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Sunday, February 28, 2016
(Photo courtesy of Variety)
Anyone who's been reading this blog for a while has already heard my opinion of awards shows in general, and the Oscars in particular -- which I've described (repeatedly) as "a bloated exercise in onanistic narcissism."
That pretty much sums up my view of tonight's proceedings, but if you're new around here and want to catch up, here's my very first (and most revelatory) Oscar post -- and if that's not enough Oscar bile for one sitting, here's another, and another, and another... and yet another.
Not that I expect anybody out there to actually read all those, mind you. They're more or less variations on the same depressing theme, and thus redolent with repetition. I just don't seem to get tired of trashing the Oscars.
Or maybe I do. Whether at long last grown terminally bored by all things Oscar, or (having spent the last few weeks far from Hollywood), I was able to avoid being enveloped in the toxic smog of Oscar gossip that fuels this media-driven circus every winter, I can't get too worked up about it this time around. My five-year streak of not seeing any of the nominated movies remains intact, so I have no feelings one way or another as to which film and actors deserve Hollywood's biggest, wettest air-kiss tonight.*
Given that Chris Rock will be hosting, I might even break tradition and tune in for a while. He's good, and will no doubt strap the oh-so-stuffy Academy to this years whipping post of "diversity," then flay those sclerotic blue-veined old dinosaurs until they scream for mercy.
That should be fun for a while… but if past is prologue -- and it usually is with the Oscars -- the broadcast will soon begin to sag under its own pendulous, stultifying weight, and I'll have to flip the channel before my eyes glaze over and drool begins to drip from my ever-slackening jaw. With any luck, I'll manage to bail before suffering actual brain damage.
So to the winners, I salute you -- and may the losers drown their sorrows in the ocean of expensive champagne that will spill forth from the legendary post-Oscar parties kicking off the moment the curtain comes down.
And somewhere, Swifty Lazar spins slowly in his grave...
* The bookies of London do, however, and they place their Oscar bets right here.