One of the most powerful and darkly humorous lines in the movie The Descendants is when George Clooney says to a friend of his dying wife: “You were putting lipstick on a corpse”.
That is exactly how I feel after watching The Academy honor The Artist with five Oscars for a black and white silent movie.
The 1920s, along with most people who were born during that era, are dead. Why should we honor something so dull and melodramatic? I fell asleep every single time I tried to watch the anointed front runner. There was no little tap dance for my Joie de Vivre for this golden age movie.
Clooney was robbed. Meryl Streep snatched the Oscar milk for Thatcher. Octavia Spencer was a guarantee for The Help, as was Christopher Plummer in the Beginners playing a man who comes out as gay after his wife of 40 years dies. The chair is not gay. The writing awards went to the right people.
Apart from that it was the usual predictable, over-anticipated snooze fest it always proves to be. Right now, across Hollywood, stupid Americans will be laughing and giggling in unison as a bunch of Frenchmen pull silly faces with a peculiar accents. Hollywood is so cheap.
The only other filmmaker from France to win the directing Oscar is The Pianist creator Roman Polanski, who was born in France, moved to Poland as a child and has lived in France since fleeing Hollywood in the 1970s on charges he had sex with a 13-year-old girl.
Let’s hope it is another 30 years before we honor anything like this again. The Oscars, for the first time ever, will likely be beaten by the Grammys when the viewing figures for this 3-hour television aghast are released.
If only Miss Piggy could have drowned in the bath the night before after one too many prescription drugs, things would have been very different.
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