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SURE, AMERICA LOVES movies and everyone loves the fantasy of watching celebrities don their finest (borrowed) clothes and dance down the red carpet. Nothing wrong with a little of that from time to time. But after paying the stars $20 million a picture, paying the $9.50 for a movie ticket and then the $5.00 for 11 cents’ worth of popcorn, haven’t we as moviegoers earned the right to demand that filmmakers just shut up already?
Is there any single profession more self-indulgent than the movie industry? (OK, maybe news columnists come close, but we are excused because when we’re not working, we’re usually sitting around some bar complaining about how talentless we are, not draping ourselves in Harry Winston diamonds and telling one billion people how “important” we are). Don’t get me wrong, I love a good movie now and again. The problem is that “now” and “again” are separated by an increasingly long period of time.
Yet every Oscar night, a parade of filmmakers stand before us and celebrate themselves and their “art,” as if making movies is a vital act of national security. So this year, I’m striking back, forming my own “academy”—The Society to Lament Actors’ Pretentiousness (SLAP)—and giving out my own awards. And the nominees are…
BIGGEST KISS-A-S: Always a powerhouse category, the events of September 11 seemed to propel this area into overdrive, as if even suggesting that the Oscars are self-indulgent and self-congratulatory would be admitting that the terrorists had won. While it would be tough to take down the queen of a-s-kissing, Leeza Gibbons, this year’s SLAPPY goes to Chris Connelly, whose interview technique on the red carpet seemed to consist solely of asking nominees, “Isn’t…this…just…so…great?!”
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MOST COMPELLING ARGUMENT TO WATCH THE PROCEEDINGS ON “MUTE”: This is always a difficult category, what with the startlingly high number of nominees. And the nominees are: Actress Naomi Watts telling Joan Rivers about how being on a movie set is “like being part of a family.” Tom Cruise opening the telecast by claiming that actors’ work is important—”Dare I say it? More than ever”—in the wake of September 11. Jennifer Connelly’s acceptance speech, in which she needed to pull out a piece of paper to tell us, “By some beautiful twist of fate, I’ve landed in this vocation that demands that I feel.” Please. (Even the producer of “Shrek” found a way to thank his agents, lawyers and managers without a list.) Owen Wilson proving that without a script, some actors are simply unable to even speak. Kevin Spacey announcing that “film freezes life in its finest hour with strength and courage and laughter and joy.” And the SLAPPY goes to: Jennifer Connelly, who was not only the most pretentious in a crowded field, but this year’s winner of the annual “Feed Me” award.
BEST ARGUMENT FOR THE EXISTENCE OF HAIR CARE PRODUCTS: Usually dominated by Sissy Spacek or Celine Dion, this year, there was really only one nominee: “Lord of the Rings” director Peter Jackson. Not to sound superficial, but you’d think that the prospect of being seen by one billion people might have encouraged Jackson to at least trim the mustache hairs that curled over his top lip. I would not have been surprised to discover a family of blackbirds subsisting on the crumbs in that man’s beard. | |
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THE UNEXPECTED HONESTY AWARD: Every once in a while, in an unguarded moment, an actor will actually admit that the proceedings are monumentally dull, pretentious and overhyped. This year, the nominees are: Maggie Smith, who admitted that she had to call The House of Armani to get the dress she was wearing, rather than the other way around. Helen Mirren, responding to an interviewer wishing her good luck, admitting, “I don’t need all the good luck, I’ve had all the good luck.” Julia Roberts confessing to Joan Rivers that she doesn’t pick her own roles. “I don’t read scripts,” she said. Hugh Grant asking Joan Rivers “Are you drunk?” when she asked him a stupid question and telling another reporter that the Vanity Fair party is “actually a bit overrated.” And the SLAPPY goes to Hugh Grant, who thankfully sticks a pin into every overinflated Hollywood balloon. | |
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FUNNIEST MOMENT: In an otherwise dreary and dull production, there were only three possible nominees: Nathan Lane joking that Walt Disney would be smiling over the addition of a “Best Animated Film” category, “if he wasn’t frozen solid”; Woody Allen abandoning a lifetime of Oscar boycotting to stand up for New York; and Ben Stiller and Owen Wilson’s pre-recorded segment on costume design that quickly degenerated into them mocking each other’s on-screen work. “I hear you’re doing a sequel to ‘Shanghai Noon,’ ” Stiller joked. “What are they going to call that? ‘Shanghai 12:30’?” The SLAPPY goes to Stiller and Wilson.
BEST GREAT MUSICIAN IN A SUPPORTING ROLE AS HOLLYWOOD SELL-OUT: Is there a greater symbol of the perniciousness of Hollywood than Randy Newman? After making a name for himself as a genius with a twisted sensibility, the starving artist who wrote bitterly sardonic songs like “Political Science (Let’s Drop the Big One)” and “Burn On,” Newman is now a hack for hire, cashing in by writing silly, sappy “original” songs that like “You’ve Got a Friend in Me” (“Toy Story 2”) or “If I Didn’t Have You” (“Monsters, Inc.”). And on Sunday night, after 16 nominations, he finally got his Oscar. But as he stood on the stage with everyone celebrating, I couldn’t help feeling that the award was for selling-out. It’s bad enough he’s cashing studio checks and hasn’t written a good song in nearly 20 years, but do they have to give him an award for it, too? And one last thought: What wasthe old bag from “Titanic” doing there? They let everyoneinto these things.
Gersh Kuntzman is also a columnist for The New York Post. His website is at http://www.gersh.tv
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© 2002 Newsweek, Inc.
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