The Daily* Squizz

In order to get you psyched for my sixth annual Oscar Report (imaginative name, I know), coming to you live from, uh, the Internet this Sunday night, I’m rolling out some of my previous Oscar blogs. These will either whet your appetite for this year’s edition, or convince you to avoid the site at all costs for the next three days.

In any event, here is the text of Oscar Report 2007, which was first published to the web on February 26, 2007:

I hate the Oscars. The award ceremony is long, pointless and the entire event is one big circle jerk for a bunch of overpaid actors, with the occasional, perfunctory nod to some technical nerds. That being said, for the third year running, I’m recapping it, in case you can’t find a recap at 65,000 other places on this Godforsaken information highway. This, however, is the first time I’ve watched the show with other people and written a recap — so to mix it up a little, you’ll see some commentary from my colleagues tossed in for some spice! Ah, just read the fuckin’ thing.

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The night begins with a giant screen onstage, and a little pretaped bit called “The Nominees.” It’s people talking individually in front of a white screen – Spielberg, Wahlberg, Mirren, Eastwood and a bunch of schlubs. Oh, I see, it’s everyone who’s nominated tonight, talking about their experience and expectations. Someone says “any sexual thought about the Queen is a treasonable thought” and in context, I think it made sense. Eddie Murphy stares at the camera, trying to be unfunny, and someone tells him it’s still funny. Well, maybe his next movie should be him staring at the camera; couldn’t be any worse than his last 15 years of work.

Eventually, here’s our host, Portia De Rossi’s meal ticket… Ellen DeGeneres. “Tonight, we’re celebrating the nominees… as opposed to all the other years when we just celebrated the winners.” Yeah, let’s see if this holds up. Ellen launches into a spiel about how she dreamed of hosting the Oscars as a kid. “Most people dream of winning an Academy Award. I dreamed of hosting. So let that be a lesson to you kids out there – aim lower.” A life lesson for all of us. Next up, we hear that this is the most international edition of the Academy Awards yet – in fact, the only Americans in the audience are the ones serving as seat-fillers. “No one can fill a seat like an American.” Fat joke? Really?

Now she tells us, sarcastically, that there’s no pressure on anyone tonight. “That’s my job, to relax you, make you forget this is a make or break night for you.” No one should worry about pressure, she says, they should worry about the fact that there’s a billion people watching. Okay, no. I will not accept this ridiculous exaggeration of viewership for over-hyped American events like this shit and the Super Bowl. There is no fucking chance that anywhere near one in six human beings on earth are watching this ridiculous horseshit. But whatever they want to tell themselves is fine, I guess.

Anyway, I digress. Ellen says the Academy has nothing against long speeches, just boring speeches. If you don’t have a good speech, just make something up – say you’re from the Bronx; people love hearing that you’re from the Bronx, even if it’s not true. Camera shows Jennifer Lopez. But she’s from the block! Ellen: “Your first nomination, it’s about being nominated. After that, it’s all about winning – isn’t that right, Peter O’Toole?” We see him; man, he’s old. Next Ellen draws some parallel between people voting for Jennifer Hudson on American Idol, and people voting for Al Gore, and of course everyone cheers because Hollywood is full of commie pinko queers.

Ellen lauds the “diverse crowd” (hey look, it’s Djimon Hounsou!) and says that this version of the Oscars is about celebrating diversity. Camera shows Steve Carell, who looks as if someone stole his teddy bear and is doing bad things to it. Ellen: “If there were no blacks, Jews and gays, there’d be no Oscars… or anyone named Oscar.” Which of those groups does Oscar the Grouch fall into? Anyhoo, Ellen starts dancing with a gospel choir and mercifully, the monologue is done.

Nicole Kidman, wearing what looks like a red toque on her shoulder, and Daniel Craig (a.k.a. whothefuckishe,hesucks,waitcasinoroyalewasawesome,weloveyoudanielcraig!) are out first to present for Art Direction. James Bond has big ears. He says “… this year’s nominees took us into the fantasy world of Pan’s Labyrinth…”
Emma: I want to be in your fantasy world!
This would be the beginning of a trend. Both Emma’s love of all men Hollywood, and the fact that presenters had foreign accents. Anyway, if you care, which you don’t, the winner was Pan’s Labyrinth; accepting was a stubby, unshaven man who blubbered, mentioned his mom, and some hooligan in the crowd hollered.

Next up, Kirsten Dunst Maggie Gyllenhaal is here to recap the scintillating scientific and technical awards. She says “gramagic densotometer.” Uh, yeah. Some dude won something for blue screen technology, or something. Maggie: “It was a wild night, and I was so glad to be one of the principal visual effects.”
Ian: She looks so bored.

Thank God, it’s Will Ferrell, with poofy hair. And he’s singing to piano music. “A comedian at the Oscars is the saddest man of all / Your movie may make millions, but your name they’ll never call…” Uh oh, here comes Jack Black to up the tempo! Is he nominated for Nacho Libre? “We may not win tonight / But we will win the ultimate fight… and I’m not speaking metaphorically, I mean, we will fight the nominees.” He then threatens to elbow Leonardo DiCaprio in the larynx. Then the buddy from Talladega Nights comes out of the crowd, and the three of them sing about gay coal mining movies with James Spader and bringing Helen Mirren home after the show. If this absurdity sounds in any way amusing to you, you just might want to youtube the whole thing. You can probably also stop reading, as it doesn’t get any more entertaining than this.

Oh goodie, time for Best Makeup! And it’s Pan’s Labyrinth! It’s accepted by a guy who looks like a Spanish Michael Moore. What’s his name? What’s his title? Beats me. Don’t care. Next.

CHILDREN! Abigail Breslin (the little girl from Little Miss Sunshine) and Jaden Smith (the little Fresh Prince – is there a “y” in his name?) are here for Best Animated Short. The winning flick is The Danish Poet, which is an NFB film. woot. Emma and Christine argue briefly over the difference between Denmark and Canada. Meanwhile, the little prince buggers up some lines, but he recovers…

… because the same two kids also present for Live Action Short. I’d feel good if I was nominated for an Oscar, and the announcing duty was shared with another award category, and announced by two people with a combined age of, like, 20. Abigail wonders if there’ll be a short joke somewhere; little prince says “we’re too sophisticated.” Clearly. Winner is West Bank Story; winning guy: “I made a movie about conflict between Israelis and Palestinians that takes place between two falafel stands.” That’s all you need to know, methinks.

Ellen gives the obligatory shoutout to the orchestra, which segues into some choir that makes a bunch of sounds with their mouths, ranging from waterfalls to airplanes. It’s like the guy from Police Academy, with a posse.

Steve Carell and Greg Kinnear are here for, of course, Sound Editing. Steve: “Sound editing is a lot like sex — it’s usually done alone, late at night and surrounded by electronic equipment.” Greg: “And like sex, if you want the best, you have to pay for a top notch professional.” Are they making fun of sound editing? Oh, by no means — but their mics get cut! Ha ha! What a crazy coinci- oh, I get it. Winner is Letters From Iwo Jima, and accepting dude is very, very drab.
Evan: This guy is incredibly monotone. He sounds like a robot.
Jamie: Oh, spice it up, sound guy!

James McEvoy (spelling?) and “Hummina Hummina” Jessica Biel present for Sound Mixing: it’s Dreamgirls. Winning guy says he comes from four generations of sound mixers. Has there even been sound in the cinema for four generations? Or did his great grandfather just play the spoons while banging pans with his feet, and call that “sound editing”?

Rachel Weisz is here to present for Best Supporting Actor — don’t they usually put an award like this near the top of the show, so that everyone doesn’t get interminably bored very quickly? I wish they had. Hey, it’s Alan Arkin! He blathers about acting being a team sport, everyone is the greatest human ever, he wells up, the girls in the room all go “awwwww.” Aye.

Ellen is wandering the aisles and runs into Mark Wahlberg in his seat. Yeah, great timing, after he just lost an award; bet he’s in a great mood. Marky Mark tells her he was in the washroom and inadvertently used her toothbrush. “This isn’t vagina-flavoured toothpaste!” No, he didn’t actually say that. Next Ellen talks to Martin Scorsese and hands him a script – “it’s like a combination of Goodfellas and Big Momma’s House… Good Mamma’s House.”

Jamie: You’d better mention interpretive dancing in your blog.
Why on earth would I… what the fuck? There’s actually interpretive dancing? And it’s a bunch of adults in front of a screen, looking like silhouettes and making shapes with their bodies? To celebrate Happy Feet, they look like fat, waddling penguin silhouettes?
Jamie: Penguins don’t do that.
Evan: So this is shadow puppets?
More or less, yes.

James Taylor and Randy Newman play some music, which gives us the chance to rag on Randy Newman.
Christine: He looks like a turtle.
Rachel: He looks like he might die right now.
Jamie: That would be an interesting career move.

And now, for something completely different, Melissa Etheridge sings a song from An Inconvenient Truth, as messages about energy conservation flash in gigantic neon letters behind her head. And of course, no one catches the fucking irony.

Leonardo DiCaprio and 2000 Presidential election winner moviemaker Al Gore are here to yap about something. Leo: “So Mr. Gore, is there anything you might want to announce?” Al: “I’m just here for the movies, and to thank you all for your help in fighting climate change.” By watching television? Oh, wait, he says the show has “gone green”! Environmentally friendly practices have gone into every aspect of this awards show! Well, it’s essentially the most overblown, energy-wasting, opulent fucking parade of nonsense on this planet, so it’s tough to see how it could get any less environmentally friendly. Oh, Al takes out a prepared statement: “I’d like to take this time to formally announce…” and he gets played off by the orchestra! Ha ha ha! … we’ll all be dead in 20 years.

Ellen: “Well, because the show is green, the academy wanted me to recycle some jokes… so, how about that Gilligan’s Island? Is it just me, or did Ginger bring too much clothing for a three hour tour? And Ms. Howell brought a fur coat. A fur coat to go fishing?”

Cameron Diaz is here (sans semen hair) for Animated Feature. She says “droopy drawers.” Oh look, CGI penguins, cars and kids in the crowd! Ha ha! “Only real people can accept the award, so please be animated.” Even Ron McLean would groan at that one. Happy Feet wins and the penguin is happy. Or constipated, who knows. I can’t read penguin facial expressions.
Evan: They’ve got a polar bear next to the stage.
Run penguin, run! The cars are crestfallen. The guy accepting the award seems drunk, is apparently wearing a white bathrobe under his suit, and barks about what his kids told him to do onstage.
Jamie: My kids gave me a good luck bottle of grain alcohol.

Ben Affleck introduces a video on screenwriting over the years. Up next, Billy Baldwin intros a video on making it big in Hollywood! No, not really.

Helen Mirren and Tom Hanks are out for Best Adapted Screenplay… and, it’s The Departed! Accepting guy: “Valium does work.” Awkward pause. Oh-kay. He likes Lawrence of Arabia, so everyone claps for Peter O’Toole. Why is Jack Nicholson bald???

Anne Hathaway (who never answered my letters, even though I told her I loved The Princess Diaries and that we were born on the same date… one day she’ll understand… one day) and, uh, some other girl (Emily Blunt) present for Costume Design. A weird exchange ensues with Meryl Streep in the audience, as Marc Anthony smirks like a douche bag behind her. They giggle as they introduce the nominees. Everyone’s drunk and high. The winner is Marie Antoinette, but she can’t accept due to being dead, so some lady who looks like a jockey accepts the statue. She knocks on it with her knuckles – “I’m very glad to get this doll.” English is not her first language. That’s the theme of the night.

Tom Cruise intros a retrospective on Sherry Lansing (spelling?), and she gets a humanitarian award of some kind. “I feel weird being singled out.” Everybody has their own causes that they fight for – “We may not always agree, but we do always care.” Whatevs.

Ellen is in the aisle again, and she chats up Clint Eastwood. She wants to take a picture of the two of them for her MySpace page and, lo and behold, Steven Spielberg lumbers from a few seats over to snap the pic. And Ellen tells him to take it twice because the first one wasn’t centered! I dunno how much of that was scripted, but either way, you know you’ve made it in Hollywood when…

This sure is long, isn’t it? Don’t you wish you’d made a smoothie or something before you sat down?

Gwyneth Paltrow arrives to present for Best Cinematography. “Thanks to cell phones, almost everyone in the world is a cinematographer. And thanks to youtube, almost everyone has a video out.” Yeah, I see videos from starving kids in the Sudan, neglected senior citizens wasting away in care facilities, and pubescent sex slaves in Southeast Asia all the time. Oh, wait, she meant Caucasian, upper-middle class 18-34 year-olds from the suburbs in Westernized nations. ‘Cause they’re the ones that count! — moralizing aside, Pan’s Labyrinth wins, and accepting guy tries to sound smart and philosophical about the film but stumbles because he’s nervous and/or on crystal meth.
Evan: They’re going to play this asshole off.
Sure enough, the orchestra strikes up.

Hey, time for more interpretive dancing! Now they’re saluting Little Miss Sunshine!
Jamie: Look at all these assholes. They’re in a van.
That they are.

Naomi Watts and Robert Downey Jr. (40% of the Two and a Half Men) will now present for Visual Effects — Downey throws out a self-dig about his drug abuse. The Oscars: family programming! Four dudes who worked on Pirates of the Caribbean come up to accept the award. First guy: “The naysayers said that four blind kids from the Bronx couldn’t make visual effects, but here we are.” Continuity with the opening monologue? Brilliant! The fourth guy doesn’t get to talk, but before he gets played off, he manages to say “bork”, which I assume is him giving props to the Swedish Chef from The Muppets.

Catherine Deneuvre and Ken Watanabe (spelling is probably wrong on both) talk about the introduction of subtitled films to American cinema. Camera cuts to crowd shot of – Sacha Cohen? Very nice. Anyway, video plays on foreign films.

Clive Owen and Cate Blanchett present the award for Foreign Language Film to some big, exuberant German guy for The Lives of Others. He doesn’t thank David Hasselhoff in his acceptance speech, which makes he think he’s not really German.

Ellen mocks the interpretive dance baloney by doing shitty shadow puppets, until the actual interpretive dancers arrive and create some giant ball of malevolent hands that envelops her and then somehow morphs into the Snakes on a Plane logo. So the two themes of the night clearly are — foreign films, and rampant drug abuse.
Jen: You know what’d be an awesome movie? Lobsters on a Plane.
Due out October 2008, I’m sure.

George Clooney will now dole out the Best Supporting Actress statue. “I was just backstage with Jack Nicholson and Vice President Gore, drinking. I don’t think he’s running for President.” And to show where modern day democracy is at, simply for making that wise-ass remark, I guarantee you at least 5,000 people legitimately thought “wow, George Clooney should run for President” – to add to the hundreds of thousands who probably already think that way. … oh yeah, the award. It goes to Jennifer Hudson, who beat out such competitors as Abigail Breslin.
Jamie: You’ve broken that little girl’s heart.
Rachel: It’s a conspiracy!
Hudson thanks God. I’m totally shocked. Then she talks about her grandmother.
Christine: Isn’t this Jamie Foxx’s speech from two years ago?
What, because they’re black, they all have the same acceptance speech? What a horrible thing to say. Hudson thanks God about a million times. And again, I’m shocked. Shit, this speech is more Jesus-infused than a State of the Union address. She thanks God once more for good measure.
Evan: Because God really cares whether you win or not.

Eva Green and Gael Garcia Bernal give out the Documentary Short Subject prize. Why? Because they have accents, silly! Award goes to The Blood of Yingzhou District. A man and woman come up to get it. The man looks like he just stepped into a too-cold shower; the woman grips the statue like she’s clinging to the back of a moving car. Woman starts talking in Chinese. Ming ming bah?
Jamie: That’s not even English!

Did you know Jerry Seinfeld was the subject of a documentary a few years ago? It won nothing, and made even less. Zing! Thank you, I’m here all week. Anyway, he does a few minutes of routine, then gives out the award for Best Documentary Feature. Philip Seymour Hoffman is shown in the crowd, and it looks as if he’s been partying with Nick Nolte. To the surprise of no one, the winner is An Inconvenient Truth. Al Gore hugs a lot of people onstage. “My fellow Americans… we need to solve the climate crisis. We have everything we need to do it, except maybe the political will. But that is a renewable resource.” Oh snap. Everyone goes nuts. Somewhere, Barack Obama rolls his eyes.

Clint Eastwood stumbles over his lines because he forgot his glasses, but eventually intros a special award to some guy for something. Marconi? Sure, why not. Which leads into… Celine Dion? For fuck’s sakes.
Evan: I hate that she’s the representative of Canada to the world. They can smush her together with a maple syrup flavoured moose.
While she sang, we talked about awkward encounters at Lilith Fair, and lesbian robots — also known as lesbots. Now, here’s the Marconi guy who won the award.
Jamie: It’d be fantastic if he came out there and sang the song way better than her.
He evidently has no clue where he is, as he stares blankly at the crowd while clutching the statuette. He starts rambling in Italian. People look at me for a translation. Fucking racists. The audience is confused. Clint Eastwood comes back into frame and… translates? WTF? Is this real? Ken Watanabe looks very perturbed. Or the person next to him farted. Either way, Old Italian Man thrusts the statue into the air like an Olympic torch, and buggers off.

Wolverine and Salma Hayek Penelope Cruz will now present for Original Score. “Hey Penelope, you want to see an original score?” Cruz: “No comprende.” (Didn’t happen.) A dude with a grey bowtie accepts on behalf of Babel, which he pronounces bah-BELL. He thanks everyone and everything, and here’s some more non-English!

The President of the Academy’s summary of what they’ve done this year has been sped up to finish in 60 seconds, thank Christ. I wondered if he was insulted when someone pitched that idea?

Spider-Man and Mary Jane give out Original Screenplay… it’s Little Miss Sunshine. Here’s some guy. “When I was a kid, my family drove 600 miles in a VW van with a broken clutch…” so, thanks family. Gay.

Speaking of… here’s more interpretive dancing. A giant pitchfork that turns into the shoe logo from The Devil Wears Prada. Why do I know that?

Jennifer Lopez, who is for some reason still relevant, introduces Beyonce, Jennifer Hudson, What’s Her Face and The Ugly One to sing some songs. Beyonce goes into ridiculous histrionics, trying desperately not to get upstaged by Hudson. Sorry, Knowles, your time is up. Quit the biz, stick to those makeup ads and milk your beauty for all it’s worth until you’re too wrinkly to be profitable.

John Travolta looks dainty compared to Queen Latifah. They both present for Best Original Song, which goes to Melissa Etheridge. “There is no red or blue, there is only green.” Nice sentiment, but obviously not true. Take your “lifestyle” down to a red state and see what they think. She talks about this being the generation that finally did something about the planet – wait, did she use the phrase “greatest generation”? I’m sorry, but this contemporary bunch of slothful ingrates with a sense of entitlement is not the greatest anything.

“We don’t agree, but we make damn sure that we’re heard.” So says Will Smith, as he intros the traditional chest-beating America-loving montage about the history of American cinema. Well, there are clips from Birth of a Nation, so at least they’re not trying to gloss things over too much.

Kate Winslet presents the award for Best Editing to The Departed, and some lady who looks like Doris Roberts’ wingman.
Emma: You are so creepy!

Here’s Jodie Foster.
Several people: Lesbot!
Jamie: Potential lesbot!
Christine: She’s had a live-in partner for a while.
Evan: Maybe they’re just good friends… that like to make out once in a while.
Jodie presents the dead list. What, no Anna Nicole Smith?

Ellen: “Well, that’s our show…” Fuck, don’t tease us like that.

Nick Nolte Philip Seymour Hoffman gives us some good news by presenting for Best Supporting Actress, which means the real awards are underway and this thing’s almost done. I’m waiting for the day when we see a really, really talented transsexual who makes movies and sends the Academy into a tizzy come Oscar time. Anyway, Helen Mirren wins the award, but the bad news is, she lost her earring. “My sister told me that all kids love to get gold stars, and this is the biggest and best gold star that I’ve gotten in all my life.” Clearly she was not good with glue sticks and sparkles.

Knock knock. Who’s there? Interpretive dancing! The silhouettes shape themselves into a gun which… shoots a bullet? Did they toss a dwarf?

The backstage bozo for whatever American network is yammering about what-the-fuck-ever.
Christine: Oh shut up!
Emma: Go away!
Jen: Is it usually this long?
Christine: Yes!
See, Academy? Sardonic jerks like me may complain about everything (including the sprawling length of this behemoth show), but Christine is the one that organized a freaking Oscar party, and even she’s complaining about how long it is. So maybe next year… less interpretive dance sequences and montages.

We come back, and Ellen is vacuuming the carpet. Write your own joke.

My girl, REESE~! presents the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor to Forest Whitaker. “Receiving this honour tells me it’s possible for a kid from East Texas, who grew up in South Central…” yeah, you know where this is going. You can achieve your dreams, if you happen to be in the small percentage of the population that actually does. Otherwise, fuck you, your hopes are worthless. Everyone in the audience is getting weepy. Find the transcript of his speech somewhere else, I’m too tired to pay any more attention. Very intense ending where he says he wants to carry his Oscar for the rest of his lifetime, and into the next lifetime. Creepy.

Steven Spielberg, George Lucas and Nicolas Cage’s uncle are onstage to present for Best Director, naturally. Speilberg and Coppola rag on Lucas’s lack of an Oscar. Yeah, all he had was a billion-dollar trilogy that was so popular he parlayed it into a completely retarded pre-trilogy which no one liked, but grossed another billion dollars. Poor guy. How does he sleep at night? And of course, as it always is, the winner is whoever-isn’t-Martin-Scor… oh, wait, it’s Martin Scorsese. Standing ovation, of course. “Could you double check the envelope?” He seems more neurotic than Woody Allen up there (but at least he doesn’t cast himself as a ladykiller in his own movies). He thanks anyone and everyone. Says strangers have wished him luck for years. Much less cathartic than many were expecting, I imagine. He tells some little girl named Francesca to say up for 10 more minutes, and then jump up and down and make lots of noise in the hotel. I think this parade of boredom put Francesca to sleep long ago. No one in the room I’m in has the energy for snarky remarks anymore.

Finally, we have a bald Jack Nicholson and a clothed Diane Keaton to present for Best Picture. Keaton can’t keep her shit together while reading the nominees, and keeps laughing at Jack, even though he’s just standing there looking smug. The winning flick is, hey, The Departed, although accepting the award is someone who isn’t Scorsese. It’s some guy who kisses Leonardo DiCaprio’s ass for two minutes and then leaves.

Ellen gives the generic signoff and it’s over!

This was the first time I’d be at an organized “Oscar party” of any sort. I came in third place in terms of predictions, but would have had second place (and the accompanying Ring Pop) if not for a clerical error. I ate a lot of potato chips. Even so, watching and recapping that show was more painful than having piranhas swim up my peehole, while I was simultaneously being donkey punched by Warren Sapp, and eating an ostrich shit sandwich. On that note, see ya next year!