And the Oscar Goes To...

Another February, another Oscar party at Keisha's. There was a banquet of good food, swag for everyone, a big basket of swag for the winner of her contest, and the by-now-traditional Oscar-shaped sugar cookies. For once, she didn't win my Oscar contest: this year, it was Shane, who got 16 right. I came in second with 15, and Keisha had 14. It all came down to the last two awards presented, so it was pretty exciting. At least, as exciting as the Oscars get.

There were absolutely no surprises this year. The only suspense was whether Martin Scorsese would finally win a Best Director Oscar. Poor Marty. I thought this would be his year, but he'll have to wait until his next movie. I actually think Clint Eastwood deserved it a tiny bit more, but come on. This is the Oscars, and as Clint could tell you, "deserve's got nothin' to do with it."

The half-assed attempts to make the show shorter were abject failures. Giving the awards from the audience? They only did it for two or three awards, and the only time saved was the time it took the winner to walk to the stage. Lining all the nominees up on stage like they were Miss America contestants? Again, the only time saved was the walking time. At least they didn't have that Bush relative talking people up from the audience, like they did last year.

Still, even if it was a tiny bit shorter, this telecast felt a lot choppier and awkward. What was with the stagehands caught onstage at the end of commercial breaks? There was usually at least one guy running his ass off trying to get out of the way. And what was with all the loud crashes and bangs that kept happening? Jeremy Irons got perhaps the only unscripted laugh of the night when he said "I hope they missed."

I have a suggestion on shortening the telecast: just sing one verse of the nominated songs. I don't need to hear another Glen Fucking Ballard ballad sung by the flavor of the month. I don't need to hear Beyonce bey-utchering songs in foreign languages. I don't need to hear Antonio Banderas performing a song when the dude who performed it in the movie is sitting in the audience. The producers must have had a conversation that went something like this: "Nobody knows this dude." "People know Antonio Banderas, and he's Spanish." "Yeah, and we'll have Carlos Santana play along with him." "But he's Mexican, not Spanish." "Close enough." I felt bad for the guy who wrote the song, but I'm glad his acceptance speech consisted of singing a verse.

The women's dresses were all boring, as were the men's tuxedos—all except one. Thank you, Prince, for being yourself.

And then there was Chris Rock. Chris, I hope you enjoyed your stay, but please don't expect to be invited back. A lot of his jokes were mean-spirited instead of the good-natured ribbing that the Oscars expect and accept. He criticized the producers for cutting off the short film dude's acceptance speech. But most importantly, at least for me, he wasn't really funny. He was a big disappointment. I say bring Steve Martin back.