Some words on Sunday’s Oscars, presented with little context: “a Crystal-meth nightmare”; “cadaverous, a depressing slog”; “shopworn”; “flat … dated and stale”; “awkward”; “increasingly desperate”; “awfully boring”; J Lo’s left nipple.”
Some words on Sunday’s Oscars, presented with little context: “a Crystal-meth nightmare“; “cadaverous, a depressing slog“; “shopworn“; “flat … dated and stale“; “awkward“; “increasingly desperate“; “awfully boring“; J Lo’s left nipple.”
The reviews, in other words, were not kind. Everything about the ceremony felt dated, most agreed, from Billy Crystal’s tired schtick to the love shown period peans The Artist and Hugo. But hating the Oscars for being old, tired and stale is like slamming Jersey Shore for lacking class. You know what you’re getting from the Academy; if you don’t like it, watch something else.
And there were some fine moments Sunday. Emma Stone was game, loveable and wacky. Chris Rock, Will Ferrell and Zach Galifianakis: all pretty great. Canada’s Christopher Plummer won for his role in The Beginners, which will hopefully lead more people to see the lovely, under-looked film. And the whole Cirque de Soleil thing awed my admittedly easily wowed brain.
As for the winners, well, if you look to the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for advice on what to see, good luck to you. These are, after all, the people who anointed Crash and A Beautiful Mind. So take the following with a grain of salt. Six thousand very old, very white Californians consider them the very best from the year now past: