I need the Oscars. I need the unmitigated joy of seeing four people lose in every category. And the telecast’s addictively circusy ambience is such heroin to me that on Super Tuesday, when people were breathlessly asking, “Who’s going to win?” I was running around saying “Tilda Swinton!” So I was delighted that the writers settled in time for my fave fashion showdown to happen without any trims or guilt—and it’s lucky for you too, because now you get my snippy, blow-by-blowjob diary of how it all registered on my living room telly!
8:37 p.m.: Jon Stewart is striking just the right chord—neither too nice nor too mean—and he’s even managing to be mildly political. 2006 is completely forgiven, Jon. Gaydolf Titler indeed.
8:43 p.m.: Jennifer Garner has a whole lotta hair brushed over a whole lotta forehead. It must be exhausting to be a glamorous star.
Still, her ‘do is better than Travolta‘s paint-on, Indiana Jones’s toupee of doom, and Rebecca Miller‘s dress.
8:57 p.m.: Poor Amy Adams is left up there to chirp an Enchanted song with no production, no backup, no bangs—not even the roaches and rats from the scene in the movie! Or the rat from the other movie!
9:08 p.m.: When did the Rock become Dwayne Johnson? . . . Tommy Lee Jones is distractedly looking down and playing with his cuff link . . . Dixie Carter almost gets whiplash sticking her head in hubby Hal Holbrook‘s shot . . . Javier brought his mother. I didn’t know he was gay! Colin Farrell did too. Wait a minute! Maybe dragging mama along is not the gay signifier it used to be. Maybe now it’s bringing a vampy-looking young beard like . . . never mind.
9:30 p.m.: The original Heath Ledger, Owen Wilson, gives a very earnest presenter’s speech, and it’s the night’s squirmiest moment. Everyone’s scanning him for scars. Hollywood’s a rough town.
9:40 p.m.: Ziggy Stardust wins supporting actress, but claims he’s actually named Tilda Swinton. At least it’s not Dwayne Johnson. Tilda promises her award to her agent, but I bet he’ll only take 10 percent of it. No Country for Old Men wins Best Adapted Screenplay despite the lengthy stretches with no dialogue whatsoever. What I have to say about that is . . . (silence; the wind blows a tumbleweed into the dead man’s face; a coyote yelps in the distance).
9:54 p.m.: The legendary inflatable doll known as Miley Cyrus announces another lousy nominated song. Who could forget Miley’s immortal Grammy moment when she professed love for dad, her brother, and Jesus Christ? The son of our Lord will be so thrilled to know he’s on a par with the guy who did “Achy Breaky Heart”!
10:15 p.m.: Best Actress already? Did someone shuffle the cue cards? Cate Blanchett must be the first person to be nominated for a movie that got a 34 percent rating on rottentomatoes.com. But the Julie Christie movie is the real Golden Age; the characters wet their diapers all through it. Alas, Julie’s target audience obviously forgot to vote for her. But Marion Cotillard is equally extraordinary, even though, on the red carpet, she’d said, “I’m having a eunuch time.” I think she meant “unique”—or maybe she’s just not getting laid lately. Onstage, she exults, “Thank you, life! Thank you, love!” It’s more gibberish, but who cares? This is le feelgood moment. By the way, is Ellen Page a lesbian or just one of them there man-distrusting tomboys? Did she bring her mother?
10:23 p.m.: It’s time for the drippy “Once” song sung by the busker and the immigrant. This Czech should be bounced. So should this entire tuneless category. Can it, Oscar!
10:33 p.m.: The 98-year-old art director whom Nicole Kidman presented an award to should do some art direction on her. Nicole’s necklace is weirdly draped around just one tittie, and that’s all I can focus on. Maybe she’s doing a tribute to Neely O’Hara? Is it permanently stuck there? Won’t her other tit get jealous?
10:46 p.m.: “The versatile Patrick Dempsey?” But I heard he was just a top, ba dum pum.
10:51 p.m.: What is everyone slipping on onstage? Did one of the pregnant people break water or did Julie Christie sprinkle some slime up there for Cotillard to die on? But here’s a real slipup: The Once song wins! The best four notes I ever heard!
11:03 p.m.: The annual macabre highlight: the death montage. I love how some of the departed get rousing applause while others get crickets. Even in the afterlife, these people are still competing.
11:11 p.m.: The extended perfume commercial known as Atonement wins for score. By now, every single film produced in ’07 has been given one award.
11:26 p.m.: And now there’s one for Juno too. Diablo Cody wins for her zingy original screenplay. Little-known fact: She’s the first stripper to win an Oscar since Dame Judi Dench.
11:32 p.m.: Helen Mirren said cojones. Even more delightfully, Daniel Day-Lewis didn’t say “Heath Ledger.” Martin Scorsese ties with Keri Russell for best eyebrows. And then, all at once, the show is finally over. Time to go potty. But hold everything! I just noticed that all the acting winners were foreign! We’ve got to stop illegal immigrants—they’re stealing all of our awards! Sadly, nothing was given to The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, a/k/a My Left Eye. I guess it was too uplifting of a stroke movie. The pitch-dark No Country gets the top prize—who needs dialogue?—but Sirius host Frank DeCaro says he’d rather see Ian McKellen star in No Cunt for Old Men. And so the winners were a greedy bastard, a breaking-down has-been, a total bitch monster, and a psychotic murderer. No wonder the Vanity Fair party was canceled.
And now for something completely similar.
Surely there’s something of interest out there that’s not Oscar-related, no? Ummm . . . (silence; the wind blows a tumbleweed, etc.) Oh, yeah! Grey Gardens legend Albert Maysles just told me he’ll probably do a movie about late architect Philip Johnson—or more specifically about one of Johnson’s famous buildings. A movie about a building? “It’s a very unusual one,” Maysles assured me, with gleaming eyeballs.
Some Tony Awards stuff? Well, Sunday in the Park with George is the absolutely brilliant if a tiny bit boring Sondheim show (ever rhyme “rapturous” with “capture us”?) being given a brilliant if a tiny bit boring production that has nifty projections in lieu of big-star presences and which generally sweeps away all the dreck on Broadway with a dotted broom of multicolored sophistication.
Also being resuscitated, Come Back, Little Sheba is—like the character of Lola herself—not all it used to be. But there’s real heartbreak in Lola’s plight, and at least the revival succeeds in reminding you that the movie was fab. Otherwise, except for Kevin Anderson‘s strong Doc, I didn’t feel this Sheba really needed to come back.
Something new at least, Passing Strange is a fresh and funny rock-musical journey with a European twist that, as far as rock-musical journeys with a European twist go, is far fresher and funnier than Brooklyn the Musical.
But the zaniest show in town—I hear—is some non-Oscar-nominated thing that pops up at the Box called Two Girls, One Cup. As the act is described on YouTube, “Two girls shit in a cup, then eat it, vomit in it, then eat that, then vomit into each other’s mouths.” If you don’t like it, you can eat shit and die.
Wait, I’ve got more shit. I heard the fat guy on Logo’s Big Gay Sketch Show didn’t renew his contract because he thought he was going to get on SNL, but then he didn’t. Sounds like something I would do.
I had my own weird career moment anyway. Appearing at an LGBT Center event, I was approached by a grinning guy who said, “My cousin in Maine sees you on TV and told me to come here and see if you’re a dwarf.” And I thought the camera added 15 pounds! No wonder I’m having such a eunuch time.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on February 26, 2008