When the tiny multi-ethnic children have stopped singing and Gwneth Paltrow has arrived home, blissfully unaware of her complete lack of dignity, you know another Oscar night has come and gone. And now, two days later and in a blatantly desperate effort to not write about Charlie Sheen, I have my thoughts.
Monday Oscar talk tends to come in three tiers: those who deride the Oscars as meaningless or bad, those who deride those who deride the Oscars as meaningless or bad, and those who deride those who deride those who deride the Oscars as meaningless or bad. It’s very complicated. I don’t think the Oscars was any better or worse than it has been before. Complaining about the Oscars is like complaining about SNL. It’s hackneyed, fruitless, and with a cloudy, misguided hindsight bias. They’re always long, they’re always dull, and the movies that win were never as good as the movies you think should win. We get it.
One thing was abundantly clear: Hathaway carried Franco on her back like a dead soldier. Whether or not she was successful is moot. The guy gave her nothing, and I am 95% sure this was another “performance art piece” for him.
However you felt about the Oscars, just know this - if not by the grace of a higher power and the gods of time, it could have been way worse.
That’s not a parody. That’s not anything. That’s just singing the song from the movie and saying “host” a bunch of times. Jesus, Vilanch.