Hollywood gets humble

Feb. 26, 2007 | It was a dramatic reversal for these Academy Awards, right from the jump.

This Oscar night was marked by its unusual candor and humility. For once, the red carpet was actually vacuumed, as opposed to simply being a vacuum.

The stars -- epitomized by the bountiful and irresistibly deserving Jennifer Hudson -- seemed intent on demonstrating that they were all just good, decent, regular folk who happened to have the good sense and thrift to reupholster an old, sturdy and traditional approach to their careers: professionalism. These stars seemed out to rehabilitate Hollywood, after its grisly collapse from a monthlong tabloid overdose, and remind us that fame, when it is functional, is something that arises from actual talent.

Stars are supposed to be abnormally gifted, yet so normal seeming that they are somehow supernormal. It seemed that even the biggest and most perennial stars were working their "normalness" like the family minivan.

Helen Mirren, who has been a star for decades, described herself as "just a girl from Essex"; Forest Whitaker, too, was "just a kid from Texas."

In a red-carpet interview, Ryan Gosling attributed his good fortune in being nominated for best actor to his mother's needlepoint sentiment that "if you're making the decision for money, you're making the wrong decision.'"

There was refreshing honesty. Leonardo DiCaprio, on the red carpet, commented, apropos of "Blood Diamond," that it was "rare within the studio system that you get to do a movie with something important to say."

Ooooh! Hey! What's going on? That wasn't the Entertainment Industrial Complex party line! And he wasn't even arrested or anything!

Welcome to the all-new Celebrity 2.0: We're exactly like you (only talented).

Seriously: If this is a sea change, it's a good one, because things were starting to get pretty hideola under the old Hollywood sign.

It is a sign that society has lost its way when our fragile Hollywood coal-mine canaries start imagining, en masse, that they can beat depression and recover their lost charisma if they just remove their eyelids, get another nose job, and eat nothing but methadone for a while.

Nicole Kidman's motionless face looked like it recently had more needles in it than a saguaro cactus.

"You can't think of [walking the red carpet] as important ... It's almost a cancerous idea if you allow yourself to need it," said Will Smith, who, sadly, seemed to be needing it, despite his best efforts. Will Smith is starting to get that not-so-Fresh Prince feeling.

His wife Jada's forceful, toothy bark laughing evokes neither happiness nor fun, but I do recall seeing similar athleticism in footage of an alligator eating a live pelican.

But Oscar was out to make a difference: This year, he even wore eco-conscious green. Overall, this was a kinder, homier Oscar celebration. It was a little boring and flabby, but well intentioned -- just like its host, Ellen DeGeneres.

Ellen took a contrary approach and went for a casual feel ... too casual. Her red velour leisure suit would have looked right at home playing the Wurlitzer for the State Farm Senior Golf Classic.

It appears that hosting daytime TV, in some cases, retards the part of the brain responsible for selecting eveningwear. It was a relief when Ellen changed, midway through, into a slightly more upscale, all white, Usher-esque ensemble, but her third and final outfit of the evening looked like she'd bribed it off of one of the busboys at Musso & Frank's. With bigger mutton chops, she'd have been a dead ringer for Isaac from "The Love Boat."

There seemed to be a subtle social-consciousness-boosting leitmotif suggesting that the night was occupied by Jodie Foster's army, and Thesbians were this year's minority elect.

But I don't care if you're male, female, gay, straight, all or none of the above: While getting dressed to host the Oscars, ask yourself: "Can I wear this to go bowling?" If the answer is yes, then you're much too comfortable and must change.

But OK, she sure does know how to make her audience feel all warm and snuggly, as if they've just been swaddled in polar fleece and given a big bowl of chocolatey Klonopin Puffs.

While wandering through the intimidatingly A-list audience, chock-full of her wonky, trademark Yep! I sure am me! silliness, Ellen proved that Ellen is always just Ellen, and always just talks about Ellen.

Exclusively Ellen.

Next page: Gwyneth the Creamsicle! Jack's bald head!