The very brief Academy Awards last night had some weak moments (James Taylor and Celine Dion); expected moments (Forest Whitaker for Best Actor), and very, very long moments (I think I need to sit through one more film montage). Scorcese was finally thrown his bone; Peter O’Toole may never be. And as usual, a few awards were not officially announced, even though their presence was made quite clear.
The envelope, please:
Montage most likely to be mistaken for an eHarmony commercial: Errol Morris’ opening tribute to the nominees.
Hottest new asshole accessory to make you look like even more of an asshole: Jack Nicholson, hot and bald! Goes swell with the sunglasses.
Best moment for our TV to experience a thirty-second power outtage, which unfortunately did not happen and thus we saw: Ryan Seacrest unveilng his underwear on the red carpet.
Patricia Field shout-out that no one but the Academy understands: Didn’t we all agree, months ago, that the clothes for Devil Wears Prada sucked?
Best free porn: The winner of the Dove creme body wash commerical contest. Was Dove paying to take you into a stranger’s shower?
Best screenwriting: Forget the speeches. The descriptions of the award winners when they took the stage killed: “Alan Arkin says he originally didn’t get the part because the producers claimed he was “too virile”; “Michael Arndt had to give up his job as assistant to Matthew Broderick to write Little Miss Sunshine.”
Best dressed: Gwyneth Paltrow and her light orange Zac Posen frock; Maggie Gylenhall’s blue-and-black Proenza Schouler; Nicole Kidman’s bowed Balenciaga stunner.
Gowns we thought were unextraordinary but we are always wrong: Beyonce’s unflattering mint-green Armani with the weird sea-monster beading across the shoulder; J Lo’s figure-obscuring Marchesa with built in bling.
Worst-dressed: Kirsten Dunst’s pale blue Chanel number suffered from an identity crisis: prim schoolgirl up top, shiny fish in the middle, flowing into . . .hello, what’s this? Feathers? Only Tracy Edmunds in her special skank surprise could have upstaged this one.
Hardest working dress in America: Jennifer Hudson’s red number during her Dreamgirls performance with Beyonce. One of those Oscar-winning ta-tas was about to take the plunge.
“I can’t hate you even when your joke is that lame” award: Ellen DeGeneres. I’m sorry. I just can’t.
Worst fashion disaster that Andre Leon Talley did not stop despite being there for the fitting: Glad you associated your name with this one, bud. Can you make a bolero jacket out of Reynold’s Wrap?
Ongoing joke that we did not love quite as much as the Academy did: Poor Peter O’Toole.
Actor most likely to pummel you with his “sexy smolder”: Daniel Craig.
Child actor most likely to hit rehab by the golden age of nine: Fresh Prince spawn Jaden Smith.
Best Marky Mark dis: Will Ferrell, Jack Black, and John C. Reilly’s broadway musical. Too bad-ass to touch.
Best indication you’re four hours closer to death thanks to the Academy Awards: Chris Connelly’s unveiling of his handmade wooden horserace indicator to track what movies had the most awards. You’ve got to be kidding me.
Song most likely to greet Ennio Morricone in Hell: “I Knew I Loved You,” by Celine Dion.
Almost-president whose praise could have be reduced to one blow job instead of about 800 and thus this show could have ended that much earlier: Al Gore.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on February 26, 2007