The Oscars, The Grouch

Note: links ought to work now. Let's hope it sticks. If it says Hilary Swank but you get a picture of Paul Giamatti, it's not my fault, I've tried many times to make it work.

Thoughts Upon Watching a 5 Minute Segement of the Academy Awards


...in which Beyonce whored herself (19th century-style!) and ultimately mucked up 'Learn to Be Lonely'.

Now as anyone who knows us here at Gunning knows how we feels about the recent film version of the Phantom of the Opera. They know that, the few issues--concerning Patrick Wilson's foppish hair and Emmy's difficulty in hitting a few notes or nuances and her very real need to eat a sammich or two--aside, we loved the movie, music, booby-licious costumes and the whole kit and kaboodle. Now, upon hearing that Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber had his newly-composed song 'Learn to Be Lonely' (a part of the movie's soundtrack,) was nominated for best new song, there was varying amounts of joy and confetti which were only a little bitter because no costume or acting nominations followed suit. Upon hearing later that the said song was to be performed at the Oscars, there was again varying amounts of joy and celebratory pie.

Then I actually watched the segment.

Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?

Beyonce, it appears, was chosen to sing the song, for reason that are unclear to this author. If they were trying to make her out to be a Christine-figure, they failed utterly. According to different interpretations based on the original book, movie, and musical, there is always arguments over Christine's being blonde or brunette. (Book-Christine is blonde, Movie/Musical-Christine is brunette. Seeing as she's Swedish, I'd go with the blonde, logically, but I just cannot face blonde heroines so I prefer the brunette version.) But even I know that Christine is not black. No way, no how. This is not racism. Think about it: in the mid-late 1800's, would anyone hire a black woman to work as a chorus girl in a prestigious opera house, much less promote said girl to the status of leading diva soprano? In the name of equality, I must say that, sadly, white chicks were all you saw on stage. Even if there was a black character, usually they were portrayed by Caucasian people who rubbed coal or something on their faces.
But back to Beyonce.
So she's wearing a dress in filmy layers of black in a bell-skirt style that one would assume is a modern take on an old-fashioned classical style. And you'd be right if it weren't for the necklines that plunges beyond all reason. I know that boobies on display weren't exactly taboo back in the day, but the neckline just didn't work with the rest of the dress. It's like trying to match a baseball cap with a Scarlett O'Hara getup.
Thankfully we are spared a full view of Beyonce's considerable charms because she is positively dripping with various diamonds and spangles which are frickin' huge. We assume this is a take-off from the Swaovski crystal stage jewelery worn by Christine during the movie. Unfortunately for Beyonce, this just looks as if the ill-fated chandelier happened to fall directly upon her. No worries, folks, she's not hurt or anything! She just picked herself up, brushed away some of the dust, re-arranged the shattered light fixture pieces around her face, neck and shoulders, and off she went to the Oscars!
Now, in general, that is all that's wrong with her appearance, aside from one final teeny-tiny issue. Hey eyes. Beyonce, honey...I don't know what happened! Neither do you, apparently. But here's my hypothesis:
Beyonce, on her way to the Academy Awards in her sporty, sexy little automobile, finds herself alone on the side of the highway with something wrong under the hood. Being the empowered, independant woman that she is, instead of flagging down help, she hitches up her Vera Wang and goes to work on her carburetor. She finally locates the problem, fixes it, and as a last touch, checks her oil before she slams the hood, wipes her sweaty brow with her hand, then returns to the driver's seat and roars off to the Oscars.
Honey...it's called an oil rag. Learn how to use it. Also: checking in the mirror beforeyou trip lightly out onto the stageis a good idea. The smears of motor oil gracing your eyelids does nothing for your image. We all KNOW you are a dirty black woman. (Not that black women are dirty. Beyonce just happens to be black as WELL as dirty. Metaphorically dirty. See: Beyonce's videos and elastic bands masquerading as her tube skirts and tops.) Anyway, hon, your makeup does not necessarily have to be your mission statement.

Small side note: Tech-crew member garbed in a half-mask and black cape put in place to pointlessly lead Beyonce down the stairs then make an angsty, cape-swirling exit 30 seconds later. She can change a tire, ladies and gentlemen, but can she traverse the trechery that is stairs all by her lonesome? Apparently not.

How can I find so much rage within a 5-minute segment? I have no idea. I know that later in the program, Mr. Birthday Boy Josh Groban will be performing "Believe" along with Miss Knowles. This depresses me so much that I have a 50/50 chance of actually making myself sit through it. On the one hand, it's Josh Groban. On the other, it's Beyonce. I can't decide if he is irrepairably sullied by her presence or if she is to be canonized by his influence.

(At this point, Em typed an amazingly witty segment which she somehow inadvertantly deleted and will now try to recreate. The bloom has gone off the rose, somewhat.)
So Beyonce might have been able to pull if off if she hadn't been off-key and trying to make it sound sombre by being a half-note flat and making hand motions reserved for gospel choirs. Poor Josh stood stricken, clutching his mic for dear life and trying to maintain his aura of hope and innocence in the simple joy of Christmas while Beyonce looked ready to bust out the booty-licious moves. Also, just when you thought her dress choices couldn't digress from horrid to disastrous, she proves us wrong. She shaved the scales off a trout and stitched it into a clingy sheath. Sequins weren't even hot in the 80's when they were fashionable. No one looks good in sparkly clothing. Plus...I have only ever seen eyes like this on stuffed deerheads mounted on walls.

So long as I'm ranting about dresses: Hilary Swank: Honey, for a second, I was so proud of you. I saw you sitting there, gearing yourself up to win Best Actress, and I thought "Wow. She looks so nice! Her hair is in a nice simple elegant style, and she's wearing a high-necked, long sleeved, floorlength navy blue dress. She looks like she's put on a few pounds, and she has yet deigned to cover up her sternum which may not yet be ready for public viewing. Her jawline is less abrasive and she's not smiling too widely and she looks downright feminine! I just love it when people accept their genders and are radiant!" Then she stood up and turned around. My eyeballs, upon viewing all of her shoulders, back, waist, hips, and a large expanse of her upper behind retreated into my nasal cavity and my left pupil tried to bail out my ear canal. A few minutes, a commercial break, and several close-up shots of Kate Winslet in a tasteful, lovely bright blue gown, my eyeballs managed to crawl back to the forefront of my skull, where they proceeded to get watery as Jamie Foxx rambled about his grandmother and his dreams.

P.S. Is this woman kneeling or standing?
P.P.S. And WHY do Clive Owen's date's always do this? WHY?
P.P.S. It's comforting to know that if MJ ever bails on us, we have this guy to give us our dosage of feminine-man-ness.