The Daily* Squizz

In my final bit of lazy, old-post-recycling “hype” for tonight’s Oscars live blog, I present to you last year’s Oscar Report — incidentally, the final item ever posted on my old blog — which is a massive, sprawling endeavour which might take you as long to read as the Oscars take to watch. Don’t read any further if you intend to do anything productive with the remainder of your afternoon. But do come back before 8 p.m. ET tonight for Oscar Report 2010!

As for this beast, it originally went online on February 22, 2009:

Alright, after a half decade, I’ve run out of verbose and amusing ways to describe the schtick (or rather, I’ve run out of the energy and motivation necessary to craft them). Basically, I don’t like the Oscars. I don’t watch very many movies. And I tend to project my self-loathing outward by sardonically railing against stupid, trivial things (for proof, read the archives of this blog). For four hours a year, that trivial thing is the Academy Awards. Four hours… fu-u-uck.

I’ll make perfunctory mention here of the unsettling irony of staging a lavish, celebratory awards show for multi-millionaire drama students in the midst of the greatest economic crisis of the last 80 years. You’ve obviously already considered this yourself and have reconciled the reality of millions of lost jobs and foreclosed homes with the unreality of thespians in $25,000 wardrobes handing each other golden statuettes and bawling like children. And if you’re cool with it then, fuck it, I guess I am too.

Returning from Oscar Report 2007 are some happy, shiny people who will be in the room with me while I do this. They will probably also make clever remarks, which will be in italics, but will only be published if they’re not quite as clever as whatever I’m writing. Believe me, for the mental anguish I willingly endure by watching this televised drivel, I’m entitled to a little bit of narcissism.

Oh, and although a lot has changed in the world of blogging in the last five years, I haven’t. So you’ll need to furiously hit the refresh button yourself as we go along. Small sacrifice for this high-quality content.

Alright, to hell with it. Let’s get this over with.

It’s 7:40 p.m. and I’ve settled into my spot on my friend Christine’s couch. She is serving soybeans and chocolate. Mickey Rourke is musing to Barbara Walters about whether he’s going to get into Heaven. I’m sleepy from three straight nights of unrepentant boozing, and Christine’s entire house is slightly slanted, which is giving me vertigo. Yep, this night is going to go well.

Christine tells me tonight’s show will have some kind of new format, because last year’s show was a complete bust, viewership-wise, and that years ending in 9 have traditionally been especially bad for viewership numbers. As a result, tonight’s show will have a “narrative element” that makes this into more of a stage show than a stuffy, stilted awards show. Oh, good. More song and dance. ‘Cause that interpretive dancing in ‘07 really turned my crank.

Christine: I think [Hugh Jackman] is secretly gay. You heard it here first, folks.

Due to a channel-changing SNAFU, we accidentally see the opening few seconds of The Simpsons, and I get a glimpse of what might have been. Sigh. Instead, we go to the red carpet, giving Christine and Emma the chance to swoon about Kate Winslet’s wrinkles.

Normal pre-show red carpet crap. I’m not recapping this, just on principle. I mean, look at all these assholes. Their expensive new clothing and bleached smiles. And here I am, wearing a t-shirt I got for free at a bar six years ago and a pair of laundry-day emergency underpants. Clearly, I am in the perfect position to judge and critique them, but I just can’t bring myself to doing it.

And the shocked reactions have begun to flow in on my facebook page. Boy, I can sense a big spike in traffic coming in tonight. I hope Blogger is ready to handle, like, five hits at once.

Some leather-faced old Italian man is being interviewed on the red carpet, and his name is apparently “Valentino”. The Masked Magician?!?!

Jamie, who ate some bad Chinese food yesterday: Never look inside a dumpling. You won’t like what you find.
Emma: Did you go on another date?
These two will make great roommates.

There are two bozos carrying apparently-important briefcases down the red carpet. And now here’s the “glorious” Meryl Streep.
Jamie: Everybody’s glorious or fabulous or elegant… what if she has to fart really badly right now? How glorious would that be?

No one in the room with me knows who the woman hosting the red carpet show is… so I sure as fuck don’t.

Oh good, the pre-show is apparently over. And the first advertisement is for Canesten. Well, they know their audience, at least.

The show begins. Here’s your host, Wolverine, sans claws. “Good evening, and welcome to the Academy Awards. This really is the biggest movie event of the year.” No Razzies? “This year, we celebrate range… But me, I’m an Australian, playing an Australian, in a movie called Australia. And I’m hosting… But everything is being downsized due to the recession, so next year, I’m starring in a film called New Zealand.” Ouch. Take that, Flight of the Conchords.

Alright, now he’s lapsing into a musical number, in front of some weird bare-bones sort of Who Wants to be a Millionaire set, in an apparent homage to Slumdog Millionaire. He is now six inches from Kate Winslet and crooning the words “human excrement.”

Oh, now he’s singing about Milk, with a bunch of patchwork weirdos called the Craigslist dancers? And the set behind him is constantly changing… and he says the words “pubic hair”. And he’s sticking his head in one of those county-fair-put-your-face-on-another-body things, and he’s a giant baby. This is fucking trippy, man.

And now he swoops Anne Hathaway out of the crowd and confronts her a la Frost/Nixon. Oh my gosh, and she knows the words she’s supposed to be singing! What are the odds? “Why is your upper lip so sweaty?” “Is it?” “It’s okay, I like it.” Australian romance, in person.

And now… oh fuck, I can’t even describe this nonsense. Google it later.

He ends this big musical number with “… and I’m Wolverine!” which completely validates my usage of that name to refer to him.

Wolverine is now surveying the crowd, approaching the front-row sitters. God, it’s Mickey Rourke, looking like he’s just come from hanging around a dumpster behind a bowling alley.
Jamie: He is just made of grease.
Christine: He’s hard to look at.

Ah, the first steroid joke of the night. And it’s about Meryl Streep? Well, at least she doesn’t have to worry about shrunken testicles. And now we’ve segued into the requisite opening video montage, featuring old clips of winners babbling stupidly after accepting the statuettes. In shocking news, people who win Oscars tend to be happy about it.

Here are five old winners (previous, not elderly), including Goldie Hawn and Whoopi Goldberg, standing around like the Justice League. Tilda Swinton is talking. Jamie: She looks like the poster girl for the Hitler Youth. I think these five broads are about to induct a new member into the New Branch Davidians. One of them, who I can’t identify, is waxing poetic about someone else, who I can’t identify. And now Anjelica Huston is verbally fellating Penelope Cruz, if such a thing is possible. Up next, Whoopi. “It’s not easy being a nun. First of all, your face never looks thin. You don’t get to wear pants, and your love interest is always off-screen.” I didn’t think I’d ever type this, but why the shit isn’t she hosting?

In case my description isn’t clear enough, these are just five random previous Best Supporting Actress winners speaking nicely about this year’s five nominees. So the Academy is worried about declining viewership and decides to respond with more pointless schmaltzy crap that just adds to the already bloated runtime of this farce. Swinton, about Marisa Tomei’s role in The Wrestler: “A stripper need never take off her dignity with her clothes.” Jamie: I’m fairly sure that’s her job. Christine: Maybe the stripper’s name is Dignity.

Oh, and all of a sudden the Best Supporting Actress award is presented to Penelope Cruz. She’s crying and speaking incomprehensibly. “Has anybody ever fainted here? I might be the first one.” I bet her breasts would still be pert and wonderful, even if she did. She dedicates the award to her parents — well, fair’s fair, they did give her the breasts, after all. “I always thought this show was about the unity of the world.” Yeah, I’ll bet kids who eat dirt for dinner feel very connected with actors whose dry-cleaning bill is higher than their home country’s entire GDP.

My blood hurts.

Steve Martin and Tina Fey are out, and their actions are being described by a big, live-blog behind them on a screen. It’s an ode to screenwriting, or something. The two of them exchange deadpan humour. TF: “Every good film starts with a blank page.” SM: “And every page started as a tree.” “And every tree began as a tiny seed.” “And every seed was planted here by the great alien king Rondole.” “Oh Steve, nobody wants to hear about our crazy religion.” Bam! Suck on that, Nancy Cartwright! The award is for Best Original Screenplay. Wait a minute, WALL-E is up in this category? I mean, I liked it and all, but most of the “dialogue” is indecipherable blips and bloops! Well, in fairness, I guess the same goes for Happy-Go-Lucky.

The winner is Milk. In the words of Ron Burgundy, “Milk was a bad choice!” I dunno, maybe it was good. The guy accepting the award seems very genuinely touched by the story of Harvey Milk. Christine: He’s cute. Jamie: I get the impression that it doesn’t matter how cute you think he is. Christine: Maybe we could shop together! The guy tells all the gay and lesbian children across the world that they’re beautiful and that God loves them. Really? Then why did He write all that bad shit in Leviticus?

Steve Martin to Tina Fey, randomly and unsolicited: “Don’t fall in love with me.” Well, good thing he didn’t say that to me, ’cause… eh, I got nothin’. They’re also presenting for Best Adapted Screenplay. The winner is Slumdog Millionaire. Christine: Apparently the book is unreadable. It’s just poorly written. Good thing they adapted it, then. Guy accepting award: “There are certain places you never think you’ll stand… the moon, the Miss World stage, and here.” From the looks of this guy, his best bet is to try for the moon next.

Jennifer Aniston and Jack Black out now. Ha ha, wacky mismatched couple! Wanna feel old? Jennifer Aniston turned 40 the other day. Aniston makes a joke and Angelina Jolie is in the crowd, laughing at it. The girls in the room react in a way that makes me think this is scandalous. I know, the idea of legitimate laughter at an Oscar presenter script seems ridiculous to me too. (Yes, I know what they really meant.)

Sorry, computer shut itself off for a bit there. WALL-E won for Best Animated Feature. Black & Tanned are still out to present for Best Animated Short. Aniston: “Did you watch anything this year that you weren’t in.” Black: “No, I didn’t. But in fairness, a lot of other people didn’t either.” The winner is La Maison en Petits Cubes which, if my French is up to snuff, means… wait, forget my joke… a Japanese man who cannot speak English comes up and, very nervously, says “I want to thank my stuff.”

This is quickly becoming the longest blog post I’ve ever made. I hate myself.

What do my chums think of the show so far?
Christine: It feels smaller, which I like.
Emma: I like the videos more than the music that comes in and out.
Jamie: Hugh Jackman isn’t funny.

Wolverine: blah blah blah. Carrie Bradshaw and James Bond are here to fill time. There’s a cool, eclectic set behind them. They’re presenting for Art Direction. I am not, in any way, listening to what they’re talking about. (Clarification: I mean current James Bond, not fucking Val Kilmer or something.) Winning movie is The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. Whoopie doo. Mats Sundin’s uncle and “weird guy from work who kinda-unintentionally-but-intentionally touches you in the elevator” accept the award. The creepy guy gets played off. PLAYED-OFF-THE-STAGE COUNT: 1

Parker and the suddenly-illiterate Daniel Craig stick around to babble about the next no-one-cares award: Costume Design. The Duchess takes it, and thankfully Keira Knightley is nowhere to be seen. Yeah, I went there. Some guy thanks some other people.

Parker and Craig are still here. Emma: They’re like the male and female version of the same face. There are three dressing-room mirrors showing clips from the nominees for Best Makeup. The winner is Benjamin Button. I dunno, isn’t makeup supposed to make you look younger? I don’t wanna look 85. The award-accepting guy is spitting out names like he’s rattling off a last-meal menu.

Now here are One Of The Plastics From Mean Girls and the Effeminately-Handsome Guy From Twilight to… I dunno, talk about being one-hit wonders in teenage-oriented films? Girl: “I have three fathers.” Guy: some joke that bombs. Take that, vampire boy! And now a video about romance in 2008. My guess is that it’s still as sickening as it was in 2007. And there are clips from High School Musical 3 throw in there. Alright, I’m gonna go do a Google image search for Vanessa Hudgens, amuse yourselves for a few minutes.

Natalie Portman and Ben Stiller are out and… uh oh… Ben Stiller is dressed up like Joaquin Phoenix on Letterman! Oh no he didn’t!!! He’s staring off into the distance as Queen Amidala talks about, eh, who knows. Stiller: “I hear the Slumdog Millionaire was shot entirely on his cell phone.” And he takes a cell phone out of his jacket. Portman: “What’s going on with you?” Stiller: “Nothing, I just want to retire from being a funny guy.” Portman: “You look like you work at a Hasidic meth lab.” Wow. Now, as a video recaps the nominees for Best Cinematography, Stiller wanders around the stage. Jamie: He’s ruining the Oscars. I beg to differ. Winner: Slumdog Millionaire. Jamie: Put it on the board, I called it. Also, say hi to Lang for me. Lang, Jamie says hi. A British guy with hair that makes me want to stab him in the face says thank you for “this beautiful thing”. The statue, I hope he means. Maybe he’s Australian or Kiwi or Scottish or Guatemalan, I dunno.

Emma: He’s wearing Crocs.
Christine: It really IS a new Oscars!

I come back late from a pee break, which is too bad, because I miss five seconds worth of Jessica Biel. Can anyone name any movie that she’s ever been in? She’s doing some tribute to Thomas Edison or something. The people I’m with are giving me no help here. They can go to hell.

For the record, the three of them are talking about David Suzuki’s caulking gun, while I’m throwing red wine down my throat. I’m so sophisticated.

Alright, I don’t think I’m gonna get a chance to use this pre-written joke during the live-blogging, so I’m throwing it in during a commercial break: Y’know, people sometimes accuse the bigwigs in Hollywood of having a particular ideological bent, but when you see the films nominated for Oscars, you can see the true diversity of top-notch American cinema. I mean, look at subject matter of the flicks up for Best Picture: gay rights, third-world poverty, the Holocaust, the evils of Richard Nixon and, uh, time travel. Nothing parochial about those choices! I hear “An American Carol” was on the short-list, but got nudged out at the last second.

Seth Rogen and James Franco, reprising their roles from Pineapple Express, are sitting on a couch watching clips from random movies during the year. Franco: “Who do you think is a better actor, Ronald Reagan or Barack Obama?” Now they’re doing a stoned rendition of “Take A Chance On Me”, which parlays into some man-on-man action from Milk, starring Franco… and the requisite creepy hug on Rogen. And now they’re re-enacting the Necro Butcher staple gun scene from The Wrestler! Gross. And now Rogen, with a dollar bill stapled to his face, is being snuggled up to by some Scandinavian guy who was involved with Saving Private Ryan.

And now the three of them are out on stage, for reals. Rogen: “If you liked that piece, I wrote most of it. And if you didn’t, it was Judd Apatow.” Live Action Short nominees are five movies, made by intelligent people, that I’ve never seen or heard of. One is called The Pig. They did that movie already. The winner is Something German That Translates To “Toyland”. Franco botches the pronunciation, and Rogen chuckles like he just got his tummy tickled. A bald Aryan man accepts the award, as Philip Seymour Hoffman — wearing a floppy hat — stares at him lovingly from the crowd.

Our commercial-break discussion devolves — as it usually does — into insinuations of pedophilia.

Wolverine, with top hat and cane, joins a bunch of other uncomfortably-attractive nimrods, mincing about and singin’ in the rain… oh, here’s Beyonce to, thankfully, add some estrogen to the proceedings. Big, flashy red dress with the tail at the front. Write your own puerile sexual joke. And now they’re just singing a bunch of random songs. Jamie: It’s a medley of songs I don’t like. Christine: They just wanted Beyonce with no pants. Now the backdrop is flooded with purple and blue lighting, making the stage look like one giant bruise… good thing they didn’t cast Rihanna for this, she would have been invisible up there.

Now, out of nowhere, are Zac Efron and Vanessa Hudgens, both wearing shirts. And two other people who I can identify. The whole mess of them continue singing random songs, as the dudes-in-bowties-and-hats keep multiplying. Jamie yawns loudly. Emma is bopping her head and trying to suppress her abject adoration for what she’s watching.

This crap mercifully ends with Wolverine proclaiming “the musical is back!” Jamie: It better not be. I want to re-enact the staple gun scene right now. On myself. Apparently Baz Luhrmann created that number. What a dickhead.

Oh look, a repeat of the Justice League bullcrap from earlier, on the men’s side, featuring Christopher Walken, Alan Arkin, Kevin Kline, Cuba Gooding Jr. and someone else who I’ll identify in a minute. Now they’re talking about Philip Seymour Hoffman who’s not actually wearing a floppy hat, he’s wearing what appears to be a black bandana. Josh Brolin has got some powerful facial hair going on. I guess this is for Best Supporting Actor. In perhaps the most egregious case of “completely missing the fucking point” in recorded history, Robert Downey Jr. is nominated for his role in Tropic Thunder. Someone at the Academy clearly went full retard on this one. And for the record, the year is 2009, an African-American is in the White House, and a man in black-face is up for an Oscar. Yes we can, indeed.

And Cuba Gooding Jr. is doing some hackneyed black-comedian-schtick about the Downey’s role, suggesting that his next flick will be a remake of Shaft. This is stupid on about 43 levels.

To no one’s surprise, Heath Ledger wins. His father, mother and sister accept the award on his behalf. Oh boy, here we go. Christine: Wasn’t he estranged from his family? Jamie: He didn’t even come to the Oscars with them! Oh God. Papa is talking slowly, but I’m guessing he’s not going to get played off the stage. All sorts of crowd shots, with luminaries like Ron Howard looking very sombre and contemplative.

This segues thankfully not into the annual dead list, but instead, a montage about documentary filmmaking. Werner Herzog is the first to speak, which reminds me: if you ever want to watch a movie about a sexually-confused (and just generally confused) strange man wander into the wilderness, slowly lose his mind and then get eaten by a bear, go rent Grizzly Man. Yes, I just spoiled it.

Bill Maher is here to say a prayer. “Everyone’s crying and now I have to go on.” Mmmm, deadpan comedy. He jokingly (?) expresses dissatisfaction at being spurned in the nomination process for Best Documentary, and then insinuates that devotion to religion will kill us all. What an upbeat show. The winner is Man On Wire. Two guys come on stage, and a third one wearing an obscenely long and frilly scarf runs up far too late. “The shortest speech in Oscar history: yes!” He lied; he keeps talking. Is he a supporter of Frilly Twinkletoes FC? Oh wait, it’s the subject of the documentary, that’s who he is. He balances the Oscar on his chin and then runs away.

Mr. Happy sticks around to present for Best Documentary Short, which he gives to Smile Pinki. Not accepting the award: the Brain. Woman: “Oh, to be in a room with all this talent… lucky me! And to write stories for a living… lucky me!” Documentary filmmaking is a “team sport”, she says. I’m going to need a root canal here. I’m guessing her movie was not about the International Criminal Court or something.

For anyone not following the comments on this blog, an update: a large, sasquatch-ish man from British Columbia has threatened to physically assault me for my indolent remarks about the inanity of this show’s musical numbers.

Wolverine introduces another montage by referring to post-production as “the cool stuff”. Yeah, I’ll bet that the guys accepting the awards for post-production were all the quarterbacks in high school.

Will Smith and a bow-tie are on stage. He professes his love for action movies and their car chases, explosions and… fans. Huh? He marvels at the cinema’s ability to turn Brad Pitt into a garden gnome. Outstanding Visual Effects is your next award. No art-house flicks here. Winner: Benjamin Button. Iron Man was robbed! Outrage! Downey Jr. is getting screwed tonight! (Figuratively and, most likely, literally.) Three generic white men I’ve never seen before and will never see again are accepting the award. They say nothing interesting. These acceptance speeches were better last year, when nobody spoke any English.

Will Smith SINGLE-HANDEDLY SAVES THE ACADEMY AWARDS by flubbing the word “outstanding” and then remarking “boom goes the dynamite!” Outstanding, indeed. Oh, and The Dark Knight wins for Sound Editing. Some loser somewhere just took a meaningless lead in their stupid Oscar pool based on their ability to guess that this would happen. Another generic acceptance speech.

The Fresh Prince is still out there, presenting a third award, for Sound Mixing. What the hell, is the Academy trying to save money on presenters or something? Slumdog Millionaire wins, as our room discusses the fact that no one — outside of a very small, esoteric group of technical nerds — can tell the difference when it comes to sound mixing, unless it’s terrible. “This is unbelievable,” says man accepting award, “we can’t believe this.” I think this man is from India. “This is not just a sound award. This is history being handed over to me.” I think it’s safe to say that this event is a hundred times more significant to this man than to anyone else on the planet.

“Yes, I’m still here,” says Will. “I think Hugh is napping.” Good, because you’re funny and he isn’t. And when you dance and sing, it’s hilarious as opposed to mind-numbing. Yeah, eat it, Sterling. To round out the high drama that is the post-production portion of the show, we’ve got the award for Film Editing going to… Slumdog Millionaire. I think it’s clear by now that this is going to win Best Picture. Another bald British man is here. He says he had a fantastic time working on the film. Someone should just get up their and chew out their director. “I’m glad I’ve won this award, but Mr. Boyle, you’re a bit of a scumbag.”

(For clarity’s sake: that quote did not happen anywhere but in my mind. The acceptance speeches are particularly cookie-cutter this year. My dream of someone accepting an Oscar in their underpants is, from all appearances, not going to be fulfilled this year either.)

Eddie Murphy temporarily emerges from tragic irrelevance to yammer about some award that he’s giving to Jerry Lewis. It’s the Jean Hersholt Award. I don’t know who that is. Don’t tell me. A video montage ensues, featuring Jerry’s Kids and one little boy who says: “The challenges in our life are part of our life, and that’s how we learn.” Why are eight-year-olds with terminal diseases and mis-aligned teeth so much more thoughtful than I am?

Answering the question in the room, “Is Jerry Lewis still alive?”, Jerry Lewis comes onstage to accept the award, kissing Eddie Murphy in the process. This act of homoeroticism elicits a standing ovation from the crowd. “This award touches my heart and the very depth of my soul because of who the award is from, and who will benefit. The humility I feel is staggering, and it will stay with me for the rest of my life.”

There’s no joke here. What the hell am I going to say?

The commercial-time discussion runs the gamut from Zanta to a suggestion that I should lie to people and tell them I run a company with a name that sounds like a venereal disease. This all makes about as much sense to you as it does to me — namely, very little.

Oh, it’s music time. Christine and Emma swoon about some guy on the screen named Marco. He’s the conductor. I make a joke about my fat stomach.

Alicia Keys (wearing Natalie Portman’s dress, and filling it out much more effectively) and Zac Efron present for Best Score… and it’s the guy from Slumdog Millionaire. Keys pronounced A.R. Rahman’s name with a culturally appropriate amount of phlegming. He said something about menopause, and that joke died quicker and more shockingly than… yeah, you know what I was gonna say.

The same two presenters say something. Then A.R. Rahman sticks around to sing in front of some dancing ladies in bright pink saris. And there are some giant drums. This is the breaking point for Jamie. He literally can’t take any more, and has left.

John Legend shows up to take the microphone and croon, as the two ladies near me swoon. About ten people stand behind him, with wardrobes that can only be described — as Emma just did — as “the Disney version of Africa.” And now a girl who, at first, looked like the lead singer of India’s answer to the Pussycat Dolls, is singing. There’s no way I could possibly be less interested in this.

Best Song goes, also, to Rahman and Slumdog Millionaire. Okay bud, second time’s the charm. He thanks all the people from Mumbai. Thankfully he did not name them all, or this show would actually drag on for as long as it feels like it’s dragged on.

Wolverine is back, sans Gambit, Cyclops or Dr. X. He introduces Liam Neeson and Freida Pinto. Emma: I love you, Liam! And when we say we love these people, it doesn’t mean we want to take them to bed. Who is she kidding, she’s not kickin’ Obi-Wan Kenobi out of bed for eating crackers. A movie called Departures wins for Foreign Film. The people accepting the award are definitely foreign. “I am here because of films.” Why am I here?

I suppose the whole “oh God, I’m damaging myself just by watching this garbage” idea is getting a bit old — especially when I realize that I’ve spent the last three days consuming copious amounts of alcohol, shovelling unhealthy food down my throat and depriving myself of sleep. In a way, adding the mental harm of the Oscars to the previously-inflicted physical harm is probably a pretty fitting capper to this weekend.

Queen Latifah gets the happy honour of doing the dead list. She’s smiling far too much. MORE SINGING! YES! Christine: Isn’t he a rapper? Emma: But she’s trying to break into musicals. It’s the hottest thing, according to Hugh Jackman. As I say every year, it is very sad to see the dead folks come up individually on the screen and gauge the crowd reaction. Harold Pinter: lots of respectful applause… next, Arnold Joffe: who? Your legacy is enduring enough that you made it to the broadcast, but not enduring enough that anyone claps for you. So, y’know, nice try.

I have just been informed that sitting with a running computer on your lap is damaging to your sperm count. So now Mary-Kate Olsen has been shoved into my crotch.

Wolverine: “As you know, there is a new administration in Washington, and pretty soon, there will be a new one at the Academy.” Emma: And now a tribute to someone we’ve never heard of. Christine: And he’s going to lecture us about downloading. Wait, no, he just stood up and said nothing. Awesome!

REESE~! is here, wearing a parachuting harness…? We all suddenly realize that Witherspoon has stolen her personality from a hip-hop artist we know named C-Bake. Oh, wait, gotta get serious, it’s time for Best Director… and it’s not-Martin-Scorsese, Danny Boyle. These slumdogs are mopping the damned floor with the competition tonight. He gets onstage and leaps up and down in delerium. “My kids are too old to remember this now, but I told them that if this dream ever happened, I would celebrate in the spirit of Tigger.” He evidently loves his wife and children. Geez, you’ve got no place in Hollywood, pal.

He then addresses the city of Mumbai, saying a bunch of nice things. Do the kids who were plucked out of the actual slums to star in the movie even have television sets?

Christine, speaking of Helen Mirren: The best ta-tas of any 60-year-old in the business.

Now it’s time for the Best Actress Justice League. Sophia Loren is among them. Christine: Those are some good ta-tas too! Am I spelling “ta-tas” properly? Anne Hathaway better win this fucking award. Anne Hathaway better win this fucking award. Anne Hathaway better win this fucking award. Anne Hathaway better win this fucking award. My Christ, Sophia Loren is a cyborg. Anne Hathaway better win this fucking award. And the award goes to Anne Ha– Kate fucking Winslet. She apparently has “giant nipples”. “I have made this speech before, but I was eight years old and talking into the bathroom mirror, and this [statue] was a shampoo bottle… this isn’t a shampoo bottle.” She looks for her dad in the crowd, tells him to whistle, he does and she loses her shit. He has a giant hat. Christine and Emma are disgustingly in love with this acceptance speech.

Emma: That was good.
Christine: That WAS good. Better than The Reader.

Anne, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But if you need a shoulder to cry on, you know who to call. That number at the bottom of all those letters, call it. No restraining order can keep us apart. It doesn’t matter who put the order on who, that’s all details. All that matters now is… well, call me, and I’ll let you know.

What the fuck am I talking about?

Emma, as Sophia Loren, speaking to the crowd: My tits cost more than your entire life.

Good, I’m not the only one who’s lost his mind during the course of this program.

Now it’s time for the Best Actor Justice League. De Niro: “How did he do it? How did Sean Penn get all those jobs over the years playing a straight man?” Bam. Adrien Brody looks like he’s a hairnet short of slinging over-salted onion rings at some place called Dipsy’s. Anthony Hopkins tells us all sorts of great things about Brad Pitt — Shania Twain is still not impressed. Mickey Rourke now has sunglasses and, I assume, about two and a half hours of outer-space travel under his belt. The rather-obvious parallels between Rourke and his character in The Wrestler are drawn out… but, oh well, The Ram is down for the count, ’cause this one’s going to Sean Penn.

Everyone is cheering for Sean Penn. His response: “You commie, homo-loving sons of guns.” Fucker stole my line. “I know how hard I make it to appreciate me. But I am touched by the appreciation tonight.” He takes out what appears to be a receipt from Whole Foods, on which he’s scribbled the names of the people he’s supposed to thank. Rush Limbaugh is conspicuously absent from this list. “I think that it is time for those who voted for the ban on gay marriage to think about their shame and the shame they’re visiting on their grandkids if they continue thinking this way. It’s time for equal rights, etc. etc.” Crowd cheers. “I’m glad to live in a country willing to elect an elegant man President.” Crowd cheers. They really are commie, homo-loving sons of guns.

“Please welcome the guy I’ve been trying to impress all night with my fake Australian accent,” says Wolverine, introducing Steven Spielberg. Emma: He’s so gay. HOLY SHIT HE’S PRESENTING FOR BEST PICTURE BRING THIS BABY HOME!!!!!11one. Video montage of this year’s nominees interspersed with previous winners. Y’know, everyone I’ve heard say anything about The Reader says it’s crap, why the hell is it nominated? Oh well, Slumdog is going to win anyway.

And your 2009 winner for Best Picture is, as has been pre-ordained by the gods… Slumdog Millionaire. Christine: The one movie with no Western stars. She’s right! Suck on this, you overpaid, paparazzi-attracting devils! Oh look, half the population of Mumbai is on stage to accept the award. “When we started, we had no stars, we had no power or muscle, but what we did have was…” — well, I zoned out here. Good cast and crew, I assume. And with a few inspiring words from the producer, we’re outta here!

Wolverine: “Once again, congratulations to all of tonight’s nominees and winners.” But stick around because they’re going to show some trailers? No dice, Jackman. I’ve had quite enough, thank you. And that, as they say, is that.

Closing thoughts, ladies?
Emma: Are you done?
Christine: No straight man has a bouffant like that.

Such insight. There is probably something to be said for the fact that, during the aforementioned terrible recession that’s going on, the Academy Award for Best Picture went to a movie about a kid who grew up with no house and ended up stumbling ass-backwards into a happy life by winning money on a TV game show. If that’s not the new American Dream, I don’t know what is.

Thank you to my cohorts in this stupid endeavour. If you thought this year’s version sucked, too bad. I’m no longer capable of coherent thought or speech. I desperately need sleep. I know I say this every year, and I don’t want to get all gushy, but… I hate the Oscars. I really, really do. God damn. Good fucking night.

Addendum: There are almost certainly a bunch of typos and other errors in this post. And while I’m usually annoyingly picky about those sorts of things, I don’t yet feel ready to slog through this behemoth of nonsense to identify and fix them. So, deal with it.