Like a first-class passenger grabbing another serving of mutton, Billy Crystal snatched the obvious metaphor, almost immediately comparing the 70th Academy Awards to the Titanic– something enormous, expensive and that “everybody wants . . . to go a lot faster.”
But thanks to Crystal’s nimble work at the helm Monday, this awkward ship sailed relatively smoothly through straits of boredom–when will the producers realize all of the nominated songs do not need to be sung?–and ice fields of frozen-on smiles, expressions at no time more rigid than when their wearer has just lost the Oscar.
In his sixth hosting turn in the ’90s, Crystal once again proved his mettle, finding the right blend of old-time shtick, snappy ad-libs, and respect for Hollywood, its traditions and foibles disguised as insider punch lines. Emceeing TV’s perennial second-most-popular show ought to be his for as long as he wants the job, the way it was for Johnny Carson during his heyday.
And the program, although stuck with a format that is by definition plodding, showed flashes of innovation and charm before frittering it away in a post-11 p.m. introduction of every living Oscar-winning performer who could be assembled on stage, from Shirley Temple Black to Anna Paquin.
The self-congratulatory, stage-hogging moment was the broadcast’s nearest thing to a dancing Snow White-style gaffe. Billed, wrongly, as a “reunion,” it was more like an extended tooth drilling session and the worst example of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences’ absurd insistence that the 70th anniversary was a momentous occasion.
The show took a numbing 3 hours, 45 minutes to do the expected: Coronate “Titanic.” And as the Oscars, broadcast live on ABC (WLS-Ch. 7), always seem to do, they opened with the inane. First some panting fellow, accompanied by video, gave us the stunning news that a whole lot of stars were on hand, including “the lovely Mira Sorvino,” “who else but Cher,” and, by apparent Los Angeles ordinance, “Hollywood’s top reporter Army Archerd.”
Then, moving into the auditorium, first up was the obligatory executive moment: Onto the stage came Academy president Robert Rehme to inform us, like a pilot telling passengers before takeoff that the plane was headed to Cleveland, that these were indeed the Academy Awards.
But then came Crystal, and things picked up. As he did last year, Crystal inserted himself into the nominated films, getting spit on from the Titanic, getting a “swirly” (junior high term for head in the toilet) from the “L.A. Confidential” cops, bantering with Jack Nicholson and Robin Williams in, respectively, “As Good As It Gets” and “Good Will Hunting.”
Even if we had seen the bit before, the lines and concepts were sharp–Crystal posing nude for Leonardo DiCaprio in “Titanic”–and he had the good sense to apologize for the repetition in the bit itself, which played on his reluctance to host.
Let us hope Crystal won’t be unwilling to take his rightful place in the future. Of recent other hosts, David Letterman, contrary to his self-bashing, was edgy and interesting, but his outsider attitude felt like a violation of the night’s Hollywood-love-thyself edict. And the only other host in this decade, two-timer Whoopi Goldberg, obviously too far removed from her comedy/performance art roots, was just drab.
Crystal, though, was like a kid in a candy shop Monday. At one point, he broke from the script to crawl down into the five-sided glass box that defined the dais. “Hey, look!” he said, pointing out that this was how he would look if he were a present.
And his scripted jokes were mostly sharp: “A year ago,” he said, “the White House was complaining that there was too much sex in Hollywood.”
In this atmosphere, even the noted Borscht Belt graduate Arnold Schwarzenegger could earn big laughs. Introducing “Titanic,” directed by self-proclaimed “King of the World” James Cameron, Schwarzenegger joked that the Cameron movies he starred in, “True Lies” and the “Terminator” flicks, represented the director’s “early, low-budget, arthouse period.”
The broadcast was helped by some very popular awards choices. The mostly beloved “Titanic” proved that spending $200 million to remake “Poseidon Adventure” was not a bad idea after all. And the acting awards went to well-liked folks who gave winning speeches: sitcom/”As Good As It Gets” star Helen Hunt for Best Actress, comeback kid Kim Basinger for Best Supporting Actress, verbally profuse cuddly bear Robin Williams for Best Supporting Actor, exuberant, even more cuddly writer-actors Matt Damon and Ben Affleck for Best Original Screenplay, and charmingly menacing Jack Nicholson for Best Actor.
And although clip packages are often among the dullest parts of Oscar evening, an early assemblage, going through the 69 previous best picture winners in order, proved not only a nifty trivia exercise, but the fans’ applause greeting the films made the untouchable celebrities in the crowd seem human, like just another gathering of movie buffs.
But two other Academy Awards broadcast perennials–the songs and the dance numbers–really need the axe, or at least a pair of scissors. Dancing has all but disappeared from films, and there is a clear quality difference between the movies and the songs, which tend to represent a thin sliver of the singing and songwriting arts, that of overheated pop balladry.
The overheated pop ballad that won, in this year of the sunken ship, was, of course, “My Heart Will Go On,” from “Titanic.”
It was one of a record-tying 11 Oscars for Cameron’s movie. Maybe now it will start to show some strength at the box office.
