I Just Don't Care About the Oscars!

I hate to admit, but ...

I just don't care about the Oscars.

That statement alone, in my industry, is blasphemy! And last night, surrounded by friends Michael, Michelle, and about a dozen of their film-editor friends at John Patrick Shanley's townhouse here in NYC, I knew saying so would be uttering the unspeakable.

And so, this Rebel Deb kept her mouth shut.

But it wasn't easy, folks. I have to admit that, too. And why? Well, there's several reasons I, well, just don't give a crap about the Big O:

1) The HORRIBLE opening dance/singing routines.



Did you see the abomination that was Hugh Jackman last night, people? The man looked like a Ken doll sprayed down with KFC rotisserie gold! Mr. Shake-n-Bake Spray Tan spent a good fifteen minutes (or more) parading around the stage with Beyond Knowles of all people, impersonating some of Hollywood's latest and greatest musical artists. He even tried to pull off Fred Astaire! And Beyonce was WORSE. Dressed in a flashy, thunder-thigh-covering, sequined "Chicago" costume, the two of them crooned awkwardly to songs from FAME, GUYS AND DOLLS, and even EVITA. It would've been WAY better to have them singing "We've got jungle fever" than to have two of the seemingly least talented entertainers in years up onstage making fools of themselves and making at least the crowd at Shanely's house throw our Oscar-party-finger-food at the screen. Go home, Hugh! Be gone, Beyonce! Fred and Ginger, you are NOT.

2) The pretentious opening presenters.



Usually, these are the WORST. Awkward pauses while Mr. or Mrs. Famous Somebody reads his/her lines from the teleprompter. Recorded applause. Shots to especially full sections of the audience -- or at least to th folks paid to sit in vacant seats as "fillers."

Last night, however, was a tad better. Mostly due to Tina Fey and Steve Martin being the comic GENIUSES that they are. And, thirdly, to Bill Mahr (who in the world at network had the BALLS to bring that guy back on stage?!?) for his random, angry eulogy bemoaning the virtual death of his "take a look at Bill Mahr's inner childhood demons and anger issues" documentary, "Religulous." He went on and on about how it wasn't nominated for an Oscar, but how we were all going to eventually have to face our "ridiculous" notions of religion and an afterlife. He basically showed his former-Catholic-turned-angry-TV-host ass, people. And what an ass it was.

3) The same old films getting the same old awards.



Oh, look! It's the Indian version of "Rocky," only this guy's way too skinny and malnourished to box, so he has to win "Who Wants to be a Millionaire?" instead. How original!

Admit it: The Oscars are almost 100% predicatble at this point. Whoever gets the most box office cache -- and especially if it's an underdog story -- wins Best Picture.

I mean, for real, who didn't think that Slumdog Millionaire was going to sweep the categories? And knowing this, why on earth would I want to watch 3+ hours of the horrible Hugh Jackman, boring Beyonce and angry Bill-the-ex-Catholic show before finding out that -- yes! -- I was right and, yet again, the most predictable awards go to the most predicatble films?

I'd rather watch "How I Met Your Mother" on an endless loop, people. And that, my friends, for any TV writer worth her stuff is SAYING something.

xoxo,

Rebel Deb