Chris wasn't sharp, but he wasn't Robin Williams. Give him another year, and he may settle in. Or reinstall the catty and predictable Bruce Vilanch, since that's what most of humor-challenged Hollywood wants. (For the record, the idea of Albert Brooks hanging out at a Magic Johnson theater singlehandedly out-zinged anything I've seen in an Oscar telecast since Michael Buffer unexpectedly worked his way into Letterman's "Wanna Buy a Monkey?" sketch.) I liked Rock's irreverent, sorta-edgy introductions for the presenters, but I guess you've got to have more stature to get away with 'em (as Carson used to mit impunity).
The broadcast clocked in at a little north of three hours, and was generally less of a chore to sit through than years past because a) there was less of it, and b) there was no Villanch. But there was shocking bad judgment throughout: Brando, the most important actor of the twentieth century, being deprived of his own tribute; Shrek, symbol of all that is shopworn and unfunny, and Chaplin, symbol of all that is opposite, sharing the screen as apparent equals; Lumet's "Lifetime Achievement" reel going heavy on GLORIA and LET'S GET GUILTY, or whatever the director's latest is called, featuring Vin Diesel as an overmatched D.A. whose unfortunate hairpiece snags him daily contempt of court rulings; Penelope Cruz being pitted against Salma Hayek in a fluency contest for the honor to present the song from THE MOTORCYCLE DIARIES; and, while we're on that subject, having all five Best Song nominees performed when four of 'em were complete shit.
Then there was Jamie, for whom someone needs to locate a living-or-loan-out abusive grandmother to whup him for having trotted out the same shtick at every awards show since the Golden Globes (again, crying after winning a GG means you're either disingenuous or an idiot.) And when grandma's finished with him, Mrs. Lowe can go cut herself down a switch for having committed the same offense.
And now that the Oscars are done... well, folks, get ready for the worst Spring Movie Season in recent memory!!! Scanning the calendar, I see only two films -- MELINDA AND MELINDA and the rerelease of MASCULINE FEMININE -- that draw even cursory enthusiasm. (Sorry, but I have very little interest in SIN CITY, and if that means I'm in for a big surprise, then "yay".) Having ogled this (and I'm not at all interested in SPAMALOT, either), I've suddenly been gripped with paralyzing melancholia. (To the dude who's writing for AICN in NYC: use the site's influence to snag comp tix to *everything*.) This is the best new season of theater I've seen in years.
At least, my distractions will be nil; looks like it's all about LeBron and DEADWOOD from here 'til June.