing in the Hunter S. Thompson Memorial Jam, and Colin Farrell has come out with his bitchez to trade illegal substances. Don't lie, you know this totally happened.
And now, as if this entry weren't long enough, let's speculate without any grounds whatsoever: what do you think will end up nominated next February?