But I felt fine while I was eating the macaroni and cheese at my parents' house last night while watching the Oscars. As usual, the broadcast was an embarrassing exercise in awkwardness, narcissism, and tone-deafness, lacking this year even a really good host. Well, truth be told, Anne Hathaway was adorable. I've always liked her as an actress but now I want to hang out with her. I hope this is an indicator of a relatively fun Catwoman.
Right from the beginning, watching her and James Franco, I observed to my sister, "She's okay, but he's completely falling flat." My sister thought he was high and I don't think she's wrong. Danny Boyle should've been nominated just for keeping Franco clean long enough to make a movie.
I didn't see most of the nominated films this year, as usual. I was happy to see Christian Bale win--whatever you might think of that tape where he's going into a rage over an incompetent PA, the guy kills himself for his craft. There really aren't many actors who deserve recognition more than him.
It was weird seeing Trent Reznor in the context of winning an Academy Award. He's so healthy and respectable looking. I miss the days when he'd have gone onstage wearing torn fishnets, flour, and lipstick. Now he looks kind of like a young Harvey Weinstein.
But no-one looked more out of place than Bob Hope, projected as a green spectre on glass like one of the ghosts at the end of The Haunted Mansion, telling old, bad jokes with new names inserted by someone doing a bad, obvious impression. In a night of douche chills, that was a bucket of ice.