The Daily* Squizz

It’s almost here! We’re one day away! Can you feel it? Can you feel the excitement in the air? The tension? The suspense?

Screw the Academy Awards themselves… I meant my live blog of the ostentatious, nonsensical event. You’d think that after all this hype, I must have something really special planned! (Or maybe I’ve had a stomach bug for three days and am using all of this hype as handy cover for not having to come up with any new blogging material).

Either way, to whet your appetite for my sixth annual Oscars blog, I bring you back to two years ago and the fourth installment of my Oscar Report, which was originally published to the web on February 24, 2008:

So I’ve officially run out of ways to explain why I not only voluntarily subject myself to an overblown, ridiculous display of nonsense that I profess to loathe, but also take the time and effort necessary to write an obscenely long blog post about it that no one reads. I can’t even explain it to myself anymore. But tragically, this ritual has wriggled its way into my mind as an unpleasant necessity and thus, I’m stubbornly self-obligated to go through with it. I think I’m going to justify it by saying that I’m doing it as a public service to my contemporaries, who may have some inexplicable passing interest in the show but lack the intestinal fortitude to sit through the entire ordeal on the off-chance that something worthwhile will happen. I’m wading through the crap so you don’t have to, my friends.

This being said, there were two potential bright spots that I thought may come out of this year’s shit show. One being the return of Jon Stewart as host — which I presume is the Academy’s cynical (albeit, obviously successful) attempt to sucker disenchanted, jaded nitwits like me into stomaching this garbage. The other one being the uncertainty surrounding the show in the aftermath of the writer’s strike — given such little time to prepare the insipid junk that seeps out of the presenters’ mouths, would the writers throw the usual book out the window and give these overpaid stars some actual interesting content? And would any of these conceited line-readers make some ad lib remarks about the strike, causing me to explode in hopefully amusing rage?

Well, let’s find out…

The intro thingie calls the Oscar’s red carpet “the most famous red carpet in the world.” What did it beat out for that award? The ugly rug in my aunt’s hallway?

Oh Christ, there’s a whole red carpet rundown before the show? Fuck. Regis Philbin tells George Clooney that everyone used to want to be Cary Grant, and now they want to be George Clooney. “That’s because Cary Grant is dead,” says George, “and no one wants to be dead.” Oh George. Who doesn’t want your salt and pepper in their dinner? I don’t know what that means.

If I was George Clooney, I’d be with a better-looking woman than that, says my roommate Grant. Oh yeah, he’s going to be making wisecracks while wolfing day-old Ethiopian food.

Why the fuck is Regis interviewing Hannah Montana? How old is she? asks Grant. It’s one thing to say she’s more articulate than me, but she’s VASTLY more articulate than me. Probably the first time anyone in the Cyrus clan has been accused of being too articulate.

And here’s Haligonian Ellen Page, who Grant claims to have never heard of five minutes ago. He is astounded that she still resides in Halifax, and is convinced that Ian Gormely will somehow end up at a house party of hers. Little known Ellen Page fact: she graduated from the Shambhala School in Halifax three years ago, which just makes me wonder, what would Swick do?

Take a note. 5:27 p.m. Pacific and Jack Nicholson is already shitfaced.

Now, after the interminable half-hour of pompous preamble, we finally get the interminable three hours of pompous awards. I wish I had a time machine right now so I could live in the 1890s before the Oscars existed. Even if it meant slow, painful death from typhoid was guaranteed. Yes, the Oscars are worse than typhoid.

Here’s Jon Stewart. “These past three and a half months have been very tough. The town was torn apart by a bitter writers’ strike, but now it’s over. So tonight, welcome to the makeup sex.” It’s anal, I’m guessing, since the writers are going to continue getting fucked up the ass. Stewart notes that the Vanity Fair Oscar party cancelled out of respect for writers. “You know what’s another good way to show respect for the writers? Invite them to the Vanity Fair Oscar party.”

The Oscars, says Jon, acted as an impetus to end the strike. “So before we spend the next four to five hours giving each other golden statues, let’s take a minute to congratulate ourselves.” God damn, I hope that’s hyperbole.

Jon says all the movies up for Best Picture are “psychopathic killer movies”, except for Juno. “Thank God for teen pregnancy.” He also makes a quip about Away From Her, a film in which a woman forgets her husband — “Hillary Clinton called it the feel-good movie of the year.” And the requisite Jewish joke comes in the form of a comment on Atonement: “Finally a story that captured the sexuality and raw passion of Yom Kippur.”

Jon lauds the variety in the nominated films. Even Norbit got nominated. “Too often the Academy ignores movies that aren’t good.” Go watch Eddie Murphy: Delirious and tell me what the fuck happened, please.

Jewish joke, check. Odd non sequitur, check. Political commentary… The Oscar statue is 80 years old now, which makes him the front-runner for the Republican candidacy. “This is an important election… have you all had a chance to study the candidates and their positions, and pick which Democrat you’re going to vote for?” The commie pinkos in the crowd laugh.

“Democrats do have a historic race going. Usually when you see a black man or woman as President, an asteroid’s about to hit the Statue of Liberty. How else would we know it’s the future? Silver leotards?” Jon closes out the monologue by saying that Barack Hussein Obama has a real uphill battle ahead of him, given the proximity of his name to several evil figures. “I think we all remember the failed 1944 Presidental campaign of Gaydolf Titler. It’s such a shame. Titler had so many good ideas. He just couldn’t get past the name. And the moustache.”

Jennifer Garner is your first presenter. She doesn’t have any samurai weapons in hand. Oh, it’s for Costume Design. This award makes me mentally constipated, because I’m incapable of giving a shit. And the award goes to someone from Elizabeth: The Golden Age. I think for her next work, she should design a costume that makes Queen Elizabeth II look like Cate Blanchett. That would be award-worthy. The award recipient looks like a female Dame Edna, if that makes any sense.

Some crap with Barbra Streisand. Just in case gay men needed more reasons to keep watching.

Mmm, Oscars already boring me, says Grant.

George Clooney says hi to the crowd and goes through some brief hackneyed crap about the legacy of the Oscars before making a crack at how long the show is. Ten minutes in, and already two jokes about the show’s length. You’d think they’d get the hint? Oh, here’s some video retrospective of the show. Fuck, the Oscars have been around for a long time and lots of carefully choreographed “craziness” has happened. We get it. And it’s got Celine Dion music in the background, in case anyone’s nausea hadn’t quite evolved into full-blown wretching.

Jon Stewart is watching Lawrence of Arabia on his iPhone and sarcastically commenting on the cinematography. Huh?

Anne Hathaway (swoon) and Steve Carell are here. “Thank you, Jon, for that kind introduction. You never cease to amaze me with your need for attention.” Carell mistakenly thinks they’re presenting for Best Documentary; Anne corrects him, saying their award is Best Animated Feature. “Shoot. How many people are watching this?” “Oh, about 800 million.” Dear God Anne, not you too. They’ve got you drinking the Kool-Aid. It’s toned down from their previous years’ claims of a billion, but still, for fuck’s sakes. Anyway, the winner is Ratatouille. I smell a rat. Ha ha ha. Fuck off. Brad Bird thanks his junior high guidance counsellor, who apparently trained him for life in the movie business. This marks the first time any guidance counsellor has been thanked for anything.

Katherine Heigl, star of the film 100 Girls (not what it sounds like), is unbelievably nervous to be on stage. She is presenting for Best Makeup. I’d be offended if I were here and was asked to present such an award. Grant has already lost interest in the show and is doing online research into how to pitch a TV pilot. The winning flick is La Vie En Rose, which I thought was a lingerie store. The award recipient is French, shockingly.

A musical act. I don’t care. Amy Adams is in it. Was she in Road Trip?

Here’s The Roc… err, Dwayne Johnson. He’s presenting for Best Visual Effects. And the winner is The Golden Compass. Evangelical Christians summarily soil their pants across the nation. I don’t want to smell what they’re cooking. One of the guys accepting the award looks like Mike Ditka though, sadly, William Perry is nowhere to be seen.

Cate Blanchett says “The category is Art Direction.” Ooh, good. Time for a solid 45-second nap. I just want to wait for the Ellen Page moment, and see if Johnny Depp wins. I don’t care about the rest of this shit. I want to find out how to become a comedy writer. The winning flick is Sweeney Todd, a cautionary tale about entrusting your hair care to Edward Scissorhands. A walking advertisement for Botox with an Italian accent and a fat bald man thank the Academy.

A retrospective video on past Best Supporting winners shows an extended on-stage rant by Cuba Gooding Jr. from 1997, marking the last time anyone’s seen him on-screen.

Jennifer Hudson, whose dress should be nominated in a best supporting role, presents the Best Supporting Actor award to Javier Bardem and his New Brunswick haircut. “Thank you to the Coens for putting one of the worst haircuts ever on my head.” He then spouts something in Spanish to his mom, who apparently had the Silver Surfer from the Fantastic 4 movie melted down and clamped on her fingers and wrists. Speak English! Fuck! I should remind you at this point that italicized comments are Grant’s, not mine. His email address is at the end of this post.

No, not really. Dipshit.

Jon: “We’ve obviously seen some great montages tonight. Had the writers’ strike continued, they would have had to pad the show with even more montages. Here’s a look at what your four-hour writer-less show would have been like — a tribute to binoculars and periscopes.” And there’s an actual montage of binoculars and periscopes. “Wow. Thank God we didn’t have to show that. It wasn’t even really worth dimming the lights. Maybe we would have had more luck with Bad Dreams: An Oscar Salute.” And another brief montage, of people waking up from bad dreams. “Wow. That really would have been a waste of your time.” An ironic, self-aware waste of my time is still a waste of my time.

This fucking thing is four hours long? Oh, poor Grant. You don’t know what you’ve signed up for.

Felicity introduces another dumb song. A guy on a piano and a little kid crooning.

Owen Wilson gives a dictionary definition of a “short film”. Wow, the same intro I used for every essay I wrote between Grades 6 and 9. Good thing the writers are back. The award for Live Action Short goes to Le Mozarts Des Pickpockets. Guy on stage: “I don’t really speak English. I’m a bad student. I can say, I’m very happy, I’d like to thank my producer, and my wife, and my sons. Merci beaucoup, (incoherent French), merci, au revoir.”

HA HA HA! LOOK! AN ANIMATED CHARACTER PRETENDING TO PRESENT AN AWARD! HILARIOUS! It’s Jerry Seinfeld’s character from Bee Movie. And a video montage on… bees?!? Animated Short goes to Peter and the Wolf. A very red woman says “This is for everyone.” Yeah, that covers it.

“There are those who talk about a golden age of cinema in the past tense,” says presenter Alan Arkin, before claiming that we’re still in one. A reminder: Norbit is nominated tonight. The award goes to Tilda Swinton. I don’t know who she is, but her name sounds like the product of some online “What is your British name?” generator. She makes reference to George Clooney’s “anatomically correct” Batman suit, which makes me forgive her for looking like the ugly one from Sex and the City.

The “always fantastic” Jessica Alba is here. She was at the scientific and technical awards. Now, that’s not fair… why do they have to tempt the nerds by sending a mind-bogglingly attractive star to host their awards? Why not send Philip Seymour Hoffman? Or Jason Alexander?

Jon makes a joke about Jack Nicholson impregnating random starlets. Oh, Hollywood.

Youngish white guy #1 and youngish white guy #2, one of whom has an Irish, or maybe Scottish accent, quote old movie lines and present for Best Adapted Screenplay. It goes to the Coen brothers for No Country For Old Men. Man, they’re odd looking. And awkward.

The president of the Academy is here. “Some people ask me why we give out Oscars.” His answer differs greatly from what my answer would have been. Suffice to say, his response wasn’t “So that a bunch of overpaid and overdressed actors can have an opulent night of self-congratulatory circle-jerking.” Here’s a big dumb video about the voting process which leads me to believe it has more legitimacy than the Presidential elections.

“Wow, that was amazing. I always thought it was superdelegates.” says Jon.

Here’s Miley Montana or Hannah Cyrus or what-the-fuck-ever introducing a song. I think she smokes cigarettes. And then someone sings the song, which sounds a little like “Kiss the Girl” from The Little Mermaid.

This is the requisite point in the show where I start thinking to myself, “this is moving along quickly enough, it’s not so bad.” Which means things are about to get much, much worse. Grant has seemingly given up on the show, content to wander around the apartment complaining about Chelsea’s fat, useless manager, Avram Grant.

Judi Dench and Halle Berry are here… wait a minute, it’s Seth Rogen (the fat dork from Knocked Up) and Jonah Hill (the fat dork from Superbad) instead! And they’re debating which of the two of them are who. Hill claims Rogen gives off a “non-Halle-Berry vibe.” I should hope not, because Seth Rogen in a Catwoman suit would spontaneously start at least a dozen wars. Best Sound Editing award goes to some folks from The Bourne Ultimatum. One of them should also win best ponytail. And they get played off because they’re stoned and confused.

Oh, the fat dorks are back and still doing the Dench/Berry schtick. And Sound Mixing is next. The Bourne Ultimatum again. Boy, if I was a deaf Robert Ludlum fan, I’d be pissed off right now.

Forest Whitaker is out to present for Best Actress. Holy fuck, we got Ellen Page comin’ up here, baby! We also have the delightful Laura Linney in this category. Watch neither of them win. Of course, it’s Marion Cotillard, who I’ve never heard of, which is ridiculous, because the Oscars should be determined not by merit, but by my personal preferences. “You rocked my life!” she says, in a heavy French accent. If she could fuckin’ speak English, she’d know the expression is “rock my world!” Maybe I should put Grant’s email at the bottom.

Jon is playing Wii tennis on big screens, on-stage. Huh? Colin Farrell is here to fight someone or something. Or to introduce the fourth song. I’m sure someone is being inspired right now, but it isn’t me. I’m going to spend the next three minutes trying to find conclusive video footage of Eduardo getting his leg snapped in half by Martin Taylor.

No luck, but this is pretty grotesque. Viewer discretion advised.

Jack Nicholson, drunk, talks about the wondrous properties of movies. “They’re a common link that touches the humanity — heh heh heh — in all of us.” How is he holding this together? Fuck, how old is Jack Nicholson? Probably not quite as old as the award statue he’s standing in front of, but I’m not sure. Oh good, a montage of the previous 79 winners of Best Picture. For some reason the first few letters of the movies’ names are getting cut off on our TV screen, meaning past awards have gone to such movies as “Ocky”, “Atoon”, “Erms of Endearment”, “In Man”, “Forgiven”, “Rest Gump”, “Tanic” and “Adiator”. I’ve never heard of any of these!

Renee Zellweger says “some of the most exciting moments of your life were in movies.” None that you were ever in! The award for Film Editing goes to The Bourne Ultimatum, the third for this flick. The recipient looks like a combination of latter day Henry Winkler and Glenn Beck. I’ve really got to start watching some of these Oscar films.

“Film editing. Wow. Someone just took the lead in their Oscar pool based on a guess.” says Jon. “According to imdb.com, our next presenter is the star of the 2010 film, Untitled Nicole Kidman Project.”

Nicole Kidman, of course, is here… for what? Oh, who cares. Some tribute to someone. A very, very old man receives an honorary Oscar and a standing ovation. “That’s the good part of getting old. I don’t recommend the other.” Yikes. He does sound remarkably with it for someone who is 98 years old, though.

Penelope Cruz is here. I’d like to give her a Penelope Cruz! What the hell does that mean? Foreign Language Film goes to Austria… yes, they actually credit the film to the whole country. The movie’s actually called The Counterfeiters, if you care, which you don’t.

McSomething from Grey’s Anatomy mercifully introduces the fifth, and final, song. Grant yells Johnny Depp’s name in a horrible Italian accent, for no particular reason.

John Travolta, no longer Scientology’s most ridiculous proponent in Hollywood, closes out all the singing by handing the Best Original Song statue to the ditty from Once. The guy implores people to “make art”. Not if you like money. The woman doesn’t get a chance to say her words as she’s played off.
But after the commercial break, Jon brings her back out and lets her say her thanks. Isn’t that a little patronizing? Just shuffle the Irish folks out and have their moment in the sun? Could be.

Cameron Diaz flubs the word “cinematography” before giving the award for Best Cinematography to There Will Be Blood. Accepting the award is the Jigsaw killer. Nope, just some guy in a tuxedo.

Alright, my eyelids are getting heavy. Hilary Swank, give me something uplifting. Oh fuck, it’s the dead list. God dammit. As always, it’s unsettling to hear some people get noticeable applause while others get silence. I wonder who decides who gets to be honoured in this montage of people who’ve passed away. You think it’d be easy, you just put the famous ones out there. But you’ve got to draw the line somewhere, right? If Alan Thicke died one year, is he going to be up there?

I’m going to keep my eyes open to see who trips on the piece of floor in front of the podium. Thanks for the heads up, you-know-who. Also, Grant has alerted me that his Italian rendition of Johnny Depp’s name is a reference to the Seinfeld episode with the crazed barbers.

Some woman presents for Best Original Score. Am I ignorant for not knowing who this is? Atonement wins, and they show one of the child actors from the movie sitting in the audience; not to be mean, but she looks like a kid with a disease that gets featured on 20/20. The guy accepting the award is grateful. Fuckin’ better be.

Your hero and mine, Tom Hanks, manages not to slip on the floor. He seems very angry to be there. Best Documentary Short Subject is the award… and a bunch of troops in Iraq are announcing the nominees? Oh, what the fuck. Talk about manipulative bullshit. Good way to show you’re not just a bunch of commie pinkos. This Hollywood crowd really looks like they appreciate all these soldiers at war. He’s being sarcastic, of course. There used to be t-shirts that said “I fucked a virgin in the Virgin Islands.” I’m not sure what that has to do with anything. A movie called Freeheld wins, which apparently is about the difficulties faced by same-sex couples, which is especially ironic when juxtaposed with the army folks. Dah well. Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition, right?

Tom Hanks sticks around for Best Documentary Feature and hey, two of the movies are about the Iraq war! Wonder if any of those troops from before have seen them. Oh wait, they’re too busy being shot at and bombed so that Dick Cheney’s buddies can make a few million more bucks. Wait, are the troops from Iraq presenting for this category? No, that was Short Subject. Oh. Good thing they sorted that out. The winner is Taxi to the Dark Side, which I assume is what Darth Vader takes to get to work. … dear God, I need sleep. “Let’s hope we can turn this country around, move away from the dark side and back into the light,” says a recipient. Let’s go back to the soldiers in Iraq for a final word… who the fuck thought that was a good idea? Why didn’t they just present for best music or something? Valuable questions, those.

Jon: “Our next presenter is either a renowned actor, or a car dealership. Ladies and gentlemen, Harrison Ford.” Wow, good thing they got the writers back, just in time. Original Screenplay is the award. If I wrote a screenplay right now, it’d be entitled “The Merits of Full Frontal Lobotomies.” And it would star me. The winner is the writer from Juno, who is apparently going to a Flinstones-themed party dressed as Kat Von D. Oh fuck, I’m commenting on their wardrobes now… please shoot me. In the head.

Helen Mirren is out and this thankfully means, with her presentation of Best Actor, that this horror is almost over. She spouts off about 15 random adjectives, concluding with cojones. Oh, they’re the facets of the rainbow of human behaviour, reflected by the powerful performances of the nominess. Yeah, I’m just transcribing now, who gives a shit. Daniel Day-Lewis takes it, so at least someone with that name got something useful from this evening. Grant mourns for Johnny Depp in an Italian twang. [Day-Lewis] is dramatically different in person than the person he portrays in the movie. I guess that’s what good actors do. Well, either that, or they plod their way through horrible careers with no discernible talent and claim awards based solely on nepotism (see: Cage, Nicolas).

Martin Scorsese is out to present for Best Director, which is a pretty good indication that he’s not going to win the award, meaning the world is back on track. The Brothers Coen share this one, just going to show that… ah, who knows. Jesus, the only difference between these guys and about 50 dipsticks I knew at York University is a couple of rented tuxedos and the feigned laughter of Hollywood jerks.

A bald Denzel Washington is in attendance and thank fucking God he is going to present for Best Picture. No matter which movie wins, the world is a horrible, horrible place. Your winner… No Country For Old Men. Ironic, given how many old men are in the audience tonight. I haven’t seen the film, but if it’s as upbeat as Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road”, then, well, I’m going to go throw myself off the balcony right now. Some woman in the crowd, who neither of us can identify, keeps getting shown. One more irritant. Terrific.

“Thank you all for joining us on the 80th Academy Awards. Thanks at home for watching. Get home safe everybody.” We are home. That was fast.

There are no more words needed, nor forthcoming. I feel mentally and physically exhausted, even though I’ve been sitting on a couch for four hours. I feel positively horrid knowing that I devoted my time and energy to this mess. I hate the Academy, I hate Hollywood, and most of all, I hate myself for doing this again. Please, writers, go back on strike. Deprive us of this lunacy. For the good of humanity. I beseech you. Grant, any final words?

I really wish I hadn’t stayed up to watch that. I hear you, sir. That’s all. Goodnight. And I’ll see you next year, you fucking bastards.