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Volume CXXXII, Number 18 |
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Dressing it down at the Oscars
MONICA GUZMAN
COLUMNIST
Ah, the Oscars. The fashion designer's ultimate runway, the film industry's glitzy year-end banquet, the movie fanatic's Superbowl. This is the quintessence of Hollywood's dream landscape-a place and time where the stars shine at their brightest and truest, where we common folks sneak a peek at the human beings behind our esteemed screen idols as they are honored for their contributions to film. The Oscars are neither a snobbish costume party nor a commemoration of triviality, but a time-honored American celebration of art brimming with talent and reflecting on the industry's undeniable influence on our lives.
But this year things were different. There were no red carpet interviews before the show. Joan and Melissa Rivers, those half-wit Hollywood hags of fashion, were cooped up in a studio interviewing journalists and stylists instead, clearly bored out of their minds. Bird's-eye cameras gave us a distant look at the arrivals. We could barely see Diane Lane's beautiful beige gown, billowing in feathers at the skirt, Julianne Moore's green robe that made the actress an antique porcelain doll, and Reneé Zellweger in her ravishing, jazzy red sensation. I found myself trying to read lips. Hollywood had hit the mute button.
But once the ceremony began and the winners were announced, that was no longer the case. Not by a long shot. Not willing to let the opportunity slide, some stars, Oscars in hand, cried out for peace. Whether met by a standing ovation (Adrien Brody: "Whether it's God or Allah, may he watch over you and we pray for a swift resolution") or many cheers with some loud boos (Michael Moore: "We live in a time where we have fictitious election results that elect a fictitious president. We live in a time where we have a man who's sending us to war for fictitious reasons"), their comments reminded us that not even those behind our nation's most escapist industry can escape war. None of us can.
But as for Hollywood itself, it continues in its quest to make us feel good, no matter what's going on in the world. Chicago, the "really good movie everybody likes," to quote host Steve Martin, took home six Oscars out of a possible 13. Thankfully, these didn't include two of the three that I announced would make me walk out on the show: Queen Latifah for Best Supporting Actress and John C. Reilly for Best Supporting Actor. Not that I would have actually walked out, but it was fun to say so. Catherine Zeta-Jones, a far more deserving candidate, did get Best Supporting Actress. The woman can sing, as she proved in her live performance of "I Move On," nominated for Best Song. Unfortunately, she couldn't show off her dancing skills, what with her grandfather's-err-Michael Douglas's second baby very much on the way.
Chicago also picked up awards in costume design, art direction, film editing, and sound. Impressive in the film world, but nobody else cared. After all, no celebrities went up to the podium, just very talented people. Ahem.
Then, after three and a half hours, it got the most predictable award of the night, Best Picture. It's been the frontrunner since the nominations were announced. The cast and crew of the film still acted surprised, though, out of politeness to The Hours and The Pianist seating sections.
Come to think of it, that latter Holocaust war film should not be too bitter; The Pianist managed to pull off three awards few saw coming: Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Actor, and Best Director. Adrien Brody was the only nominee in the Best Actor pack to have never won or been nominated for an Oscar before. Although his performance in The Pianist was hardly easy and certainly moving, many thought this would be Jack's fourth or Daniel Day-Lewis's second. Though Adrien was as shocked as the rest of the world, he did have enough sense to grab presenter Halle Berry and get a whopper of a kiss instead of the usual polite peck-and-hug. Later he said it was part of her "gift basket." Judging by the look on Halle's face, she didn't know it. Don't think her husband was too happy either.
The Best Director award caused a scene in itself because its recipient, Roman Polanski, is more or less banned from the country; if he steps foot on our soil, he'll be arrested for having had sex with a thirteen-year-old girl. Many thought that despite his enormous talent, such conduct would make him unpopular with Academy voters. Apparently not. After that award, the last one Gangs of New York had a good shot at, director Martin Scorsese and the rest of the cast and crew called it a night. Ten nominations and they didn't win a thing.
Other films were a bit luckier. The Hours didn't get too much-certainly less than it deserved-but Nicole Kidman did beat out Julianne Moore to win Best Actress for her role as Virginia Woolf. Steve Martin couldn't get away from making fun of the role's fake nose. "Nicole Kidman has worn a fake nose in every one of her movies," he said, "except for The Hours." Like most or all Best Actresses in the past, she cried at the podium. How cute.
Frida managed two awards, although one, Best Makeup, was kind of a steal as it was only running against (chuckle) The Time Machine, a silly summer popcorn flick whose nomination must have been some kind of sick joke on the part of the Academy. Otherwise, Frida also took away Best Score. Road to Perdition won Best Cinematography, and Adaptation, which clearly deserved far more recognition, did get Chris Cooper some clout finally as Best Supporting Actor, so people could see who he was and go, "Oh, it's that guy…from that movie…he has a name."
I had also smugly announced that I would leave the premises if Bowling for Columbine didn't get Best Documentary. Not that I've seen any of the other nominees, or have a particularly well-informed opinion, but the odds that any of those were better than this are slim to none. Michael Moore's picture did win, to thunderous applause and a standing ovation, which he quickly turned into a mix of cheers and jeers with his acceptance speech. Ah well. Could've seen it coming.
Besides glitz, glamour, and Roman Polanski, something else was conspicuously absent from the ceremony: Eminem. "Lose Yourself" was the only song that wasn't performed during the ceremony. Then, of course, it won. Eminem sent some random guy to accept the award on his behalf. So, we could have had rap at the Oscars, but nooooo. Marshall was too busy.
But heck-all's fair in Hollywood and war, and the show must inevitably go on. After everyone rolled their eyes at Chicago as they came back to their seats, Daniel Day-Lewis and Martin Scorsese sobbed in each other's arms, Halle Berry ran backstage for some mouthwash, and teamsters loaded Michael Moore into the trunk of an unmarked van, 20 million American families yawned and turned off their TVs, and Hollywood called it a year.
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