We begin today with a brief bit of navel-gazing, made more palatable by a) the fact that my navel, both literally and metaphorically, is so sightly and b) my keenly insightful, delightful prose style (ahem): I've been thinking a bit about my efforts to stay emotionally neutral about this year's Oscars and whether their diabolically banal nature will eventually frustrate those efforts and get me pissed off. The awards themselves won't do it, not this year. I really hope nothing else does.
That leaves All The Other Shit™, about which the crack staff of one crackhead here at Movies By Bowes has made an annual tradition of predicting as well. This covers, as the phrase “all the other shit” implies, all the other shit that isn't the awards themselves on the telecast Sunday. Without further ado, let us begin:
—Seth MacFarlane is hosting this year. If you're a fan of Seth MacFarlane, don't take this personally, but fuck Family Guy, fuck him, and fuck you. (Actually, I take that last part back. Transfer the “fuck you” from you over to him. But seriously, stop watching his shows, you're killing America.) It was one thing in its pre-first-cancellation phase when Family Guy was an intermittently amusing poor man's Simpsons. But his rise to first cult status and then mainstream stardom enabled MacFarlane's worst tendencies, namely his inability to write an actual joke and a fundamental misunderstanding of the relationship between privilege and humor. It's not rocket science: if you make fun of someone more privileged than you, it's satire. If you make fun of someone less privileged than you, you're a bully and a fucking asshole. Thus as an able-bodied white guy who is either straight or passing as, basing your reputation on jokes about non-able-bodied people makes you an asshole, and it's not funny. The shit about Asian and LGBT people in Ted was a fucking declaration of war. And it wasn't funny.
So. Unburdened of that particular rant, I predict that our anointed mediocrity finds himself a bit over his head, is drenched in flop sweat by midpoint of the broadcast, and says at least three truly hideous things about someone with less class privilege. Seriously, if there was anyone in the business overdue for a Fatty Arbuckle-style reputation apocalypse (without Virginia Rapp having to die this time, of course), it's this smirking fuck.
—Onto a less angry subject, and something that promises to be way funnier than the host: that gargantuan musical tribute number thingie where apparently the whole casts of the movies of Les Miz, Dreamgirls, and Chicago are going to be singing live onstage. Oh man, this has the potential to be lulziest clusterfuck in the history of the Oscars. First of all, with so many moving parts, it's going to take forever. Second, there's no way it's not going to suck. I mean, come on, it's just so ridiculous. In such an “Oscar show” way, too, like the interpretive dancing to burning cars or the Rob Lowe Snow White thing. Make sure you're either at an Oscar party with gay theatre people or start following a bunch of them on Twitter, because when that number happens you are going to hear some shit.
—Another annual tradition, the Cameron Diaz Brain Cell Memorial Award for the most stoned presenter (named after that one year when Cameron Diaz presented something so high she could barely read the teleprompter) this year is as big a lock as Best Actor, Best Supporting Actress, and Best Adele (the new name for Best Original Song, fuck y'all): Kristen Stewart. Watching the MTV Movie Awards this past year with Tor.com and Movie Mezzanine colleague Natalie Zutter, it was decided that Kristen Stewart, based on her comportment that evening, was thereafter to be known as Pinner, for being skinny, white, and full of weed. This award's K-Stew's to lose. (And, as always, I clarify that this is not a bad thing at all. It's just funny to watch a high person silently lose it with a billion people watching on TV.)
—This one is actually related to the awards themselves, but the stat people were giggling about earlier this week about Harvey Weinstein being thanked more than God or winners' moms is going to take a slight hit because there's a better-than-average chance that The Weinstein Company is going to get shut out completely. Peace, Harv. Sorry about that, homes.
—B-Fleck is going to spend more time on camera than the host.
—I know it's shitty to talk about it like this, but the Dead People Montage is wide open this year: the clean-up spot's probably between Nora Ephron and Ernest Borgnine. All's I know is, if Yash Chopra isn't in, India should retaliate by sending us Uday Chopra. (Hi there, all five people who got that joke.)
—Best acceptance speech: Emmanuelle Riva
—Best acceptance speech, runner-up: as always, one of the shorts directors.
—Anne Hathaway is going to be overwhelmed when she wins and people are going to climb up her ass about why is she crying and being so awkward when she knew she was going to win, but again, it's the rules. If you say anything bad about Anne Hathaway, you have to go fuck yourself. (Since that's the third time I've told you people to go fuck yourselves in one post, that'll be the last one, rule of three and all.)
—Do not, under any circumstances, play a drinking game where you have to do a shot every time your or someone else's predictions turns out to be wrong. This year's Oscars are so weird, you'll be dead before MacFarlane makes his tenth racist joke. (On this subject I'm pretty sure I already blew Costume Design and Sound Mixing. Neither of them even called me back the next day, either.)
—Something's gonna piss me off. Goddamn it.
Enjoy the Oscars this Sunday, everyone, either by watching, following on Twitter, or peaceing the fuck out and doing something else. I'll be back Monday with a wrap-up. Til then, y'all.