It came up Saturday afternoon, as I was hanging out as I often do with my DOD and my GOAB (Grandfather Of Another Brother), when one asked the other, so, will you be watching the Oscars on Sunday?
HELL NO, I won’t be watching the Oscars, said the other.
How about you, Aaron?
I had to admit that I would probably have that particular broadcast turned on.
Because, why not? What else is on? Just put on this mindless television program and get to working on some project or another. Fold some towels. Something.
A few brief observations.
Right before the Best Picture Oscar was presented, I was asked in private chat which movie would win. Birdman, I replied quickly.
Because I hated Birdman.
I really did. I hated this movie. I mean, I fell asleep during this movie, not because I was sleepy, but to escape it. In my waking moments during the movie, I seethed with resentment toward this messy, horrible piece of shit for keeping me in the theater. It made me hate Michael Keaton, and, even worse, it made me hate the living hell out of Emma Stone. Hated hated hated hated hated this movie. Hated it.
So, naturally, it won Best Picture.
In fact, the best 2014 movie I saw didn’t even get to stand in line outside the Kodak Theater Sunday. It was called Obvious Child, starring the ever watchable and funny Jenny Slate, a film that leads me to chant obsessively that the world needs more Jenny Slate. In face, 2014 kind of sucked for movies in general. I mean, what, The Homesman, because movies seem to love to kill the heck out of Hillary Swank? The Grand Budapest Hotel was an unwelcome assault on my senses…Just seemed like a downer of a year for film in general.
The broadcast itself had its moments, the most sparkling bit being the performance of music from The Sound of Music by Lady Gaga. Time after time, this woman just confounds; as she ran through her medley, I could not help but think that I was watching the smartest pop singer in the history of the genre. Many would eschew this opportunity and would only want to sing their own hits; Gaga gladly took on the material, executed flawlessly, and ended by embracing an 80-year-old Julie Andrews. It is seldom to see a popular artist display such versatility and cultural intelligence and respect.
The rest. You know. Meh.
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