Say cheese!
Camille does the Oscars
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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - It was pretty indistinguishable from the Grammies at times last night, judging from all that Turbo Karaoke Emotion. Flatley is Lord of the Dance; Bolton, however, is Lord of the Song. And Celine Dion is Lady. The morbidly shriveling and schoolmarmish Dion, wearing a neoprene cassock, failed to sexualize any portion of the stage while trembling with pain over the eyebleeding Titanic ballad. I watched her aged Svengali boyfriend remote-controlling her arm movements from the audience with a small steering wheel. He'll let her jump for a nice bag of sardines when she gets home, maybe reward her with a three-pack of fresh nylons. Then she'll retreat to her little haystack for her five-hour rest. There are some really hot babes in Hollywood who were reduced to Vanna White hood ornament status by the Academy -- Ashley Judd, for one. Drew Barrymore. Jennifer Lopez, while in possession of a peeling rack, looked like she needed more vocal training from her acting coach so she wouldn't sound like she grew up in the barrios of Echo Park carving "Chicas Locas" into her thigh with a Bic pen. She seemed hyperconscious of this; she is kind of begging for somebody like Celine Dion's unsmiling dungeonmaster to Henry Higgins her into a real Lady. Hey, whenever there's a dull Oscar moment, why not cut to a shot of Michael Caine, doddering? Or a doddering kodiak bear? Bear, Michael Caine. Caine, bear. Oscar night! Whee. You knew that Kate Winslet really felt she had the Oscar in her bones. It was her Oscar, she KNEW it. She felt severely robbed. You could tell by the way the black foam started pouring out of her mouth and ears when they gave the award to Hunt. You knew Kate had her entire night planned around flashbulb handshakes and gracious Lovegetting. You could tell that she needed the Oscar for sick personal reasons. La Winslet's greasy curls looked more and more Medusa-like throughout the evening; the hatred in her aura smogged in that whole end of the room. She was going to go back to the hotel, get shitfaced and eat 24 Ho Ho's, sobbing and spitting and throwing ashtrays out the window. FUCK the Oscars! FUCK them! Buh-hoo-hoooo-hoooo-hooo-hooo. Sniff. Buh-hoo-hoo-hoo. Everyone at my Oscar party felt kind of sick inside during James Cameron's grotesquely self-aggrandizing speeches; he proved once and for all that he's a totally loathsome Costnerian dullard. You could tell when he got the best picture award that muscular wife Linda Hamilton must have chastized him for being such an ego-bloated dunce during his best director acceptance speech: "Hey Jim, that movie you made? All those people actually DIED on the Titanic. Maybe you oughta say something." So then Cameron trots out this laughably unmoving, totally obvious face-saving and time-eating device of "a few seconds of silence" for the dead of the Titanic ... What the fuck was that, Jim? I'm glad he gave away all his points. I'm glad he made no money. I guess the lowbrow sponsorship really summed it all up in a flash: The 70th Oscars, brought to you by Kentucky Fried Chicken, Camaro and J.C. Penney. Oh, so THAT's who saw "Titanic." None of my friends did.
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