Allegiance, Awarded.
It's probably pointless to speculate on why, exactly, a much-hyped event stank to high heaven. But what the heck, here goes: the zeitgeist triple-threat of the ongoing war in Iraq, the upcoming presidential race and the FCC's hypocritical anger over Janet Jackson's mammary gland combined to put the fear of god (or network censors) in the show's writers, producers, nominees, winners and presenters. Everybody onscreen just wanted to be loved; failing that, they wanted not to be hated. If neither outcome proved likely, they would settle for not being noticed. Last year's Oscars?a Molotov cocktail that mouthy best-documentary-winner Michael Moore threatened with a blowtorch?seemed to have occurred a long, long time ago, perhaps during the much-fabled 60s. Ditto the more somber 2002 Oscars, which at least had heft and style, thanks to Woody Allen's surprise appearance to introduce a tribute to New York City.
This was like an Oscars telecast from about 1982. Even the 1998 awards, which were boringly dominated by Titanic just as Sunday's awards were boringly dominated by The Return of the King, had more zip. An aura of anxiety fluttered just beneath the event's glittery surface. This was the first Oscars telecast to be presented with a five-second delay. ABC said the delay was installed purely to guard against surprise eruptions of foul language or nudity (Crystal's copious skin during the opening montage apparently didn't count); First Amendment worrywarts had to be reassured by the network that political statements would not be bleeped. Still, nobody seemed terribly inclined to test that theory. Aside from best documentary winner Errol Morris, who confessed fears that the United States was going down the Vietnam-era "rabbit hole" again, and best actor winner and right-wing punching bag Sean Penn, who briefly savored the fact that the presidential administration he was publicly vilified for doubting last year had thus far failed to locate WMDs in Iraq, most participants in the telecast steered clear of politics. For that matter, they steered clear of provocative humor, profanity, sexual innuendo, bitterness, jealousy or outrage?and anything that might suggest they were anything other than a gratefully mute, timecard-punching employee of the entertainment industry.
Alec Baldwin of The Cooler, caught on camera at this year's Golden Globes looking pissed over losing the Best Supporting actor award to Mystic River cast member Tim Robbins, made sure to don his most convincing "I'm just happy to be nominated" face Sunday night in the event that history repeated itself. It did, and Robbins, a showboating lefty who rarely passes up the opportunity to convert a podium into a soapbox, barely transgressed the usual mind-numbing list of thank-you's. His only political statement was a generalized plea for child abuse victims to get help and talk about their experiences. (The comment wasn't a Barbara Walters moment; Robbins got his Oscar for playing an abuse victim.) With rare, lame exceptions, Crystal avoided the season's two biggest and most tempting joke targets?Bush's flatlining approval ratings and the furor over Mel Gibson's The Passion of the Christ, which earned $117 million over the weekend, the largest box office haul of any February release in history. (Critics who are surprised that Gibson's movie was a hit despite its graphic violence should get out of Manhattan or Los Angeles once in a while.)
The sub-narrative of this year's Oscars telecast was personal transformation. Peter Jackson, whom some hobbit-allergics would prefer had never broken out of the Australia-New Zealand exploitation scene, led The Return of the King to a slew of Oscars that were not just a recognition of the series' kinetic skill and populist touch, but also the Academy's belated (perhaps pointless) apology for having ignored fantasy epics for three-quarters of a century. Charlize Theron, a smart, ambitious actress long consigned to arm-candy parts in Hollywood movies, won a deserved Best Actress award for the scrappy, independently financed tabloid melodrama Monster. With her win, she became the latest in a long line of physically attractive actors who have uglified themselves with help from special makeup artists in order to disappear into a character.
Predictably, Theron's laudable efforts have invited a knee-jerk backlash by professional contrarian reviewers. Such naysaying is a staple of movie history. If you don't believe me, read some of the unimpressed 1972 reviews of Marlon Brando's mumble-mouthed, makeup-assisted performance in The Godfather, or for that matter, David Thomson's skeptical take on Robert De Niro's similar Godfather II turn in his compendium A Biographical Dictionary of Film. History, not contemporary critics, will render a final judgement on Theron's work. Personally, I suspect the verdict will be kind?but it depends, of course, on what kind of performances she gives in the future.
If the above seems like mere woolgathering, mea culpa. One has to do something to prevent being bored out of one's skull by the Oscar people. The telecast deserves credit for an ironic, backwards-ass accomplishment: It attained precisely the level of non-eccentric, non-threatening, non-spontaneous, non-offensive slickness that detractors demand each year. Throughout the broadcast, the people on camera seemed embalmed; the whole telecast seemed embalmed. Crystal's barbs, which were never that sharp even during his best years, were duller than pine needles Sunday night. "I can't wait for his tax audit," Crystal said after Morris left the stage. (That line was a lot funnier when Aristotle used it while hosting the First Annual Theater Honors in 348 B.C.?but hey, maybe it's in the delivery.)
The very sight of Sean Penn at the Oscars should have told viewers all they needed to know about the ceremony's true function as Hollywood's annual company picnic. The event is consistently worthless as a celebration of lasting artistic quality; if you doubt it, check back over the list of past winners and nominees, then ask yourself (1) whether other qualified candidates were overlooked entirely, or (2) whether the more defensible winners were actually being honored for achievements that were unjustly overlooked years earlier.
Nevertheless, the Oscars are useful in at least one respect: They show you who's on the plantation and who isn't. Consider Sean Penn, who won a best actor statuette for Clint Eastwood's Mystic River, a film that's much less focused, honest and direct than Penn's performance. As of Sunday night, he was on the plantation?and even if his location were only temporary, fans are entitled to feel a bit depressed. This fine actor and professional hellraiser has been nominated a total of four times. The first three times, he refused to attend the Oscars, partly because he's a somewhat antisocial, anti-company-picnic sort of actor, and partly because he shares the late George C. Scott's conviction that acting is an art and artists do not compete. Penn's longstanding, melodramatic but admirable display of integrity was unequalled by any previous superstar actor (including legendary Oscar refusenik Marlon Brando, who, let's not forget, collected his On the Waterfront statuette in person). This year, Penn was suddenly in attendance, and dressed respectably to boot; he smiled patiently while Crystal poked fun at him; he didn't cuss or smoke or anything. With wife Robin Wright Penn on his arm, he almost looked like a political candidate (which in a sense he was).
While accepting the trophy, Penn thanked his fellow nominees as well as several notable actors who were not nominated this year (including Nicolas Cage, who Penn has publicly disparaged in the past). He also repeated his anticompetitive philosophy while accepting the trophy?"If there's one thing that actors know, other than that there weren't any WMDs, it's that there is no such thing as 'best' in acting," he said. The sentiments rang hollow. It was impossible to shake the suspicion that Penn attended this year's ceremony because he knew that the Academy members were more likely to vote a statuette to an actor who might actually show up. Maybe Penn thought it over and figured he failed to win for Dead Man Walking and Sweet and Lowdown and I Am Sam not because Oscar voters thought his competitors' efforts were superior, but because Penn's reluctance to attend the ceremony made them feel insulted.
Or maybe Penn's just getting older and has decided that grand gestures are exactly that?gestures. Whatever the explanation, the sight of Penn on that stage made me sad. As spectators pounded their palms in approval, I wondered if they were applauding Penn's greatness as an actor, or their success at finally making one of cinema's great individualists pledge allegiance to the machine.