And The Oscar For The Best Nyquil Scene Over the Airwaves Goes To: The Oscars
We’re born alone, we die alone, and we live through Oscar night alone — because, let’s face it, none of us can stay glued to the screen for all 18 hours, or however long it was, without missing something.
There were sandwiches to make, beer, cake, the bathroom, beer, the bathroom; you had to let the cat out, answer the phone, send your friend a text about Melissa Leo’s unbearable acceptance speech and — oops! What was that? Javier Bardem, or the ice-cream man? Did best director Tom Hooper just say something about a “triangle of man love”? Did Christian Bale forget his wife’s name? Holy God in heaven, I hope Kathryn Bigelow didn’t pay for that dress.
This is all probably making the evening sound much more exciting than it was. And that wouldn’t take much: On an Oscar night that arrived ripe with foregone conclusions, the membership of the esteemed Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences really came through, in characteristic fashion. There wasn’t one surprise in the whole package, and it made for a deeply disappointing box of Cracker Jacks.
“The King’s Speech” was expected to win best picture and did; its star, Colin Firth, was expected to win and did. Natalie Portman was expected to win and did (best actress for “Black Swan”). Also victorious, and to no one’s surprise, were best supporting actor nominees Christian Bale and his “Fighter” co-star and fellow favorite, Leo who, true to form and expectations (based on her previous speeches this season), delivered enough cringe-worthy moments for eight Oscar shows.
Not surprising either, nor revelatory, nor even saucily amusing, were the performances by co-hosts Anne Hathaway and James Franco, who both had their likable moments, but didn’t make anyone forget Billy Crystal who — in one of the show’s several acts of sadistic cruelty — showed up and talked about Bob Hope for what seemed like a week and a half. Why? Apparently to remind those academy members still in possession of their faculties about the days when they had real hosts at the Oscars.
Instead, we had Hathaway and Franco, who exhibited very particular approaches to their hosting duties while never seeming to get into gear. Hathaway was charming, in a “charmingly inept” fashion and tried to kick some life into the inert copy she was given to read. Franco wore a Cheshire cat smile and gazed into space. It was as if the cheerleader were dating the school stoner.
And when the most volatile presence on stage is a 94-year-old stroke victim (Kirk Douglas), you have problems. (One of the problems was using Douglas at all, another of the producers’ cruel and unusual acts.)
John Anderson,CNN
