How To Fix the Oscars

Two days after the 81st Annual Academy Awards, there are probably a few limos still stuck in gridlock around Highland Avenue. Of course, I’m guessing that several of the losers are looking for Beverly Hills Cab to pick them up. After-parties are still in swing, and thank goodness some actors don’t have a morning call till late March.

As for me, there has been plenty of time for me to assess just what I saw on Sunday night. Frankly, by about the third hour, I was looking for a stimulus package that would work on my eyes. So now, more than ever, I know how I would fix the Oscars. I don't mean the structure of the awards themselves. That works fine. Five nominees. One wins, four lose. Somebody is happy. A lot of people are pissed. That's what life in America is all about. No, I'm talking about how to fix the presentation of it all. In fifteen easy steps. Are you reading, Academy?

1. FOCUS ON A COMEDY HOST: Okay, Hugh Jackman was serviceable. But, as an Oscar host, he’s better suited as a Tony host. Hugh can sing and dance, but Oscar production numbers can stop your heart quicker than blow drying your hair in the bathtub. Sunday’s dances were designed to show us all that the movie musical was alive and well. Well, not if they keep using the vapid Pierce Brosnan to sing in monstrosities like Mamma Mia. For me, the production frenzy, which pretty much employed every gay out-of-work dancer that they could find the night before at Rage, drove a stake into Gene Kelly’s heart. Even worse, Debbie Allen might have choked on a pork rind at home. The Oscar host needs to be quick and funny and ready to seize the moment when somebody streaks past Eva Marie Saint or Jack Palance tries to do pushups on top of Olivia DeHavilland. Johnny Carson and Bob Hope are dead and probably still cost-prohibitive. Forget Whoopi and Letterman and Jon Stewart and even Billy Crystal who, in his current bloated form, resembles more an overweight cantor. The comedian who gets Hollywood is Steve Martin. In his five minutes presenting with Tina Fey, he served as a first aid kit for whatever had started to bleed on Sunday night. Book him to a lifetime contract now.

2. WHOEVER THE HOST IS, USE THEM: While this certainly was not his ideal venue, Hugh Jackman disappeared for long portions of the evening. I was waiting to see a “breaking news” crawl across the bottom of the screen. “Hugh Jackman has been abducted by Al Qaeda.”

3. SKIP THE RED CARPET NONSENSE: I tuned in at 5PM Pacific time only to discover that there were a bunch of roving reporters/interns from the Logo network running around and discussing the dresses. This lasted for 30 minutes and, by the end of the half hour, I was starting to lisp as bad as the commentators. Let’s face it, how many times can you say that Anne Hathaway’s dress is stunning? Unless, of course, the reporter thinks it’s so stunning that he wants to try it on himself. And then, ladies and gentlemen, we have ourselves a show. And, oh, another thing to these fashion-conscious gay reporters, please know how to properly pronounce brand names. It's Swarovski, not Swarski.

4. MAKE SURE OLDER STARS AREN’T REPEATING WARDROBE: I swear that is the same outfit Sophia Loren has worn to every Oscar ceremony since she was shtupping Cary Grant on the set of Houseboat. It’s tough to try and fit into your sweet sixteen dress when you’re 75. The way can be said for Goldie Hawn who needs to understand that enhanced breasts just might require a visit to Zelda the seamstress.

5. IMPOSE WARDROBE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE GUYS: If you focus on the female disasters, don’t forget the men who can be equally as misguided. Phillip Seymour Hoffman, who is now so large he needs to be held on ropes by a marching band, was wearing some beret on his head and looked like one of those kids in grade school with ringworm. Mickey Rourke was barely dressed at all. The white dinner jacket screamed "Ricky Ricardo at the Tropicana." Rourke reminded me of somebody who could get you a great deal on a 1974 Pinto at an automall in West Covina. How freakin’ hard it is to get a respectable tuxedo? For Pete’s sake, even Men’s Wearhouse has them.

6. STOP TALKING TO GOD IN YOUR ACCEPTANCE SPEECHES: Kate Winslet held her Best Actress Oscar aloft to show it to God. Note to Ms. Winslet: God is not an Academy member and probably hasn’t invoked any power on the Academy Awards since Ben-Hur won in 1959. I love the way winners always thank God for their victories. As it is written in the Bible, God is supposed to love everybody. Both winners and losers. But, He probably is challenged whenever Susan Lucci is up for a Daytime Emmy.

7. STOP TALKING POLITICS ON THE OSCARS: A good way to start is by not inviting the grossly unfunny Bill Maher to anything ever again. He was boohooing about his documentary "Religulous" not being nominated. I doubt anybody outside of the Maher household even saw it. Of course, political stances injected into Oscar acceptance speeches have been an annoyance for years. Wasn't John Wayne once so incensed that he pushed Jane Fonda down a flight of stairs at the Dorothy Chandler Pavillion? This year, you had the gristled Sean Penn opening up his big dumb mouth and addressing "you Commie, homo-loving sons of guns." Doesn't he realize that Charlton Heston died last year? Penn also referred to Obama as an "elegant" man. When I elect a President, I want one that's smart, not destined to model a Hugo Boss suit on the cover of GQ. The bottom line? Whether you're on the left or the right or on Venus, check your political shit at the coat check window of the Kodak. If somebody starts to yammer, cue the music. And a trap door.

8. DON'T MESS WITH THE DEAD ROLL CALL: This is one of my anxiously awaited Oscar moments every year. It always sparks at least one surprise for me. "Geez, I thought she croaked years ago." And we always wait to see who gets the biggest hand as if the audience is either A) remembering them most fondly or B) glad they're dead. This year, they felt the need to have Queen Latifah croon over the roll call. The song was great---"I"ll Be Seeing You"---one of my alltime favorites. But, in order to get the always-needs-to-be-widescreened-ass of Queen Latifah in the same shot, the actual photos of the dead were reduced to the size of postage stamps, whizzing by like shooting stars. They totally screwed up the mention of Cyd Charisse, and I'm guessing her husband, the 90 year-old Tony Martin, threw his slippers at the Philco in their Wilshire Boulevard condo. Just focus on the pictures of those that have passed on. We all don't need to be reminded what Queen Latifah looks like, without or without truck license plates.

9. LIMIT PEOPLE TO NO MORE THAN TWO APPEARANCES ON THE STAGE: That dothead who did the music for Slumdog seemed to be accepting at the podium every five minutes. Then he sang in what could have been a lost episode of The Simpsons where Apu sells Homer a Slim Jim and a couple of lotto scratch cards. This Indian Marvin Hamlisch knockoff really got on my nerves. And he was a constant reminder that I forgot to pick up a prescription at Walgren's.

10. MAKE THE OSCARS A DINNER AND AN OPEN BAR: Even though the Golden Globes are a complete joke chosen by ten incoherent reporters working for South American television, they do one thing right. Their ceremony is a dinner with food and liquor, which always presents the delicious possibility of bad behavior on live television. With a few Cosmos in her, wouldn't it have been fun to see Jennifer Aniston bitchslap Angelina Jolie in front of millions of viewers worldwide? That's how you have spontaneous moments like Golden Globe winner Christine Lahti accepting an award with toilet paper stuck to her shoe. Start the drinking two hours before so that the equilibrium is just starting to teeter at showtime. And, if he could have popped a Vicodin or two, we would have gotten a lot more merriment out of Hersholt winner Jerry Lewis, who was so morose that I thought he was still at Dean's wake.

11. HIRE TV PRODUCERS TO PRODUCE A TV SHOW: The Oscars always use film producers to stage the Oscars and that's why they drag like a deer with buckshot in his hind legs. This year, the show was produced by the guy who wrote Chicago and the guy who directed Moulin Rouge. Neither one of them can probably program their TiVO at home, let alone produce a three hour plus TV show. And while you're at, make sure that future producers shitcan the bloated productions for Best Song. Those numbers from Slumdog reminded me of one of those kettle bands you find staked out on an IRT subway station. I'm surprised that Mickey Rourke didn't walk up to the stage and leave a dollar bill in somebody's guitar case.

12. SKIP THE HISTORY LESSON: I loved the group presenters for the acting awards, although several of them looked like they would much prefer having a smoke out on Hollywood Boulevard. And that asshole Adrien Brody must have made nominee Richard Jenkins feel very special when he said that he had to Google him to see all of Jenkins’ credits. And how Halle Berry gets included with the likes of Shirley McLaine and Sophia Loren is beyond my level of education. Nevertheless, it was a new device that worked. But, all the other presenters were forced to give us samples of the Academy’s new Film 101 course. Here’s what a sound mixer does. Here’s what a director does. Hello? Those of us who care already know. Those of us who don’t care can’t be bothered. Screw the information downloads and the goofy jokes. Just announce the nominees and proceed to disappoint some folks.

13. MAKE SURE JACK NICHOLSON IS AVAILABLE: He’s always good for some laughs, sitting in the front row and dozing behind those Oakleys. But, he was nowhere to be found Sunday night. The Lakers were playing in Minnesota. What gives, Jack?

14. MAKE SURE MICHAEL DOUGLAS IS UNAVAILABLE: Only in Hollywood could an actor with such limited skills be a star. How he got an Oscar is beyond me. Now, he’s just old and craggy and looks like Spartacus’ grandfather. Besides, I’m still pissed at his slurring dad for being on the board of the temple that kicked us out of our last apartment.

15. WHEN YOU WIN BEST PICTURE, DON’T BRING THE WORLD UP TO THE STAGE WITH YOU: I can remember the old days. If you won Best Picture, the producer accepted. Maybe a co-producer came up as well. When they honored Slumdog Millionaire on Sunday night, it was like blowing the shofar at Rosh Hashanah. Or whatever is the equivalent in Mumbai. Everybody and their third cousin showed up on stage, including the craft services guy who whipped up a nifty curried chicken for the wrap party. Enough. And, speaking of which, there were tons of little kids from the cast dragged out. They’re actors/street urchins. Last night they’re dining at Spago, but, in two weeks, they’re back in the mudhut slurping up a bowl of ants. Can you say “child exploitation?” Can somebody please get child actor advocate Paul Petersen on this? Hell, I traded e-mails with him a few years back on an unrelated matter. Allow me.

Okay, the free advice is over. We’ll see what how they give out Oscars next year. When the favorite will be the screen adaptation of Bernie Madoff's life story. Kevin Bacon starring in Scumbag Millionaire.

Dinner last night: Penne with turkey sausage and Kalamata olives.