The Daily* Squizz

Remember that old episode of The Simpsons where the family visits Australia? There’s a scene where a koala bear climbs up an electrical pole and touches the transformer, receiving a painful electric shock. Undeterred, the bear grabs the box again, receiving another shock that singes his fur and sends him hurtling to the ground below. A moment later, we see that the koala — rather than leaving well enough alone — is climbing back up the pole, presumably to inflict more self-punishment. That poor, dumb animal just never learns that an unpleasant activity will never yield a pleasant result.

On that note, welcome to Oscar Report 2010, my sixth annual recap of all things Oscar. And by “all things” I mean stupid remarks about the awards show itself, with occasional social commentary and contributions from other folks in the room. Guests today include Grant, returning from the 2008 edition, and Emma, an alumnus of 2007 and 2009.

As a nod to my Luddite past (and present, I suppose), I’m kicking it old school with this live blog… meaning, a lot of “clicking refresh” on your part! Join in on the nonsense by leaving a comment or hitting me up on Twitter @DailySquizz. Anything else? Oh yeah, I’ve been fighting the stomach flu (which isn’t a real thing, but that’s what I’m calling it) for three days, so if there are any unexpected gaps in the blogging, well, you figure it out.

Alright, away we go!

Still brewing some preparatory chamomile tea and doing my best to avoid the pre-show garbage.

Oh my God, I just realized the red carpet starts at 8:00 and the real show doesn’t begin until 8:30. Balls to this, I’m going to cover whatever else is on TV until half-past.

Ooh, 300 is on! Y’know, Gerard Butler ain’t so bad, if all he has to do is yell and let CGI obscure his beer gut.

Who won Best Picture? Who won Best Picture? bellows Grant as he trundles into the apartment, extra-large bag of corn chips in hand. He doesn’t believe me when I tell him it’s 300.

Elsewhere on the television dial, the Maple Leafs are tied 1-1 with the Flyers about halfway through the second period in an utterly meaningless NHL game. I’m terrified by the fact that I could flip to the red carpet ceremony and probably recognize more people there than on the Leafs’ current roster.

My dilettante ways have been vetoed by Grant and newbie Jean, who’ve demanded we actually watch the red carpet, which is now going through the 10 (ten~!) nominated films for Best Picture. I don’t understand why The Blind Side is nominated, says Jean. Apparently Sandra Bullock is due, after all her hard work in the Hollywood trenches?

J-Lo is being interviewed, for some reason. Is Jennifer Lopez worthy of being at the Oscars? asks Grant. Is she still famous? I’m fascinated by his concept of fame expiry. He’s fascinated by “what the hell has happened” to Sarah Jessica Parker’s face.

Star Jones refers to Jeff Bridges as “yummy”. She’d have fewer weight problems if she stopped eating people.

Mark it down: 5:26 p.m. PT and Meryl Streep is drunk.
Or constipated, says Jean.

Oh boy, the pre-show is done, I can’t believe it! The 82nd Academy Awards are upon us! And my bowels are already clenching! In excitement, of course.

They’re bringing back the Justice League panel approach of introducing nominees for Best Actor and Best Actress. I love you Colin! is Emma’s first contribution to the fray.

If Christoph Waltz doesn’t win for Best Supporting Actor, Grant is jumping out the window.

HOLY FUCK DOOGIE HOWSER IS HOSTING? No one in the room seems sure, but he croons “no one thinks Botox without you all”. +1 for the show already.

So, yeah, lots of sequins and Neil Patrick Harris in a sparkly suit to open; now actual hosts Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin descend from the heavens.

Martin: “Meryl Streep holds the record for most nominations as an actress or, as I like to think of it, most losses.” And she’s shown in the audience doing the “d’oh!” face. She’s winning something. I anxiously await the sloshed acceptance speech.

Martin: “What’s (The Last Station) about?” Baldwin: “It’s about Leo Tolstoy and his wife Sofia.” Martin: “Oh Alec, you should have said ’spoiler alert!’” What the hell does that mean? asks Grant.

Martin: “You know, Gabourey Sidibe and I have something in common. We were both born a poor black child.” Isn’t that joke recycled from either Ellen DeGeneres or Jon Stewart?

Martin: “In Inglorious Basterds, Christoph Waltz plays a Nazi obsessed with finding Jews. Well, Christoph…” extends arms to the crowd, “… the motherlode!”

OK, there was too much in there to figure out. Onto our first award, presented by Penelope Cruz, for Best Supporting Actor. Her dress is playing a rather admirable supporting role at the moment, I must say. We’re going to find out right away whether or not Grant must defenstrate himself. He doesn’t; it’s Christoph Waltz. He just gave Penelope Cruz his phone number, suggest Grant. Waltz compares Quentin Tarantino to a “new continent”; those countries would have one groovy soundtrack, to be sure.

Van Wilder Ryan Reynolds is here to deliver a heartfelt, poorly-lit soliloquy telling us what The Blind Side. Oh, and here’s a trailer for it. A little too late to make up anyone’s mind now, methinks.

Interesting link: Top 10 Actors Who Haven’t Won An Oscar. At number six, Jeff Bridges. He may get his chance tonight. Think the ship has sailed for James Dean, though.

Cameron Diaz and Steve Carell are here to awkwardly interact. “When you are as beautiful as Cameron and I, it’s somewhere between irony and tragedy to appear in films where no one can see our faces.” Somewhere Between Irony and Tragedy: The Steve Carell Story. The award is for Best Animated Picture, which goes to Up, of course. Wow, I didn’t know that former NBA star Steve Kerr directed the movie.

An overly-tanned Miley Cyrus and an under-tanned Amanda Seyfried are here for something or other. Miley Cyrus terrifies Grant. She apparently looks like a fembot. Especially with those tits, says Emma. Am I legally allowed to type that? The award for Best Song went to something from Crazy Heart; Emma is glad to be back in her Oscar pool for picking this one, after inexplicably betting against Waltz for Best Supporting Actor. One of the award recipients is called “T-Bone”; he’s eight feet tall and wearing sunglasses. The nickname suits him much better than it does George Costanza.

Commercial-time info, via Grant, apparently The Rum Diaries by Hunter S. Thompson is being brought to the big screen and will star Johnny Depp. If that’s true, two words: fucking awesome.

He IS right! Fucking awesome!

Tina Fey and a hangover-sunglasses-and-giant-bowtie-wearing Robert Downey Jr. are here. Downey refers to writers as “sickly little mole people” in the buildup to presenting for Best Original Screenplay. That was the best interplay so far, says Emma of Fey and Downey. I agree; with those two involved, how could it not be? Winner is The Hurt Locker, and I think I’m four-for-four in the pool so far. Oh baby. The award recipient is wringing the statuette like a lemonade-soaked washcloth.

Matthew Broderick and Some Ginger Woman With Broad Shoulders are here to talk about something dour, it sounds like. Holy fuck, is it Molly Ringwald?!?! Oh… they’re talking about John Hughes. Well, now that makes sense, since his death would be the only possible impetus for Molly Ringwald to find herself on an Oscar stage. And now cut to a montage of his films, portraying upbringings we all think we lived, but none of us did.

That’s why I like high school girls… says Grant, not realizing Hughes didn’t direct Dazed and Confused.

“What is Macaulay Culkin?” That’s your Jeopardy answer to the clue: “This is the combination of childhood as an actor, a young marriage and lots of blow.”

The film being discussed in the room here at the moment is Night at the Museum. Clearly, this year’s crop of Oscar contenders are utterly enrapturing.

Carrie Mulligan and Zoe Saldana, neither of whom I could pick out of a police lineup, are wearing preposterous dresses and being forced to walk down stairs. Mulligan appears to be going for the Kirsten Dunst circa 2005 look. (And with that comment, I believe I’m forced to official relinquish my “only watching this ironically without paying any actual attention to it” card. Fuck.) Anyway, the girls aren’t here to play Rock Em Sock Em Robots; rather, they’re presenting for Best Animated Short, which goes to everyone’s favourite (for all I know), Logorama. Accepting is Nicholas Schmerkin, who’s hopefully not wearing a merkin.

Salma Hayek is also drunk.

The ladies stick around for Best Documentary Short which, presumably, doesn’t have any nominees with characters that look like Wallace and Gromit. Winner is Music by Prudence. An effeminate African-American man is interrupted by a fat, Jewish grandmother with red hair who babbles until they both get played off the stage. Oscar gold!

The ladies make it a trifecta by presenting for Best Live Action Short, which goes to The New Tenants. The clips show that it has Vincent D’Onofrio, and if it has any “bags full of bars of soap” scenes, it deserves the award! The pair of recipients receive approximately 6.5 seconds for their speech.

Ben Stiller is dressed up like a Navi from Avatar and talking in their click-language. My parents are at home right now watching this and are very confused, says Jean. Stiller is presenting for Best Makeup, and says it’s ironic that he’s dressed up as an Avatar character, since the flick isn’t even nominated. Yes! Thank you! A proper use of “irony”! Thank you! Stiller says he wants to plug his braid into James Cameron’s dragon. And gay men the world over suddenly have a sparkling new euphemism to use.

Star Trek wins, giving me a chance to mock Emma for picking the crappy other nominee with men in mutton chops. She responds by opening a beer.

A commercial break gives us the opportunity to ruminate on the differences between waterboarding and Chinese water torture… as in, which is more comparable to the experience of watching the entire Oscars broadcast?

Rachel McAdams and Donnie Darko Jake Gyllenhaal are out to present for Best Adapted Screenplay. Winner is Precious, which, in case you hadn’t heard, is based on the novel “Push” by Sapphire. What a fucking annoying name for a film. And for an author. I hate this award. “I don’t know what to say,” says award recipient. Well, find words somehow, says Emma, without empathy. This gap-toothed man’s delivery is enthralling. Give him a good slogan and he’s got a seat in Congress waiting for him.

Queen Latifah (born Dana Elaine Owens, if you’re interested) is here for something. Jean makes the valid point that if The Rock transitioned to being called Dwayne Johnson after moving from wrestling to acting, why the hell is Queen Latifah still going by her rap name, now that she’s full Hollywood? Oh, and everyone’s standing up for something or other. I don’t really care.

Robin Williams makes a testicle joke. Whoo, sign him up for something! His role tonight is presenting for Best Supporting Actress. I realize they always give this award to a relative unknown with a foreign-sounding name. Ah, well, it’s Mo’Nique. “Sometimes you have to forgo doing what’s popular, to do what’s right.” Could that be an allusion to President Obama’s current trials and tribulations? And after Mo’Nique said she was glad the award-presenting wasn’t political.

Colin Firth is here. I love you Colin! says Emma, for the second time.

Sigourney Weaver is here — and makes a requisite reference to Alien — though I’m not sure what else she’s saying, as Grant and Emma are debating the relative merits of types of Tylenol. Avatar wins for something. One of the technical categories. Oh, it’s Art Direction. One of the recipients says to James Cameron “Your vision is so deep…” (long pause) How deep is it? No one remembers Match Game.

Sarah Jessica Parker and Some Fashion Guy Who Emma Wishes Wasn’t Gay are here to present for Best Costume Design. Orange Lady is back! says Jean, and that’s her closing remark as he heads off into the night. Lucky her. The winner is The Young Victoria. The recipient is wearing watercoloured material. Emma sees a trend. I wonder if the medication I’m taking is causing hallucinations.

OK, commenting peeps, here’s one for you: they’ve gone back to saying “and the winner is…” rather than “the Oscar goes to…” Thoughts?

Bella and Jacob are out. Fuck you, werewolf! And they’re throwing to… a tribute to horror movies? Not to any film in particular, just the genre? Very good question tweeted by Oscar Report alumnus Ian: “Are tributes to John Hughes and horror movies as opposed to people we don’t really know part of Oscars’ new more accessible vibe?”

Zac Efron and Some Girl are here to present for Sound Editing. No one really understands the art, apparently, so Morgan Freeman is doing a voiceover to explain how it was done on the set of last year’s winner, The Dark Knight. Y’know, if the Academy really wants us to respect these lesser categories, maybe cut down on the “Ben Stiller chasing his tail” time, and give more time to these recipients for their acceptance speeches. Just sayin’.

Winning flick is The Hurt Locker. Recipient is a giant Nordic man who is apparently well-loved by various audience members, based on their reactions.

And now we go right into naming the nominees for Sound Mixing. Also goes to The Hurt Locker. Same guy. I’m too busy yelling at Grant to know what he said.

Elizabeth Banks is the requisite “hot woman used to sex up the recap of the Sci-Tech Awards”. Oh God, it’s not even a recap, just a perfunctory nod to their existence. That’s sad.

Martin: “Say hello to my long-time dear friend — and by that I mean I’ve never met her…” Sandra Bullock. She’s doing an awful lot to look 27. Best Cinematography goes to Avatar, shockingly. Typical they’d give it to that Jew, James Cameron! says Grant. The award is accepted by some guy named Mauro Fiore. Another very Semitic-sounding name.

Demi Moore is here. Is there anyone else in the world named Demi? asks Emma. Grant has now stopped watching the show and is instead using his BlackBerry to check Oscar-related tweets. This technological feedback loop has become ridiculous. James Taylor is paying musical tribute to this year’s dead list. I’m guessing he narrowly beat out Lil’ Wayne for this gig.

Grant muses, as he did last year, about whether Alan Thicke will make the dead list when he kicks it. Well, I’ll probably still be doing this blog, so, we’ll see.

Jennifer Lopez and Sam Worthington are here to make us ask Grant’s question from earlier, why is J-Lo still around? Emma refers to Worthington as “the new Heath Ledger”. Well, let’s take a look at his big roles so far. Terminator Salvation, didn’t know if he was a man or a machine. Avatar, didn’t know if he was a man or a giant Smurf. The Dark Knight 2, doesn’t know if he’s a man or a clown? Could work.

Oh, and there’s weird interpretive dance crap going on at the Oscars, including a man poppin’ and lockin’.
He’s popping, says Emma.
He’s what? asks Grant.
Popping?
He’s popping.
Holy snap, he’s popping alright. Look at his arms!

There was a lot of dancing there. Whoopie doo. As Ian asks on @MetroMovies, “People are applauding the dancing and not even paying attention to the music. It kind of undermines the whole category, doesn’t it?” Agreed. Best Original Score goes to Up, if anyone’s wondering. Man tells inspiring story about getting into movies. Apparently his parents reinforced to him that doing what he liked doing was not a waste of time. I wish I had such role models.

Gerard Butler and Bradley Cooper are here for a tribute to smug smirking, starring the two of them. Or, rather, to present for Outstanding Visual Effects. Gee, wonder who might take this one? Do I even need to tell you? Really? James Cameron’s wife kinda looks like Alien, says Emma. I read this interview with James Cameron, and he sounds like a total asshole, says Grant. I realize he works very hard and he’s committed to his vision, but he comes across as a total cock.

MATT DAMON gives the Best Documentary Feature nod to The Cove. An old man holds up a sign telling us to text DOLPHIN to 44144. I hope it’s not some sort of sexting scam. “hey babee hows ur blowhol?”

Tyler Perry is here and Grant, for some reason, was expecting the lead singer of Aerosmith. That’s Steven Tyler, Grant. The Hurt Locker wins for Best Editing. Holy Christ, The Hurt Locker is cleaning up! No kidding. My “pick Avatar for everything” approach in the office pool may be backfiring. The dude accepting is a crossover between a shaggy Ben Stiller and Dustin Hoffman from Rain Man.

Pedro Almodovar and Quentin Tarantino are here to gush about each other’s work, and to present for Best Foreign Language Film. I wonder if they have a similar category at the Bollywood Oscars. And now I wonder, are there Bollywood Oscars? And does Jennifer Lopez inexplicably show up at them every year too? The Secret In Their Eyes, from Argentina, wins. Recipient: “I want to thank the Academy for not considering Navi a foreign language.” That’s the funniest crack tonight, and none of the douche-cracks in the studio audience laugh, because it’s not pre-scripted teleprompter tripe. Nimrods.

Oh, but then they laugh and clap at more painful banter between Martin and Baldwin, of which there’s mercifully been little thus far.

OK, Roger Ebert just tweeted that the winner of Best Editing usually goes on to win Best Picture. Things are looking up (even more so) for The Hurt Locker…

The big Justice League setup of five folks are here to talk up the nominees for Best Actor. Michelle Pfeiffer describes Jeff Bridges. He looks like he slept with her, and now he’s thinking about it, muses Grant. He kinda does. And why wouldn’t he? But now Bridges is crying. Hmm. Vera Farmiga is chattin’ up George Clooney, describing the pressure that comes with playing his love interest. G-Cloo is also on starting to well up. He’s gonna cry too! They’re all gonna cry! says Emma. Clooney is not capable of tears! says Grant. I think he’s wrong.

Julianne Moore is now telling us how great Colin Firth is. I see some moisture in his eyes. Yep, we’re three-for-three on the eye-wetting count. Emma makes another reference to her desire to have sex with Colin Firth. Tim Robbins is doing the spiel about Morgan Freeman, who Grant wishes was his grandpa. Is he crying too? “Morgan, I’m always proud to call you my friend… when you’ll take the call.” Colin Farrell is last, thankfully, to talk about a trip he took to Mexico with Jeremy Renner, a trip that all of us in the room agree that we’d have very much like to have gone along on.

Finally, to actually present the damned award, here’s Kate Winslet. It’s Jeff Bridges. Scratch him off the never-won list. “Thank you, Academy members!” That says it all. Oh, but he’s saying more. “Thank you, mom and dad, for turning me on to such a groovy profession.”

Now it’s time for Best Actress. Oh Christ, they’re doing the Justice League thing for these nominees too. It’s too late for me to be bothered with this crap. Talking talking talking blah blah blah, summarizes Emma.

Sorry, when I said earlier that Sandra Bullock was trying hard to look 27, I meant she was trying hard to look like Jennifer Connolly.

Oprah talks about Gabourey Sidibe’s new career ahead of her. Nope, win or lose, Precious is the beginning and the end for this girl. Unless there’s a Precious sequel.

Sean Penn very weirdly staggers through his introduction of the nominees. What the fuck was I thinking, picking Helen Mirren in my office pool? She probably finished fifth in voting. The winner is… Sandra Bullock. Fucking hell.

“Did I really earn this, or did I just wear y’all down?” +1 to her for self-awareness.

Thankfully Meryl Streep is drunk enough to not be too worried about the loss.

Barbra Streisand is here to hopefully not sing. That stage is sexist, says Emma. The whole awards show is sexist, says Grant. The whole world is sexist, folks. “Tonight, for the first time, the winner of the following award could be a woman…” applause “or an African-American…” applause. Racist, too! It’s going to be Best Director here, y’all, which means this train is almost in the station, thank the sweet Lord. The winner is Kathryn Bigelow.

I’m glad she won, says Emma. It’s ’cause you’re sexist. Sure am. Grant is less enthused. Chicks are running away with this whole fucking awards show! First best actress, now this. He’s also unenthused that Bigelow has larger biceps than he does. That’s what personal trainers and nutritionists will do for you, Grant. His personal nutritionist has been on vacation for 12 years.

Holy snap, they’re wrapping things up! Tom Hanks is here to present for Best Picture! With absolutely no delay, he announces The Hurt Locker as the winner. Holy shit. He didn’t even list the nominees. Is this real, or just a set-up? Nope, they’re up there. Was that ad-libbing by Hanks?

Martin and Baldwin exchange a few words, and that’s it! We’re done! What a lean, mean, relatively streamlined show. Minimal bullshit from the hosts, minimal song-and-dance bullshit, no stupid running theme… still an overly long, resplendent circle-jerk by thespians living in a different stratosphere than the rest of us, but they, that’s Hollywood! And I’m out! Goodnight everyone!