Oscar, Oscar, Oscar…

My initial trepidation over Alec Baldwin and the newly minted position of ‘co-host’ was assuaged early on. He worked well with Steve Martin, albeit in limited capacity. This doesn’t alter my opinion that Mr. Baldwin is not a real movie star, but merely a poseur. (Have you ever bought a ticket to see a movie on the grounds that he’s in it?) With that said, here are some observations on Sunday’s Oscars, which hit a few low points, including a display of tackiness unmatched in recent memory:

“I’d like to thank the Academy for showing it can be about the performance and not the politics,” said Mo’Nique while restraining her emotions (did I detect the anger of the privileged?) in her acceptance speech as Best Supporting Actress for Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire. After which, she immediately sailed into a political nod to Hattie McDaniel for trailblazing. As for the title of that movie, do we really need to say all those words that follow ‘Precious,’ or can we call it simply Precious? Does this Sapphire receive royalties with every drop of her name?

While we’re on the subject of Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire, which I’ll continue to refer to as Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire until I get clearance from my legal department who insist it be referred to as Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire so as not to disrespect Sapphire, the author of the novel Push, because once I start disrespecting a sistah, it’s all over… where was I? Oh yeah: what’s up with this Gabourey Sidibe? Half the time I couldn’t even see her eyes. Could her cheeks get any bigger? That creeped me out. In the (near?) future when they start hacking off her body parts for diabetes, will insurance foot the bill, or would the obesity behind the diabetes rank as self-inflicted? Personally, I think it should be her out-of-pocket expense. No reason my premiums should go up because she’s into being a ‘BBBW.’

Two tributes worthy of my ire: 1) The memorial to John Hughes, a filmmaker who made ‘good’ films only to those who saw them at ‘a certain age.’ I was old enough to recognize them as drek when they came out, an opinion I’m certainly not going to alter especially after time has eroded them into piles of muck. (By the bye, that’s Molly Ringwald above.)

2) The tribute to horror movies was compiled by a myopic pup. Yes, they squeezed in Lugosi, Karloff and Nosferatu, but quickly and out of obligation. Otherwise, horror apparently began with Psycho, took a fourteen-year sabbatical, then kicked up again with Jaws and The Exorcist. To the individuals who concocted this tribute, and to the folks who think it was fair and accurate, I say: “Fuck you.”

OK, so after Kathryn Bigelow gives her acceptance speech for Best Director — and I don’t believe it wasn’t deserved, whereas its Oscar winning script by Mark Boal felt like an extended episode of Adam 12 set in Iraq with a bomb squad instead of cops — she goes off the stage with Babs Streisand, and the orchestra starts playing — did I really hear this? — Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman”. Is it just me, or would that have been tacky and condescending thirty or forty years ago when people knew what that song was? So I sat there and realized that nothing’s changed; that it’s still 1963; men with wooden heads still run everything, Kathryn notwithstanding; that evolution has never occurred. Which makes things very convenient for me, because if all of that is true, then this blog may not even exist — it’s kinda like the time/space continuum thing, the primary objective stuff in Star Trek — allowing me to sign off because, after the orchestra breaks into a rousing rendition of “I Am Woman”, I really have nothing more to add. Nothing. My brain is fried.