Regarding Oscar

Debra J. Dickerson, author of "The End of Blackness" and "An American Story," is a columnist for Salon
Jennifer Hudson didn't win an Oscar last night. She won "American Idol," finally. I love everything about Sister-Girl -- her body, her down-home 'tude, her humility and, of course, that voice. I was so angry when she got voted off "Idol" that I briefly considered violence, but that doesn't make the girl a good actress. Cate Blanchett and Adriana Barraza were so amazing in their agonizing roles, I could barely watch, but I had to look away from "Dreamgirls" for a different reason; when Beyoncé and Jennifer were singing, they took me to another planet. When they were "acting," they sent me out for more popcorn. America loves to vindicate heroes cheated of their rightful prize, but this was a slap in the face to the craft of acting. Hudson deserves a Grammy, not this.

Still, she has been classy beyond belief through it all; Hudson's acceptance speech had all the grace that Halle Berry's embarrassing screech lacked five years ago (and the shout-out to Jennifer Holliday, who originated the role, ought to get Hudson into heaven). Here's hoping she spends the rest of her career earning Sunday night's award.

Andrew O'Hehir, Salon critic/columnist
It's unseemly for any movie fan to complain about an Oscar ceremony where the greatest living American filmmaker finally wins the best-picture and best-director awards. Even if those awards arrive 20 (if not 30) years after his best work. And even if said greatest living American filmmaker now resembles a garden gnome more than a human being.

But the borderline embarrassment of watching Martin Scorsese squint out at that crowd, like the baby owl who knew his mommy would come home -- squired by Francis Coppola, George Lucas and Steven Spielberg, who in late middle age have become Chianti-swilling, tux-wearing Hollywood fat boys, visually indistinguishable from the studio big shots against whom they once, back in the Pleistocene epoch, rose in rebellion -- was par for the course at the 79th Oscars. It was a crisply managed telecast that ran flatulently long, an exercise in bogus modesty and sincere self-congratulation, a seamless celebration of celebrity in which the awards, Chris Connelly's irritating interstitial backstage chitter-chat and the commercials (loaded with stars and movie-joke references) flowed together in a viscous ooze of knowingness.

In fairness, the winners were an interesting and varied group of films and performers -- and from a certain perspective, that might seem to be the point. If the biggest prize went to a mainstream entertainment loaded with movie stars ("The Departed"), the principal acting awards went to interesting people, whether long-slogging vets like Helen Mirren, Forest Whitaker and Alan Arkin or a sassy, scene-wrecking newcomer like Jennifer Hudson, who may not be much of a thespian but made sure that God felt adequately thanked for all things wonderful. (Her eyelashes and her gown were not explicitly mentioned, but I would like to take a moment to acknowledge God for setting in motion the chemical processes that made those possible too.) So we tasted a robust, well-modulated Arabica blend of 2005-style indie cred and classic Tinseltown glamour, not quite fully middlebrow but not too arty either. Hollywood has become Starbucks. (So has everything else, but that's a more complicated argument.)

Ellen DeGeneres made the right host for these not-quite-middlebrow Oscars; she was capable, crisp and cheerful, if only occasionally funny. Her suits were OK in a hip-school-administrator mode, although the white shoes during the opening monologue were a mistake. In fact the fashions in general were pretty dowdy; few gowns stood out as either outrageously hot (Cate Blanchett, perhaps) or egregiously awful (Cameron Diaz). If a memo went around Bel Air and Brentwood and Beverly Hills before this ceremony, it basically said: A temporary truce has been called in the culture wars; let's make nice with America.

Right-wing commentators may be up in arms about the Al Gore lovefest and the climate-change preachiness. (They, and everybody else, should be angry about that execrable Melissa Etheridge song and the shockingly bad musical numbers in general.) But hating Bush and loving Gore, and feeling that, doggone it, we really have to do something about all that darned climate change, are safe middle-of-the-road positions circa winter 2007. Nobody mentioned Iraq the whole night (other than in the title of a nominated documentary). Nobody even thought about Barack Obama or Hillary Clinton, and praise Allah, or Al, or somebody for that. Ellen joshed briskly with Leo and Clint and Marty and vacuumed under Penélope Cruz's tent-size dress. Will Smith introduced a pointless montage whose message was: The movies love America! This was a nice, safe, friendly Oscars, and it held the anxiety and depression at bay, at least some of the time.

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