Category: movies

Harrison Ford? Love. Diane Keaton? Love. Rachel McAdams? Love. Patrick Wilson? Hello, pretty.

What’s not to love about this movie? I have very high hopes. Very high.

I’m sorry, it’s true. I seriously can’t wait.

Freddie Mercury and Spanish diva Monserrat Caballe, singing “Barcelona” in Barcelona in 1988 at a celebration anticipating the 1992 Summer Olympics. It’s equal parts camp and brilliance. It makes me laugh while it gives me chills.

I love all their collaborations. Their version of “Bohemian Rhapsody”? Fuggedaboudit. Mercury is operatic at his core, so it all works for me.

There’s a quote from Caballe that floats around where she speaks of working with Mercury, saying, “He conquered me.”

I think he conquered everyone, basically.

~ The ceremony starts off with something like the Olympic Parade of Nations where all the stars nominated for Best Actor and Actress march out onstage while a voiceover announces their names. Weird. And the voice is cheesy, as if it should be announcing Wayne Newtonnnn, Mr. Las Veggggggas instead of Oscar nominees.

~ Doogie Howser is here now. In a sparkly tux. You know, in case you didn’t yet know he’s gay. He’s doing the bit that used to be Billy Crystal’s: Singing about the nominated movies. Only ….. he’s supposed to be able to really sing — I mean, he’s done Broadway — and, well …… he sounds off. And the bit is not funny. At least with Billy, you didn’t expect great singing and you GOT good funny.

~ Hurrah! The hosts, Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin are here. They instantly start picking on Meryl Streep. Steve: “The woman with the most nominations ever ……. or as I like to think of it, the most number of losses.”

Cut to Streep. She’s dying.

Later, they pick on her again. Steve: “You know, everybody always says the same thing when they work with Meryl: Wow. Can that woman act! But what’s with all the Hitler memorabilia???”

Cut to Streep. She’s howling again. So funny. I love Steve and Alec together. And Meryl just seems so down to earth and good humored and I want to eat pie with her. (I also love how I call them all by their first names as if we’re all old school chums, you know? What a wiener.)

~ Steve: There’s that damn Helen Mirren. Alec: Steve, that’s dame Helen Mirren.

~ Penelope Cruz presenting Best Supporting Actor. She looks beautiful, but yamahama, Crackie, that chick seriously no habla. I have no clue who will win this one. Okay. It’s Christoff Waltz from “Inglourious Basterds.” (I actually did see this and the man is scary — and I mean SCARY — good. Nightmares.)

~ Speaking of nightmares: Before the ceremony starts, Whoopie Goldberg — Oscar award-winning actress — is in a commercial for Poise pee pads. She’s playing different women through the ages, like Joan of Arc, and showing …… I’m not suure …… how things could have been different if only they’d been wearing a Poise pad? Like, if only Joan of Arc had been wearing a Poise when they burned her at the stake, it would have made the peeing her pants part bearable???? “Poor Joan. How awful she wasn’t sportin’ a Poise.” Like, wha???

~ Up wins Best Animated Feature. I cannot even speak of that movie. Parts of it — yes, an animated feature — hit WAY too close to home.

~ Mylie Cyrus (KAPOW!!) and Amanda Seyfried wearing prom dresses. Is it me or is Mylie Cyrus (KAPOW!!) becoming a strumpet? She’s, what, 16 and has a weird whiskey voice that I kind of think comes from actually guzzling whiskey. Disney Schmisney. I’m telling you. Wait a few years. She’s gonna go all strumpet on us.

~ Tina Fey and Robert Downey Jr. presenting Best Original Screenplay. I can’t even explain their presentation — a whole writer vs actor thing that they play with deadpan perfection. Funniest presentation of the night so far. Hurt Locker is the winner.

~ Oh, they dust off Molly Ringwald to do a John Hughes tribute/montage with Matthew Broderick. Help her, baby Jesus! She’s a deer in the headlights. The first montage of the night! I can’t believe we’re 45 minutes in and only one montage — played to what sounds like tepid applause to me.

~ Oh, sheesh. The Olympic Parade of Actors again. Hughesian actors, all dusted off and whatnot, take the stage to talk about John Hughes. Look! There’s a 53-year-old Macauley Culkin! There’s an anorexic Ally Sheedy! Crinnnnge.

~ Steve Martin: “Now let’s introduce two beautiful actresses because we’re sick and tired of introducing all these ugly actresses.” I love you.

~ So far, pippa, there’s a weird vibe to the evening. A subdued vibe, like a post 9-11 vibe. I can’t explain it. It’s almost disturbing. Did something catastrophic happen while I was in the snowy mountains eating black bean and ham soup???

~ Okay. Dude giving the acceptance speech now? If you’re out of breath walking up the three stairs to receive your Oscar, it’s time to work some serious cardio into your strenuous but boring speech-giving schedule. Or start slacking off at work so you won’t have to climb stairs and accept awards anymore.

~ Ben Stiller, dressed up as a blue thing from Avatar with a blue tail, speaking Avatar-ese. Award for Best Makeup. “It’s weird because …… Avatar isn’t even nominated. I should have worn my Spock ears because Star Trek is nominated …… but ……. no …. this is much cooler …… totally …..” He’s doing this whole embarrassed shtick. “After I announce the winner, I will stand as far away from them as possible, so as not to demean their moment of triumph.” Hahaha. Stupid, but it’s working for me somehow.

~ Adapted Screenplay, presented by Jake Jill’n’Hall (I never know how to spell that guy’s name) and a slouching Rachel McAdams. Stand up, Rachel McAdams! Come on! You’re too pretty to slouch! (What are you, Trace — her mother??) Precious just won. The winner stumbles through his speech, apologizing left and right, clearly overcome. It’s sweet, in a bumbling, I-can’t-watch kind of way.

~ Steve Martin comes back onstage: “You know …. I wrote that speech for him.”

~ This whole show needs MORE Steve and Alec. (My old school chums, don’t you know.)

~ Roger Corman and Lauren Bacall struggle up from their seats for some reason. The audience applauds this effort. I have no idea what’s going on.

~ Ugh. Robin Williams. Stand back. Make room. He’s so VERY hairy, something could spring forth and suffocate you. But he’s presenting Best Supporting Actress. And …. Mo’Nique wins. I thought her speech would be a bigger, more spontaneous, cut-loose moment — a la Cuba Gooding, Jr. — but it was more purposeful and calculated and ….. political. Despite proclaiming that this proves “it’s not about the politics.” Eh. Okay.

~ More Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin, I beg of you. Or bring back more “Whoopie has Poise” commercials. “I was wearing one of these when I won MY Oscar. SUCH a relief, honey.” I need more of these commercials so people can share in my horror. When I’m old, I just plan on wettin’ my pants. No Poise or poise for me. I shall just surrender to the indignity of it all. Seriously, pippa, if I’m a gammie and I start peeing on your couch, you have my permission to shoot me.

~ Sarah Jessica Parker now. MB weighs in on her hairdo: “It’s like a marble rye from Schnitzer’s!”

~ Oh, this is Costume Design. The winner says, “Wow. I already have two of these.” Okay. Wow. Reeeerrrrr. I do believe she’s wearing a black-sequined Poise on her head.

~ Charlize I made myself gross to win one of these and haven’t worked since Theron, showing a clip of Precious, which I thought would seem much more precious and a lot less depressing. I hate false advertising.

~ Steve and Alec do a sendup of that freaky movie “Paranormal Activity.” It’s night. They’re in bed, being videotaped with a running time stamp ticking off their night together. (If you haven’t seen this movie, that’s basically the entire movie: a couple sleeping while a video camera, set up by the guy, records what happens while they’re sleeping. Sounds lame, but it’s a really effective and creepy movie.) Steve and Alec’s video shows them in various bizarre sleep positions throughout the night until Steve gets up, walks over to Alec’s side of the bed, and sleep-smacks Baldwin, who then sloooowly, as time elapses, falls out of bed. I don’t know why this is striking me as so funny. Maybe it’s because nothing else IS.

~ John Travolta here to present the clip of Inglourious Basterds. So sad to see him. His hairline is not by Sharpie this year, though.

~ Ooh, here’s Sandra Bullock, my BFF. She looks fabulous. Well, mostly fabulous, except her lipstick is too dark, in my opinion. She’s presenting Best Cinematography. Winner: Schmavatar.

~ I don’t know why I have such an attitude about Schmavatar. I haven’t even seen it — okay, basically because I find James Cameron detestable. After his whole “I’m the king of the world” thing, I just turned cold towards him. Not that I was ever hot or even warm towards him. Okay. Look. I don’t know what I’m saying because I’m bleary and full of beany ham and I have not understood the last 48 hours of my life and the Poise commercial really ain’t helping things. Mainly, James Cameron seems like an ass and I don’t like feeling as if I’m expected to think highly of him, so I do the opposite out of protest. Because, YEAH, that’ll show ’em.

~ Eh. James Taylor singing “In My Life” whilst the In Memoriam montage plays. Not a huge James Taylor fan, but at least he’s not the king of the world. Also: Is it my imagination or has Karl Malden died the last 5 years in a row?

~ And now ….. the dancing to the Oscar-nominated songs begins. Or as I like to call it: The best that winners of So You Think You Can Dance can hope for. Go, winners whose careers are just like the losers’! You GO!!

~ “Up” wins for Score. All I can say is if you haven’t seen it, you must.

~ Oops, I stopped writing. My hands have fallen into a stupor. What did I miss? Where are we? I think it’s Best Documentary now. They’re showing that one with the Hayden Panetierre dolphins. ‘Member how that girl tried to save the dolphins or did save the dolphins or maybe only stood there and bawled while the cameras rolled? Yeah. So it’s all about dolphins right now. Go Dolphins! (And I mean the football team. Come on. They haven’t been worth a tiny rat’s bottom since the 70s.) Oh, the winner is …….. told ya. Dophin movie wins.

~ I’m done with this whole dealio until Best Actor/Actress. But if there’s another Whoopie wears Poise commercial or Steve Martin cavorts in his jammies again, I will certainly alert you. The entire show is lackluster to me. Especially when I know I’m just sitting here waiting for the king of the world to reclaim his kingdom.

~ Okay. Various actors/actresses who’ve worked with the Best Actor nominees come onstage to talk about each of them. Michele Pfeiffer talks about Jeff Bridges. When she talks about his daughters, his marriage — his successful real life, basically — Jeff Bridges tears up. He’s got these amazing crinkly-cornered eyes, but you can still see them through the crinkle, those tears. Oh my heart. These are real moments, warmhearted tributes, actor to actor. The nicest touch of the night, I think.

~ Kate Winslet announcing Best Actor. Ohhhhhhhh …… I don’t know what to think … yep ……. it’s Jeff Bridges. Finally. But then again, I feel ambivalent. He’s getting a standing ovation, though, and it IS wonderful to see just how much his peers really respect him. The actor’s actor. He’s talking about his mom and dad, how this honors them as much as it honors him. Sweet. He’s such a classy guy. A gentleman. He’s thanking his wife of 33 years. She’s gorgeous and crying and still gorgeous while she cries. His whole speech is so mellow. He’s relaxed and confident, not frantically trying to thank everyone and everybody. So nice to see a man comfortable in his own skin. He owns himself, you know? Well, now I’m choked up. Congratulations to the best actor out there.

~ Now various actors/actresses come to talk about the Best Actress nominees. I really like this whole bit. You can feel the admiration, the mutual respect from actor to actor. A little inside glimpse. Lovely. Stanley Tucci’s tribute to Meryl Streep is hilarious.

~ Sean Penn presenting Best Actress. And the winner is …… my BFF, Sandra Bullock!! Hurrah! Love her. Always have. “Did I really earn this or did I just wear y’all down?” Hahaha. She’s just adorable, you know? Awesome speech, can’t even encapsulate it. Great tearjerking speech. Funny and thoughtful, too. Congratulations, Sandra Bullock.

~ Barbra Streisand presenting Best Director. The winner is ……… the first woman, Kathryn Bigelow for The Hurt Locker.

~ Tom Hanks for Best Picture ….. (ten nominees, oh brother). And the winner is …… The Hurt Locker. Wow. No Schmavatar.

Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin come back and Steve says, “Okay. The show has been so long that Avatar now takes place in the past.”

Hahahaha. Again, I love you, Steve Martin.

Okay. Phew. 3 1/2 hours by my count.

Lordy!!

We’re done here.

So I usually live-blog the Oscars, but this will be interesting. I just got back into town after a very strange 48 hours up in the snowy mountains doing …… I still don’t know what, actually. I’m bleary and grumpy and bloaty because, frankly, I have eaten way too much black bean and ham soup in the last day or so. So guess I should modify that previous statement: I DO know one thing I did and that is — I ate way too much black bean soup in the last day or so. So, yes, I am cognizant of that. I mean, I didn’t eat in my sleep nor was it imaginary soup. But I’m a little around the bleary bloaty bend is what I’m trying to say here.

One could say that something must be a tad off if one goes up to the snowy mountains and only remembers eating black bean and ham soup — soup that one made oneself. And one could ask why did one have to go up to the snowy mountains simply to eat black bean and ham soup. And one could say that using “one” is really cumbersome and snooty and makes one sound like more than a little bit of an ass.

But one won’t say that, will one?

Let’s just repeat that I’m completely ill-prepared to blog this year’s Oscars. I’ve seen almost none of these movies and I really only care about Sandra Bullock and Jeff Bridges. Sandra Bullock because I kind of have a longstanding girl crush on her and will see anything she does no matter how stupid and Jeff Bridges because he’s my favorite actor ever and has been since the 80s and, because, frankly, it’s his time. Despite the fact that, uhm, I haven’t actually SEEN Crazy Heart — because I can’t find it anywhere — still, from what I HEAR, it’s his moment, his time. I’m almost ambivalent about the possibility that he could win. To me, he is so singular, so beyond what most actors out there do or are even capable of doing that giving him an Oscar feels a tiny bit like it lowers him to their level. He’s beyond an Oscar to me. So while I root for him because I’m compelled to — it’s Jeff Bridges, for God’s sake — if he doesn’t win, I will almost feel a sense of rightness about that. The man, to me, is simply outside of Oscar.

I understand it makes no sense to say I want him both to win and not win, but that’s what I want.

It’s the black bean soup talking.

So again. Let’s review: I am bleary, grumpy, and bloaty, but not DRUNK.

Yet.

This year Oscar’s blog has DEE-saster written all over it.

Woo hoo, pippa.

Found on IMDb, of all places, in a discussion board about the upcoming film “Legion.” Apocalypse, good angels, bad angels, angry God, etc. Your basic end-of-the-world rowdydow.

Well, this one thread morphed into a “What if you don’t believe in God, can he still hurt you?” discussion, which — honestly, dude, calm down, okay? It’s a movie. He seemed to be having difficulty separating the notions of “movie” and “reality” but — well, I shouldn’t criticize, now that I think about it. I have that problem all the time.

Finally, someone just said:

If you don’t believe in God on Monday, he’s still going to be able to kill you when he shows up on Tuesday.

Hahahahahahahahaha.

Can’t really argue with that, I guess.

Did I mention Comic-Con is in town? Oh, yes. I’m now afraid to walk the streets lest I be assaulted by a “Klingon” violently demanding my purse from me in, uhm, “Klingon.”

Oh, and Sarahk? When I emailed you the other night during the local 11:00 news to give you the status on Kristen Stewart’s hair — you know, because oh, how I love you — I wasn’t entirely accurate. It looked a lot shorter in the news report than it actually is. Still, the girl is totally Goth-ing out. And, as a withered crone, I don’t even know what that means. I just report. Or, alternatively, make things up. Potato/potahto.

Here she is for you, Sarahk. Oh, and there are some random dudes in this photo too. Must be fans or something. I guess. Who knows? I sure don’t.

(I do like her tennis shoes.)

(This disappeared, but it WAS operator error.)

As it really happened.

Well, okay … except The Dude wasn’t wearing a sweatsuit or carrying a tennis racket.

Other than that, yes, I was wearing a pink mini dress and high heels in the middle of the Trinity Alps, my spectacular boobins had deflated into sad shriveled pancakes, and I had cut my hair short and dyed it brown just to have this conversation.

I mean, really, the lifelike nature of this whole animation staggers me. Oh, and these were his exact words. Oh, yes.

Stolen from Sheila.

Since words keep disappearing into the ether on this blog, maybe I will simply animate our entire trip.

Are you kidding me, Trace? Are you actually going to write about this?

Shut up, you. I got me a bee in my bonnet. I can’t stop. I need to ramble aimlessly. So shhhhhh now, Voice of Reason. Go to sleep. Nighty-nighhht.

~ So here we go. We went to a matinee of Watchmen this weekend, more out of curiosity than desire. Three hours later, sadly, we were left with neither curiosity nor desire. For anything ever again. We were brittle empty shells. Soulless spectres. Even worse, really cranky. Honestly, watching the Watchmen do nothing that even remotely resembled watching was a truly enervating experience that I’m sure will attract tons of people who long for enervation and make heaps of money for people who already have heaps of money, and, well, congratulations to all involved, but whatevs o’plenty from this li’l lady. Super-hero or comic book movies are generally not my thing. Too much of a fan-boy vibe going on for my taste, although I do like Christian Bale as Batman and I like Tobey Maguire as Spiderman. Still, I don’t chomp at the bit to see these types of movies; I don’t line up at midnight in latex and a cape. No. I’d rather save that for when I go to see The Reader. With this movie, I strolled in at 10 a.m. to a surprisingly empty theater, considering all the hype, and was glad for the emptiness so that as time slowed and slooowed and then flat-out stood still, I could sigh loudly and say things to MB like, “I am really tired of his blue penis” or “Ooh, hello, Mr. Bottom” or the more all-encompassing, “I hate this movie.”

Fleghh. I’m realizing I don’t even have the energy to give this movie an actual review and yet, I keep clicking away, I think to purge my sense of gyp that I spent three hours in the presence of these characters and I just did not care about them. Inevitably, someone will now email me and say, “Well, why didn’t you just leave?” to which I will say, “Uhm, because there was still popcorn in the bag? Duh, wiener.” Now I am aware that I am probably supposed to care about this movie, nay, probably even like this movie, but KAPOW! I say to the people who think I’m supposed to like it. Three crawling hours could have easily been edited down to a swift 90 minutes; should have been edited down, you know, just to be slightly more humane, and still I would not have cared one eensy little bit. I despaired over the acting of that chick who played whoever the heck that chick was. I don’t even know. The Chick, the main chick. Oh, you know. With the long dark hair and bangs? Yeah, her. She’s part Natalie Portman and part Xena Warrior Princess — both of whom are better actresses, by the way. Yes, even Xena. Whenever I closed my eyes in the face of the carnage — which I did a lot, because, yamahama, that movie be gross, pippa — it bothered me that she sounded like Drew Barrymore, a good actress, an actress I like. But, you know, she looked hot, so I’m sure all the little dudes and the lesbians will be quite happy. She did get naked with a shockingly geeky Patrick Wilson, an actor I enjoyed in Little Children and not just because he got naked in that movie, although I do remember his bottom quite well and it was smaller in that movie; he was a tad chunkier here, obviously from the steroids he took to become whatever superhero he was in “Watchmeh” because, again, I just don’t care — as you can tell by how much I’m writing about this — so I don’t even remember his name. Supernerd or something. Oh, wait. His name was Dan. Yes, Dan. “Save me, Dannnn!” And, really, I tell you true that “Dan” is a much better name than whatever retarded superhero name his character had. It was something like Supergoggles or Wiseass Owl or something. So I like Dan better. I mean, do you think you’re more likely to be rescued by someone named Supergoggles or Dan? I thought so.

~ Oh. So Dr. Blue Balls. What UP, dude? I see that you’re blue. And not in an “oh I’m so sad” kind of way, but actually physically blue. Aqua, even. Your entire body is just a minty fresh tube of freaky. Clearly, there is an urgent need for medical intervention with your condition, and yet you wander about, blithely doing as you please, ending the Vietnam War, flaunting your minty fresh penis and whatnot. But me, I sit there in a darkened theater staring at you and worrying that your entire circulatory system may very well be gravely compromised. I’m not a doctor so I don’t know the medical solution here. Supplements? Ginkgo Biloba? Something, certainly, but you need to care; you need to be proactive about your own health issues. All I can do is point out what I see, from my layman’s perspective, and what I see is so obviously problematic, it doesn’t take an expert to discern it. Beyond your circulatory impairment, those milky white eyes of yours just scream raging unchecked cataracts, if not total blindness. And they don’t move. Your eyes do not move. They are frozen milky white marbles and, you know, if I were talking to you, they would drive me crazy because I could never be sure if you were actually even looking at me, which I would find very cold and alienating. People in general don’t like that. It may very well be a medical problem but, interpersonally, it manifests itself as a possible mental/emotional problem. This kid I knew in grade school never looked at you when you talked to him and, later on, guess what, he ended up diagnosed as some kind of dangerous whack job. It was really sad, but we all simply nodded our heads at the rightness of it all. Really, I’m just sayin’, Blue Balls, that your frozen milk eyes make friendship with me, at least, highly unlikely. And, might I add, Natalie Warrior Princess left you. So there’s that. Oh. Let’s not forget, too, that you seem to suffer from some form of super-gigantism that is both sudden and intermittent. One moment, you’re human-sized; the next, you’re building sized. Could not hang with that, no way. I would certainly not want to clothes shop for you and throw my money away. Nor would I let you drive my car unless it was a convertible. Nor would I have sex with you because my fancy place is not so much a convertible. Size might matter, Blue Balls, but sudden size really matters. Owie owie owie. Poor Natalie Warrior Princess. It’s becoming so obvious why she left you for Wiseass Owl, isn’t it?

~ On that same basic topic, uhm, okay, I’m confused. Sometimes you wear clothes. You were in a suit at one point and I simply assumed The Chick dressed you since this was before she left. Then, sometimes you’re naked. This seems to be your preference as if you are weirdly proud of your freaky blue member. Other times, and this is where I got confused, hon, you wear a thong. Now I’m not even going to get into what I think about giant blue men with milky eyes who wear thongs — this isn’t about that. It’s about the logistics, the physics, of your thong because, from what I could see, your thong had a front but it didn’t have a back. From the front, thong. From the back, bare blue bottom. No, no. This isn’t possible. Thongs, Peaches, do have backs. Small backs — strings, strips, bands — yes, but something that holds the flimsy little thing onto the wearer’s body. Your thong, on the other hand, was some kind of space age miracle thong, magically cupping your disturbing turquoise stones whilst leaving the vast panorama of your fanny unmarred by strings. The physics of this just don’t work. There’s obviously some ancient and sinister voodoo going on with all of this and I, for one, reject it outright. You simply cannot walk around in a Colorforms thong, Blue Balls, and expect society at large to embrace you. A comprehensive medical and behavioral evaluation rendered by competent, trustworthy professionals could prove elucidating in your case. Just sayin’.

~ Oh, hahaha. As to the actual movie, pippa? I seriously have no idea. I prefer the moral ambiguity of real life not to taint my superheroes quite so much. That’s just me, I guess. Look. I’m dumb and shallow. If I go to a superhero movie, I want to root for someone, not pray for the total global annihilation of everyone and everything I see onscreen.

And, AND, I don’t like to see my superhero’s minty fresh penis.

But, hey, you like giant blue dongles? Go for it.