Colin Firth, Natalie Portman, Christian Bale, Aaron Sorkin and David Seidler all collected the Oscars that might as well have already belonged to them, Melissa Leo managed to weather the controversy about her kinda shameless advertising, and True Grit's plentiful nominations didn't amount to a hill of beans.
I will admit to being disappointed that The King's Speech took out both Best Picture and Best Director (for Tom Hooper) over The Social Network, but I can take solace in the fact that this year, even the film I didn't want to win was still a damn good film. That doesn't always happen (cough, Slumdog Millionaire, cough).
The telecast was probably even more dull than usual (in regular person terms, that is ... of course I was loving every second), only enlivened by Melissa Leo's F-bomb, Kirk Douglas' sass, and the bizarro double-team of the disinterested (and possibly stoned) James Franco alongside Anne Hathaway, who flailed around desperately, trying to be enthusiastic enough for the both of them.
In Hollywood terms, it's actually been an unusually strong year, I reckon. Of the ten Best Picture nominees, I loved seven of them, which is a strike-rate that's off the charts. (127 Hours, The Kids Are All Right and The Fighter were the duds, in case you're interested ... and even then, none of those are bad films. They're just not especially good ones. It's not like there was a Benjamin Button in the mix this year.)
And it most definitely is decadent to eat popcorn alone at midday.
But I don't care.
But I don't care.
currently reading: Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
books to go: 111
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