Porn Valley- Yo, yo, yo, motherfuck. A rap song about a pimp wins an Academy Award, and Sound of Music's Julie Andrews is rolling around in her grave. Wait, Andrews, the original Transmerican in Victor/Victoria, ain't exactly dead. But if you want to read a suck up ode to how alive, bright and witty this year's Academy Awards were, go to http://news.yahoo.com/s/nm/20060306/film_nm/oscars_analysis_dc_3.
On the other hand...
Actor C. Thomas Howell apparently has this Sunday night show on radio KLSX in Los Angeles. During the course of his program, Howell's calling Transamerica, the Felicity Huffman film, an "8 dollar tranny movie." Howell should have been flipping channels over to the Oscars on ABC to catch a live $6 broadcast in progress.
Me, I was observing it from a front row seat at Jerry's Deli in Woodland Hills as the phrase "piece of shit" got a lot of exercise from those sitting with me at the bar. Aside from the fact that none of the nominees for Best Picture even broke $80 mil at the box office, this had to be the most embarrassing Oscar telecast I've ever witnessed. Dull, lifeless, amateurish and not a who's who, but who cares list of presenters.
No matter how much MSNBC or Yahoo News pledges allegiance to Jon Stewart's cock today, the fact of the matter is that Stewart, a professional smart ass with an otherwise glib tongue, looked as uncomfortable as a Hong Kong factory suit- his jokes dropping like dead weights on an audience whose appreciation for them was greeted by the looks of torment and twisted lips only the Spanish Inquisition could induce. The bit with Ben Stiller in a unitard- that was absolutely hilarious - so much so that someone had to take a moment to remove a slice of cheese from a Jerry's sandwich thrown at the bar's plasma screen during that moment. Okay, that's probably an exaggeration.
Wait- there was one entertaining stretch- a montage of classic westerns featuring gay-inferred soundbites: like a bare chested Charlton Heston addressing someone off screen about there being not enough room for what they're apparently about to do [one assumes slug it out]. All of this was an obvious homage to Brokeback Mountain- director Ang Lee's attempt at being a sensitive John Ford. But none of those clips, especially those from the Film Noir era, and the best part of the evening by far, were in Stewart's province. And Stewart sensing their value to the show, jokingly solicited samples from the audience- even on Beta. Unfortunately, Fed Ex couldn't get them to the Kodak Theater fast enough to resuscitate the program.
In another one of its transparent moments of bonhomie, maverick director Robert Altman allowed Hollywood to wipe his balls- which is pretty funny because Altman's spent the better part of his career busting Hollywood's. But even Altman's appearance was not without a torturous effort to shove the very unfunny Lily Tomlin- Meryl Streep skit down the ol' esophagus. Now obviously has-beens, Tomlin and Streep, with cleavage that needs to be covered up, droned unmercifully on and on, simulating Altman's penchant for winging it. We got it the first time.
Then this other old goofball, Larry McMurtry, with the funny toupee hair, had the effrontery to be wearing jeans. A fashion choice that prompted Stewart to quip that if he knew jeans were allowed, he [meaning Stewart] will come in overalls next year. Take this to the bank, there will be no next year, Jon. Just as there was no encore for David Letterman and Chris Rock. Steve Martin's phone must be ringing off the hook today.
Despite luminous western credits such as Lonesome Dove, writer McMurtry, who basically helped perpetrate the cultural fraud of Brokeback Mountain with an adapted screenplay credit, was an embarrassment of protocol in an evening that almost saw presenter Jennifer Gardner do an axel off her high heels and land on her ass like one of those skating with the stars folk on Fox TV. Except Gardner's moon landing would have made the highlight reel. And presenter Tom Hanks, who was scheduled for a moon walk in Ron Howard's Apollo 13, might as well buy the snake bite serum now because Howard's much hyped DaVinci Code starring Hanks is in for some nasty weather because of the Dan Brown lawsuit going on in Great Britain. But Howard and Russell Crowe would know something about embarrassments.
In a fact that was more obvious than you were led to believe, Cinderella Man, starring Crowe, was ixnay'ed from any major Academy consideration, either as Best Picture or for Crowe as Best Actor. Crowe's prowess with a flying phone and a hotel concierge pretty much wrapped that fishy incident up in the New York newspapers; and, resultantly, Crowe took the glory of the movie down with him for a 10-count. I was not entertained.
Which brings me to Philip Seymour Hoffman in Capote. Even though Hoffman must have put on 150 pounds since that Truman in a Brooks Brothers suit stint, I preface this by saying I love Hoffman's work. But Owning Mahony- a film about an inveterate gambler who embezzles money from the bank he works at to quench his thirst - was a stack of poker chips better than Capote. A revisit to In Cold Blood, the film starring Robert Blake, prepping for his Bonnie Blakely role, will show you how truly weak and dishonest the film Capote is in comparison- a fact that had me squirming in my seat for two hours viewing it, and not because someone was trying to fist my ass. Hoffman's performance was basically a low key impersonation. A profound one, but basically an impersonation.
And I will say nothing about Reese Witherspoon and her disarming porn star chin.
For years, the porn awards have been compared to their mainstream counterpart, with the obvious goof intended. This year I'm not so sure. Porn's beginning to look like the Metropolitan Opera. That is, if last night's Oscars were any measure.
