I am this close to just forgetting about the cursed Oscars altogether, the most bloated, overrated pageant of narcissism on public display until the presidential debates. I wanted so much to spend my Sunday night savoring my new volume by the country’s foremost Proust scholar, or listen to the comforting plop-plop-plop of the rain dripping through the hole in my roof. But no. I couldn’t stop myself. I had to turn on the TV, because I didn’t want to miss seeing Martin Scorsese bawl like a four-year-old when he got Best Director. I didn’t want to miss seeing Hollywood validate Alan Arkin for playing a porn-loving, drug-addled, foul-mouthed grandpa and I most certainly didn’t want to miss Penelope Cruz wearing a dress 10 times my net worth.
What I got was Clint Eastwood translating Italian — Ennio Morricone speaks for five minutes in Italian and Clint gives us six words in translation? — Peter O’Toole getting cruelly tossed into Oscar ignominy and half the winners, reading from the backs of cocktail napkins.
I wish I could say that this is all over now, but somebody’s going to claim that Christina Ricci chained to the floor in her underwear in ‘Black Snake Moan’ is an Oscar-worthy performance and, bam, we start all over again with this insanity.