It's 11:13 pm on Sunday, February 22, 2009, and at present, while I clean house and figure out what I'm going to wear to work tomorrow and regret not having called my brother and feel a little peckish but am trying to avoid eating late, I have the Academy Awards on as a soundtrack to my evening full of dust mites, ennui, and regret. They are just getting to the montage of who croaked it this past year.
God, why do we torment ourselves with this every year? The mind-numbing pacing, the ponderous staging, the obscure references in acceptance speeches, and, kill me now please, the Jonas Brothers ('cause lord knows they're all about the H-town glamour), three boys who seem intent on dressing like wait staff at Farrell's Old-Tyme Ice Cream Parlour, circa 1896-meets-1976.
Vests. Freaking checked vests.
Then, even after the Jonas Brothers, when you think it couldn't possibly get even more why-don't-I-force-knitting-needles-into-my-temples-just-for-laffs?, they trot out the f**king "comedy stylings" of Ben Stiller and Natalie Portman, ferchrissakes. I mean, Ben Stiller wasn't even a funny zygote. Delivery didn't even improve his delivery--ba-da-bing! Ben, the best you got is a lame imitation of Joaquin Phoenix on the David Letterman Show? Dude, I've seen better comedy come out in the form of milk through a junior high kid's nose.
The only good moment I saw tonight was when James Franco's character from Pineapple Express put his arm around Seth Rogan while watching his character in Milk kiss Sean Penn. I do love me some James Franco. Say what you will, but I don't think we'll be seeing *him* swapping spit with Reese Witherspoon anytime soon, in some ill-advised effort to affirm his heterosexuality. Nor do I think he'll go the traditional route, a la Kevin Spacey, and bring his mother or a heretofore unknown girlfriend to the ceremony next year.
Essentially, this is an industry event, not the great public spectacle of tradition and glamour everyone seems to think it is. Oh, you may put on display the mannequin that is Nicole Kidman or let Hugh Jackman and Beyonce strut their stuff (what, Rihanna and Chris Brown weren't available? Sorry, I haven't been paying attention to the headlines lately . . .), or pay endless tribute to Heath Ledger, Star and Accidental Overdoser (what is it? Australia Night? The movie tanked faster than British ships in Darwin harbor during a raid by kamikaze pilots), but for its actual import to the rest of the world, the Academy Awards might as well be a celebration of the Best Independent Insurance Salesperson in America, or the HealthSouth Top Earner in Pharmaceutical Kickbacks, or the Wells Fargo Spirit Winner for Banker Most Likely to Choke on His/Her Caviar While Enjoying the Fruits of a TARP Bailout.
There was a couple of weeks post-9/11 when there were all these wonderful predictions that celebrity would fade, that people would want something more meaningful and serious in their lives after what was one of the most horrible, sea-changing moments in modern history. And then Julia Roberts, George Clooney, and Friends did a g-dd--ned telethon for 9/11 victims and survivors, and, well, we just never took our eyes off the Silver Screen, large or small edition, after that.
I just do not get the appeal of this culture and especially this awards show. At this moment, I'm only sorry that more Hollywood types didn't bite the golddust this last year--but, then, that would only make the montage to Hollywood's fallen heroes even longer.
Stay safe throughout the year, James Franco. But Ben Stiller, feel free to submit your photo early for next year's Montage of Death.
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