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Tuesday, Oct 7, 2008
It's the Oscars of Defensiveness (TM): Four-plus hours in which Hollywood tries to pretend it's not racist -- and Tom Cruise is revealed as that Scary Flaming Eye from "Lord of the Rings."
Mar 25, 2002 | After the reality check of Sept. 11 and its sobering aftermath, many people looked at the glitterati of Hollywood and said, "Can you explain why the fuck any of us ever thought YOU were so important?"
Well, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences seems to have mulled this question over, and this year it gave us the We're Justifying Our Existence Oscars.
I never questioned the Oscars before, but this year just the fact of them made me uneasy. Year round, we as a nation are already supposed to live vicariously through this rather rank stable of prefab actors, who live lives of ridiculous luxury and ease. We are exposed to their nightly hobnobbing, their sex lives, their hobbies, their alcoholism; we cannot escape.
"OK, that was entertaining," I thought, after seeing many of the nominated films. There were some good, solid movies, but nothing that I saw made me change my wicked ways. There were some fine, solid performances, but exactly how much are we supposed to adore good actors? Last night, these capable but already tremendously overcelebrated, over-rewarded people had their annual Imelda Marcos shoe-orgy of gratuitous overcelebration, gilding the gilded lily made of gold, again. We watched as people already morbidly overstuffed with congratulations vomited up all previous congratulations to make room for these, the best and biggest congratulations of all.
It is the gargantuan, ass-licking brainwash of the year, and We, the People With Televisions, are supposed to watch and enjoy it.
The Academy sensed this attitude was lurking like a murky cloud of spiritual unease over Middle Earth, and it is my (admittedly hostile) perception that they said to themselves, "Well, the Oscars are already fucked this year, so let's honor our Negroes! It's been a while. Call Whoopi."
I used to call it the "Noble Cripple and Spade Year" -- it comes around every five years or so. When the Oscar Winner's alumni circle starts to look like the meeting table in "Judgment at Nuremberg," the Academy devotes a year to not looking like racist, Aryan-celebrity-eugenics-worshipping, cracker peckerwoods, and either gives an Oscar for the best dribbling retard performance, or jerks us off with a big, obvious, Slather the African-Americans With Trophies orgy to make up for the previous insulting, five-to-seven-year stretch when barely anybody of color was recognized at all, for anything.
Look, I'm very glad when we finally honor our African-American artists. I just wish it happened a little more regularly, instead of in one big token Big Gulp: "See? We do too give them awards. Lots of them. See?" Let's stop treating our citizens of color like they are a separate people from us. If Sept. 11 showed us anything, it's that we're all Americans together, and our black friends are just as excellent at being overprivileged celebrity fuckwads as anybody else. Let's just bump up with this consciousness and be done with it.
I must warn the world about Tom Cruise. I feel he is an utterly terrifying Superior Life Form, with the power to melt heads and braid spines. His eyes are as hard, shiny and brutally penetrating as diamond drill-bits. The new braces on his teeth suggest that he is erasing all that remained of his tiny imperfections, and he is now metamorphosing into Ultra Super Perfection Man 3000. I fear his intense, mind-beating politeness, his titanium imperviousness to human weakness, his barking power-laugh.
"Movies make a little bit of magic touch our lives," he commanded us to acknowledge, with steely resolve and Mach-5 mega-humorlessness.
People in the audience started laughing, until they realized that Tom was Not Being Funny At All. He was chosen to frankly address the post-Sept. 11 whither-the-Oscars conundrum head-on. "Should we celebrate the magic the movies bring? Now?" Tom asked, his eyes boring into the eyes of the TV multitudes and implanting rays of total domination. "Dare I say it?" He flashed a smirk with his robotically flawless teeth. "More than EVER," he hissed, laying on his most Extreme Scientological Unction. He had been commanded by the Elders to Obi-Wan-Kenobi-ize the audience into rebelieving in the importance of the obscenely superfluous Oscars. Tom Cruise is becoming the Scary Flaming Eye from "The Lord of the Rings," and I fear that nobody can stop him.
The red carpet outside the theater looked a bit like the depths of Mordor. Today's actresses are so thin their shoulders look like arthritic knuckles. Jon Voight's face-lift looked like it had a Ziploc seam for easy reopening. Ryan O'Neal looks like he's spent the last couple of decades packing rich, chocolatey nougat into his neck. And J-Lo's time is up. The Anita Bryant hairdo only confirms that her primary support and advice is coming from the most snark-infested homosexuals in the showbiz style-world. J-Lo is J-L'Over. You can't have a big ass and sarcastic hair, not in that town.
Whoopi's hosting unfortunately sucked real hard. She phoned in her performance, like, from a cellphone from a parking garage in Guam. Her material was just awful, which was mainly surprising because the lines written for the presenters were, for the first time ever, actually pretty clever. Whoopi seemed to be resorting to Refreshing African-American Earthiness as opposed to actual humor, which I suppose the Academy thought was fitting for these, the Oscars of Defensiveness (aka Operation Hide Behind the Darkies).
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