Oscar, Oscar...

Has there been a more lackluster year for film in recent memory? Maybe it’s because the previous two years were so bloody great, but I don’t think that’s it. That would have been a factor had this year been flat-out terrible, but no: it was just mediocre. If 2004 was fire, and 2005 was ice, then 2006 was Derek Smalls; lukewarm water.

Still, that’s no reason for not holding the Oscars (if the Academy does not stop gazing its navel because of war and disease, it sure as hell won’t stop for timid output), and here we are: the 79th Annual Academy Awards, or the Oscars, which is what we simple folk like to call them. The following is my attempt at a live blog of the telecast. For all you geeks out there (well, out of the three people reading this – Hi, Mom), think of it as Harry Knowles’s Oscar recap, but more cohesive, less unctious, and with, you know, punctuation.

A couple of things you should know before you read any further: I am in Istanbul, Turkey (as opposed to Istanbul, Kansas), so I am doing this at three in the morning, having had only a few hours sleep. I am also stocking up on caffeine, and if you think I’m rambling now, just wait till they start giving out the big awards.

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OK. Good. Fine. It’s almost three now, and the glitterati are making their way into the shindig. I have never been a particular fan of the Red Carpet; the only one I enjoyed was three years ago when I saw Roger Ebert interviewing celebrities, and asking them actual questions. Some were nonplussed, but some seemed to have found the prospect of answering real questions liberating. Ken Watanabe, for example, struggled with a challenging question of Ebert’s regarding the fate of Tom Cruise’s character in The Last Samurai. I like Ken Watanabe.

Leonardo diCaprio is looking refreshingly orange. Not tanned, orange. And Nicole Kidman like waxwork. I would shit myself if I ever ran into her at night. What the fuck would she be doing in Istanbul?

Peter O’Toole also looks like waxwork. But that’s OK, because he’s 129 years of age. He’s like the Mr Burns of Hollywood. But nice.

There is a man wearing an actual cape on screen. Unless your name starts with a B, and ends with an ela Lugosi, you should never wear a cape. Ever. Fuckwit.

I am enjoying the insipid “informative” subtitles that keep on appearing on the screen as Chris Connelly et al interview the celebs. Not only are they ludicrously lame, but also coolly condescending. “Leonardo has always wanted to be an actor.” “Al Gore used to be the Vice-President of the United States.” “Martin Scorsese’s eyebrows weigh seven pounds. Each.”

Mark Wahlberg is now channeling his character in The Departed. OK, I know they don’t like going through this pablum, but it’s part of the job, and there are worse things someone could be doing for tens of millions of dollars. Cheer the fuck up, bitch.

Eddie Murphy, in a self-deprecating, and uncharacteristically calm mood, has just declared his love for all his films, including even Pluto Nash. I am an Eddie Murphy apologist, and I would always forgive him his bad choices - by God, he’s got enough.

Anyway, bullshit, bullshit, who-are-you-wearing (which is a morbid question, by the way), I-loved-you-in-that-movie, let’s-do-lunch crappola is almost over. I am having a fragrant cup of coffee, sitting on the world’s comfiest chair. Come on, Ms DeGeneres. I’m ready for your close-up.

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A montage of all the nominees talking at the camera. John Knoll from ILM is there. And so is Patrick Marber. Which reminds me, I must watch Alan Partridge soon.

Oh. My. God. The nominees are actually standing up clapping themselves. Oh, not like that, you perverts.

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That’s it? THAT’s the monologue? That’s why we watch the fucking show in the first place. I mean, OK, the whole musical number schtick is Billy Crystal’s trademark, but they could have at least made an effort. The whole thing was shorter than my manhood. Only less funny.

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Oh, it’s the incredible walking, talking candlestick. And Daniel Craig. A few years ago, a friend of mine was working at the London offices of International Creative Management. He was in awe at the fact that he was “in Hollywood," and he was generally full of shit anyway (we tell our own), so I used to just ignore him. This was just around the time of the first Tomb Raider, and I remember his telling me that they were really pushing Daniel Craig as the next big thing. He said to me, back then, that Daniel Craig would be the next Bond. There are no coincidences in Hollywood anymore. Almost none.

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I have a feeling that Pan’s Labyrinth will win in all the categories it’s nominated in. Which would be awesome.

Is it me or does Guillermo Del Toro look like a spitting image of Bubbles from Trailer Park Boys?

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Hollywood Sound Effects Choir. I liked this more when it was an advert for Honda. And, you know, this would be much more interesting if they stopped showing us the choir, and just showed the actual montage itself. Because, talented as these people are, they still remind me of that guy from Police Academy.

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Sound editing? Really? Didn’t they use to give out one of the big awards right at the beginning of the show? I mean, I can feign interest only so long before I get bored and start scouring the channels for porn.

You know, when people use the phrase “men in uniform,” all I can think of is a gay strip troupe. Then again, when am I not thinking of a gay strip troupe? Anyway, the phrase rips the self-importance off of any haughty speech.

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Right. Best Supporting Actor. Eddie Murphy is going to win; everyone knows that. I just hope his speech is funny.

Oops. Everyone’s wrong. Alan Arkin wins. Yay! I mean, I haven’t seen the film but I am well chuffed nonetheless. Purely because his name sounds like mine.

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My God, there are a lot of commercials. Obviously, we don’t get the American adverts over here, and, since there are, like, seven people watching the telecast in the entire country, they keep on running the same promos over and over again. I must have seen that My Name is Earl promo at least a hundred times. It gets funnier each time.












Not.

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We come back to a blurb about The Departed, the most overrated Scorsese flick since the one about gangs of New York. You know, GoodFellas.

I pour myself my third cup of coffee, and great, it’s my least favourite part: the songs. Why is it that they invariably suck ass? Apart from Let The River Run, there has not been one decent song in living memory. Anyway, it doesn’t matter as the producers take pity on the world and only show two ditties before cutting to…

Leonardo DiCaprio, Al Gore and his eight chins are being earnest. The latter nine are feigning disinterest in running for office next year, and oops, he is interrupted by music. Hi-larious.

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A Heroes promo. I get the cheerleader’s power, and the painter can see the future. But what’s Ali Larter’s ability supposed to be? Looking hot, hot, hot?

By the way, my name is not short for Alison. Just saying.

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A Gilligan’s Island joke? Seriously?

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Best Animated Film. Right. It’s going to be Cars.

Shit. It’s Happy Feet. And George Miller looks like The Penguin. From Batman. I suppose that’s intentional. Anyway, I am glad it’s not Cars because it was not a very good movie. It just felt so formulaic. Whereas Monster House was just, well, different. It was never going to win (says he who’s guessed neither of the big awards correctly so far), and I am glad it was at least nominated. The penguins were funny, and I like Robin Williams’s crazy schtick, so that’s good enough.

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Helen Mirren and Tom Hanks are giving the screenplay awards. I like Hanks and all, but when was the last time he was funny?

William Monahan wins, and the announcer says he based the script on the Japanese film Infernal Affairs. Japanese? For fuck’s sake. For a show with a supposedly international theme, you’d think they’d get the fucking countries right. First, they imply that Penelope Cruz is Mexican, and now this.

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Emily Blunt and Anne Hathway announcing the best costume. I’d like to be the turkey in that sandwich. (Geddit? Turkey? I’m Turkish? Whadda ya know from funny, you bastards!)

The girls are having such a blast as a bunch of beautiful people model the actual costumes in question. It’s ridiculous.

Anyway, Milena Canonero wins for Marie Antoinette. It turns out she desgined the costumes for Barry Lyndon, for which she won her first Oscar. You see, when they mention films like that, it just reminds me of the dullness of this year.

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I couldn’t hold it off any longer, so just as Tom Cruise pontificates on Sherry Lansing, I go to the bathroom. My girlfriend brought back a whole bunch of People magazines with her from the States, and I find out that William Mapother is Tom Cruise’s cousin. Anyway, I come back to find out that Pan’s Labyrinth wins cinematography, too. That’s three out of three, no? I really can’t be arsed to go back and check.

John Knoll et al win for Pirates of the Casribbean. Yay! John Knoll rocks. I met him once, and he was a true gentleman. Which is a true feat considering the fact that I was wearing a Yoda mask at the time.

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Oh look, it’s Liechtenstein’s own Catherine Deneuve and Ken Watanabe, the Italian Stallion. I have a feeling they’re here to present something to do with foreigners. And sure enough, it’s a montage of best foreign language film Oscar winners: Babette’s Feast, The Barbarian Invasions, Amarcord, La Strada, The Nights of Cabiria, Rashomon, The Bicycle Thieves. Great films, great montage by Giuseppe Tornatore.

Best Film in a Foreign Language. I go into the kitchen to get an apple, it’s going to be Pan’s Labyrinth anyway.

I come back, and Guillermo Del Toro can shapeshift. Cool. Oh, shit. It’s someone else. The Lives of Others won? What the fuck? And the guy thanks Bavaria and Schwarzenegger. It’s truly surreal.

I am still in awe as Jennifer Hudson wins for Dreamgirls. That’s the surprise of the night so far. The fact that it wasn’t a surprise. Beyonce (can you handle this?) does her best to look happy for Hudson. I am not too familiar with the Knowles clan but I will go out on a limb and say that it’s her infamous father sitting next to her. I like his tash.

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Did you just spot Larry David? He was sitting right at the back. And here’s Jerry Seinfeld, the man with the most amount of cars in the entire world, “bitching” about the price of crap in cinemas. Anyway, An Inconvenient Truth wins, everyone looks sanctimonious, supercilious and smug. I yawn, and note that it’s five to six. I have to be at work in a few hours. I'm going to be extra cuddly today.

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The Academy manages the impossible by both honouring Ennio Morricone with a special Oscar, and denigrating him by making Celine Dion sing his song from Once Upon a Time in America. Morricone makes everyone feel awkward by speaking in his own language, Italian, and the shots of various people watching him are fucking hilarious. Then Clint Eastwood starts translating for him; it’s pretty fucking impressive even though he seems to translate every fifth word, and the whole thing reminds me of the scene in The Godfather, where Michael is talking to Appolonia’s father, with Carlo repeating everything Fabrizio says: “'Grega a Italiana' – 'Grega a Italiana.'” Ahh, good times.

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Tobey Maguire and Kirsten Dunst! Spider-Man 3. Venom, baby, Venom! Anyway, Little Miss Sunshine wins for best original screenplay. Strange that it still hasn’t opened in Turkey. I don’t understand that: some films, we get like a week before it actually opens in the US, and some we have to wait for for years.

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Dear Lord in Heaven: it’s the songs again. As “The Dreams” scream and shout, I debate whether I should just fuck it and go to bed. Or even call in sick today. Hmmm, questions, questions. Anyway, best song goes to Melissa Etheridge: awesome, lesbian kiss. Go on, grab her boobs, too. No? OK, can’t have it all, I suppose.

Yes, I am, indeed, 12 years old.

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A bit about Little Miss Sunshine just reminds me of how much I love Steve Carrell. And I love lamp. Anyway, it’s followed by a montage about “America” edited by Michael Mann. It’s fun enough, and I can never get enough of Roy Batty proclaim “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.” Finally, an award. Quite an important one, too; editing, because, usually, whoever wins this wins best picture. Well, Thelma Schoonmaker wins for The Departed, so I guess this year will be different. Because Babel will win best picture. Which is a shame because it’s rubbish.

As always, the “In Memoriam” section is very moving.

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Philip Seymour Hoffmann is about to present Helen Mirren with her Oscar. Is he wearing the same shirt and jacket combo he wore last year? Anyway, Helen Mirren does win. Everyone, including Dame Helen, acts surprised (a joke so good, I’ve used it twice).

Reece Witherspoon and her hair extensions walk in to a boombastic version of Walk The Line. That was such a great film, with an incredible final shot. The Last King of Scotland is also a great film, and Forest Whitaker rightfully wins for his turn as Idi Amin.

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Coppola, Spielberg and Lucas. I love those three. Scorsese is about to join them on stage.

Yep. Got that one right.

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Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson are about to present the best picture award to Babel. Or The Departed? Or Little Miss Sunshine?

It is The Departed. Kind of a surprise. I wonder if it would have won best picture had they kept the dildo scene in.

Anyway, it’s over. Thank fuck for that.

PS. I know - that last sentence works on so many levels.