While I interpreted Jerry Seinfeld's joke-a-thon intro to the documentary awards as play for Oscar host next year, John Sinno saw it differently. And he has a point.
Sinno, whose "Iraq in Fragments" didn't win, has sent an open letter to the Academy (and to the press) to protest Seinfeld's disrespect of this traditionally undervalued category. Before you say boo-hoo (as I was initially inclined, since at least Seinfeld was a respite from all the trumped-up sobriety of the slick show), consider that nearly every other awards category was treated with awe and dignity. (Except maybe those child actors being forced to make badly scripted jokes about the "shorts" categories.)
My problem isn't with Seinfeld introducing the nominated docs as "incredibly depressing" -- because that was rather funny, and rather true. It's that somehow everything else in the show has gotten so serious and pompous that Seinfeld's ribbing stood out in the midst of a politically correct, essentially boring evening. The other awards were positioned as momentous events worthy of suspiciously glistening eyes.
Sinno goes on to protest that there wasn't any mention of Iraq. Here I disagree. It's tedious when celebrities use the Oscars as a podium to go all noble over world events. So, again, it wasn't the lack of a mention of Iraq that was the problem, it was that this year's Oscars were an informercial for the eventual doc winner, "An Inconvenient Truth." Now, I'm all for fighting global warming (or "global warmings" as Will Ferrell pronounces it in one of his hilarious riffs on President Bush speaking to the nation; Google it and you'll see). But between all the Gore-boosting of the evening and the trio of Spielberg, Lucas and Coppola waiting to welcome long-overdue Martin Scorsese into the Oscar fold, it looked like the fix was in. (Can you imagine how humiliating it would have been for Marty if someone else had trotted up to accept the directing Oscar from his three amigos?)
So I'm not necessarily in favor of making Sinno et al whole by enshrining documentaries as they do other categories. I'm for taking it all down a peg, or at least getting a grip. You know more ink has been spilled about Jennifer Hudson's silver bolero jacket than about anything else Oscar night, and that the real power of the Oscar show is in its ratings, so stop trying to overcompensate. The only part of the evening that truly merits those glistening eyes is the so-called Parade of the Dead clip reel, the only time the audience understands the true value of things.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 01:21 PM | Permalink

I mean, I've always loved Alan Arkin, but his performance in Little Miss Sunshine was pretty much what we've come to expect of him, his patented, deadpan codger. Whereas Murphy tried something wholly new in his career, and it was quite sensational, not only for being unexpected.

Meanwhile, Peter O'Toole's badly lifted face seemed to fall, as if realizing this was his last chance at an Oscar. But for Forest Whitaker, this truly was a role of a lifetime, probably the greatest showcase of his talents any movie will offer him. I'm glad (and rather surprised) the Academy didn't just go for the sentimental vote (as I think they did in Arkin's case).

Posted by Jami Bernard at 09:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I especially enjoyed when Pilobolus formed itself into Ellen DeGeneres' crimson velour tracksuit.

Other trenchant observations:
Helen Mirren is sexier at any age than any woman with a facelift.

Jack Nicholson is starting to look like Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now.
The actresses all seemed to have strangely symmetrical, erect nipples.
Big attempt to make the Oscars "relevant" to "today" by name-dropping YouTube, MySpace, other Internet buzzwords.
Stop giving child actors "cute" things to say.
Loved seeing Nicole Kidman and Gwyneth Paltrow in a Japanese-hair-straightening-technique smackdown.
Jennifer Hudson, for all the time she had to prepare for this night (if not her whole life), gave a less than stirring speech.
Jerry Seinfeld used his time onstage to audition for next year's host.
Celine Dion's lips pursed up at the end of her song into something out of a horror movie, like an upward-migrated vagina dentata.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 09:27 AM | Permalink

“That Celine Dion, she scares me, my balls just retracted into my body”

Posted by Jami Bernard at 12:25 AM | Permalink

I went into my lunch with Hanna-Barbera expecting to hate them, but after a bottle of wine and Joe and Bill's loud, unembarrassed rendition of The Flintstones theme song, I was won over.

That's Bill Hanna and Joe Barbera, the lifelong friends and animation partners who gave us Tom and Jerry, Scooby Doo, The Jetsons, the Flintstones, Yogi Bear, and too many more to mention. Barbera died yesterday at age 95. (Hanna died in 2002.)

They had taken me to lunch at a fancy Italian restaurant on Central Park South, back when they were spring chickens -- 77 years old apiece -- and launching their own home-video company. I expected to dislike them for the very reason they were so long-lasting and successful in the industry: they invented "limited animation," a time- and money-saving way of making cost-effective animation for television by reducing the number (and quality) of animation cels per second of running time. The effect on the eye is of less lush, less fluid animation, although kids raised on it probably don't see or know the difference.

Yes. But. The genius of Hanna-Barbera was in adapting the medium they had worked in for so long, but which was dying, to the medium of the future -- television. It was their flexibility, foresight, and risk-taking that gave them staying power in an industry that was gradually phasing out Old School animation anyway. Legendary mogul Harry Cohn himself had canned the duo after walking out of a "pencil test" of their animation, bellowing: "Get rid of 'em!"

"At the height of our careers, we were out in the cold. What were we going to do, work at a hamburger stand?" said Barbera, working up a lather worthy of a cartoon character, let alone someone born in Little Italy and raised in Flatbush. "We had kids in school. We went to every agency, every studio. TV had no money. The entire industry was out of work."

That's why these feisty guys turned out to be more Jetson than Flintstone, imagining and even creating a future where none existed, leaving behind the safety of Bedrock. And look at today's TV animation -- the deliberately sketchy, ragged-looking South Park and The Simpsons are the hip grandchildren of Hanna-Barbera's prescience.

The two men were full of life in a way you can only wish for fellows who built their reputation on the Oscar-winning, feral chases of Tom and Jerry. "Flintstones, meet the Flintstones, they're the modern Stone-Age family," boomed Barbera, who wrote that ditty. Hanna, with a less outsized personality, nevertheless chimed in, trying to recall some of the stickier lyrics: "Through the courtesy of Fred's two feet ... no, no, that can't be right ..."

"I'll never forget this humiliating evening," Barbera joked, pretending to slump dejectedly in his chair.

Actually, I'm the one who'll never forget it. I went in ready to chide these mavericks on "ruining" animation, only to come out, a bottle of wine and a song later, chastened to have met two guys were were, like another character we know, smarter than the average bear.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 08:58 AM | Permalink

In response to a reader thread from my Dreamgirls postings, on whether Jennifer Hudson needs to tone down her ghetto-speak, and whether Beyonce for all her polish still has a diction problem:

Ghetto-speak is little different from any of personal idiosyncracies that stars quickly learn to disguise in public -- at least if they value the dubious honor of "stardom," that state of affairs where every cornflake they consume is analyzed, quantified, and photographed in the press. The erasing of ethnicity is not the problem, since some publicity makeovers actually play up ethnicity, or invent it. (What is Charo, anyway?) It has to do with streamlining what they're selling, and with an on-the-job dress code. Women who work in department stores are required to wear pantyhose. Women who make movies for big studios are required to feed the public's fantasies without crossing the line (Britney Spears' lack of panties and Janet Jackson's nipple are red-carpet behaviors that went askew).

All the way back to the beginning of the star system -- Florence Lawrence was billed as "the first movie star" because she was the first actor to emerge with an actual, identifiable name from behind the mask of her corporate logo (the "Biograph Girl") -- stars and would-be stars have been groomed for whatever red-carpet persona was in vogue in their day. Think of the stars of yesteryear with their "mid-Atlantic" accents from some indeterminable country mid-way to London. Think of how they plucked Rita Hayworth's hairline to raise it to less feral dimensions.

Today's actors shape themselves, often with drastic results, which is why they need publicisits and handlers more than ever: Who knew Tom Cruise was such a flake until he fired his long-time publicist and started expressing his true self in public? Stars should NEVER express their true selves in public unless they're extremely savvy, with -- as Melanie Griffith said in "Working Girl" -- "a head for business and a bod for sin!"

So, my take on Jennifer Hudson: She's completely new to this business and has not yet worked out her red-carpet game plan. As for Beyonce: She's done a great job so far with packaging, but it's true, I noticed that she hasn't found a "public voice" she's entirely comfortable with.

Stars are judged for their off-camera lives, and that's not entirely unfair, because that's the cross that stars, but not necessarily actors, have to bear. And it's what they've signed on for. It's what the movie "Dreamgirls" is all about -- not just wanting to sing, have an audience, make a living at it, but wanting to get to the top, and accepting the compromises that come along with that (quite different) goal. Being a star can (and usually does) mean stripping away much of the individuality that made someone so promising in the first place, toning down the highs, papering over the lows, leaving behind your friends. I imagine many of these stars wake up in the morning disoriented: who's that in the mirror?

Posted by Jami Bernard at 07:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

The posters on my last blog entry are right -- why does the competition only have to be between the girls? The male roles in Dreamgirls offer just as much irony, with the reliable Jamie Foxx turning in what could be his first disappointing role (disappointment = expectations divided by results) in the thankless, underwritten role of the girl group's Svengali, and EDDIE MURPHY, of all people, getting ready for his big Oscar nomination!

It's not only Murphy's most mature performance, he seems to be aging gracefully in a way that helps him leave the baggage of his comedy career at the door. As a James Brown-type performer, womanizer, and drug abuser, Murphy does the opposite of what he usually does in his movies. Instead of putting on makeup and costumes so he can be a host of different, one-note characters, he adds layers of character to just one -- which is much more of a high-wire act.

Murphy's best scene -- and I hope they show that one in the clips at Oscar time -- is where his character suffers a setback that sends him quickly, quietly reeling into despair. He does it all with his body and facial expressions, and it's a powerful dramatic moment, sans the usual props.

Posted by Jami Bernard at 01:40 PM | Permalink