Somewhere back in the 1980’s, someone shanghai’d my Oscars® and turned them into a who-cares fest. At least, that’s all I can think after (half-)watching 3+ hours of Hollywood crapping all over the Kodak Theater last night.
For too long now, the only thing fun about the Academy Awards® has been the parties, and I think that sentiment goes double for those unfortunates sitting captive in the audience. Most of them look like they’d prefer gum surgery over being stuck in a big red candy box watching Josh Groban rip it up with Beyoncé. At least the periodontist offers high-quality intoxicants.
Do yourself a favor and quit trying to be hip. You can’t: the hip train has moved on; it no longer stops at network stations. Either move the whole shebang to HBO and let the freaks run the show or go back to the old-school faux glam that you do better than anyone.
But whatever you do, for chrissakes, 86 the “creative” award presentation. The humiliation of receiving an award at one’s seat is exceeded only by not receiving one on the stage with the rest of the nominees.
My vote? Pull the plug on the whole free-televised thing, put it back in a big restaurant, serve shitloads of booze and make it a pay-per-view event. The farther Oscar® gets away from his closed, dinner-and-booze-fiesta roots, the more he acts like Felix: precious, overly-organized and about as much fun as watching glittery, registered-trademark paint dry.