INTRODUCING FIVE THINGS

I have grand ideas for many potential blog posts, but procrastinator that I am, I can't seem to finish (much less start) any of 'em. So, to get this blog active again, I am going to try to post about five things that interest me every week. Some will have a paragraph written about them (or more); others may be lucky to get one sentence. I will also include photographs and links because sometimes I fear I won't have five things to write fluently about. But it will give me something to aim for.



1. OVO (Cirque du Soleil)

Before this weekend, my vague impression of Cirque du Soleil was that of an arty, expensive Quebecois entertainment setting up shop in town once or twice a year with one inexplicably named production (Kooza? Zumanity?) after another. Having now seen one of these shows, I can confirm I wasn’t too far off the mark. The insect-themed OVO opens with a ginormous egg in center stage, which hatches to reveal the cast, all men and women clad in elaborate, eye-popping costumes that resemble grasshoppers, red ants, a spider, a fruit fly, a ladybug, and many others I did not quite recognize. Combining graceful ballet with impressive acrobatics and accompanied by a lovely, airy score (performed live by an orchestra, some of whom appeared on stage dressed as snails), the show was equally wistful and weird. I enjoyed it immensely.

2. RESTREPO

I’ve always struggled with war films (both fiction and docs)—it’s possibly my least favorite genre. But I loved THE HURT LOCKER and if this isn’t exactly its real-life equivalent, that’s fine because it attempts something else. Not to say war’s psychological effects aren’t explored (they make for some of the most intense, touching moments), but Sebastian Junger's and Tim Hetherington’s in-the-trenches-of-Afghanistan doc amazes primarily for its access in which it closely follows a platoon in combat for one year. Fortunately, the filmmakers know they’re making a film and not just a document—the narrative threads and personalities that emerge cohere and compel as well as any screenplay without feeling scripted at all.

3. Just a few (of many) things to love about the MAD MEN Season 4 premiere (spoilers ahoy!):

*Peggy’s more sophisticated (but still not overly swanky) new ‘do.
*Henry’s refreshingly no-nonsense mother (she astutely refers to Betty as a “silly woman”).
*Adorable new office underling Joey (Matt Long), whom I suspect will turn out to be more than a random addition.
*Kiernan Shipka (young brat Sally Draper) has made the opening credits at last.
*Don Draper getting slapped in the face (repeatedly) by a prostitute.

4. As I’m less than a hundred pages away from finishing The Satanic Verses (at last!), which one of these unread books on my shelf I should try next? The Portable Dorothy Parker, or Word Virus: The William S. Burroughs Reader? Leave a comment if you feel passionate about one or the other.

5. A most fetching portrait spotted at the British Brewing Company in Framingham this past weekend:



Maggie should appear so classy.

WHITE MATERIAL

In her previous film 35 SHOTS OF RUM, Claire Denis focused on a father and daughter of African descent living in France; here, she shifts her attention to a French family who owns a coffee plantation in Africa. Whereas race and living as a minority in an adopted homeland provided only a subtext in the earlier film, it's at the dead center of this one. Maria (Isabelle Huppert), who entered this business (and continent) via marriage, manages the plantation. When the French military exits the region due to war among local tribes, she disregards their warnings to follow, determined to hold on to this life she's so invested in. Initially, her steadfastness appears admirable and brave, but as blatant hostility towards the family escalates, her actions merely seem stubborn and not without hubris (although Huppert lends her some much-needed empathy).

While Denis rarely makes the same film twice, WHITE MATERIAL feels like a different beast for the director. For all of its expected touches (another evocative Tindersticks score, the casting of Michael Subor in a small but pivotal role), it also throws in a few curveballs such as a cinematographer other than Denis regular Agnes Godard (Yves Cape, whose hand-held work is in stark contrast from Godard's poetic, gorgeous imagery) and a far more pronounced, straightforward narrative structure. I applaud Denis for leaving her comfort zone a little, and an unnerving scene where a child army slowly emerges from the dark woods is as mesmerizing as anything in her oeuvre--but I'd rather she kept the story more ambiguous, more mysterious. Apart from one shocking moment, we suspect what kind of finale the film is hurtling towards too far in advance.

6 MONTHS DOWN...

Last year at this time, I had already seen my favorite film and heard my favorite album of the year. Here's where we stand for favorites in 2010 so far (in alphabetical order, of course).

FILMS:

Exit Through The Gift Shop
Fish Tank
Howl
I Am Love
I Killed My Mother
Marwencol
Micmacs
Mother
Please Give
Winter's Bone

ALBUMS:

David Byrne & Fatboy Slim (and many others), Here Lies Love
Field Music, Measure
Charlotte Gainsbourg, IRM
Goldfrapp, Head First
LCD Soundsystem, This is Happening
Ted Leo and The Pharmacists, The Brutalist Bricks
Joanna Newsom, Have One On Me
Gil Scott-Heron, I'm New Here
Spoon, Transference
Tracey Thorn, Love and Its Opposite

A WALK THROUGH P-TOWN

I have sort of a love/hate relationship with Provincetown, an artist colony/gay-friendly tourist enclave on the tip of Cape Cod.



Although the insularity, attitude and marked-up prices on everything tend to grate after awhile, P-Town can be a fantastic, almost otherworldly spot for a weekend getaway, given the right accomodations (I've had a few less-than-ideal B&B experiences); thankfully, we stayed in a nice little rental this time out.



If the town has an identifiable landmark, it's undoubtedly the Provincetown Monument.



The library (a former church) also stands out among the more rustic Cape homes, although it seems to be in a perpetual state of restoration.



As usual, Steve and I came for the Provincetown International Film Festival (The Art House Cinema, pictured above, is one of its venues). In its 12th year, PIFF is still going strong--most screenings I attended were close to full. I saw many films and gave everything good-to-great ratings, except for a few shorts (I never learn with those festival shorts programs).

Although I skipped out on the awards ceremony, that night I did briefly spot honoree Tilda Swinton (tall, luminous, dressed in white) happily strolling down the main drag. I ran off to notify a few friends, but by the time we returned she and her male companion had disappeared into the night.



Geographically, P-Town is long and narrow. That main drag, the aptly-named Commercial Street spans from East to West with an overload of signage.



Sometimes, the signs line up in pleasant symmetry...



...and occasionally, one has a wide canvas all to itself. Still, the signs don't entirely distract from the gorgeous gardens that dot the front yards of both businesses and residences:









One evening, we checked out my favorite part of town, the sleepy West End. We dined at Sal's, an adorably rustic Italian restaurant.



As night fell, a few of the town's oddities surfaced through the coastal fog, such as this jolly, beguiling Buddha...



...and this welcoming (if stoic) statue, which looked like it was once a part of a ship's figurehead.



Look closely enough and you may catch something looking back at you.



On our final morning in town, we walked beyond the West End to an edge of the world, peering out at the mighty Atlantic. A sight of expansive marshland, the dunes, and a beach (though one can barely make it out from this distance) suggests a multitude of possibilities:









I leave you with a close-up of the library's cupola, illuminated by a peaceful P-Town sun.

IFF BOSTON 2010 RECAPS (PART TWO)

MARWENCOL

A decade ago in Kingston, New York, Mark Hogencamp was brutally beaten up by five young men in a parking lot. He survived, but with severe physical and even worse brain damage. After a few years of hospitalization that left him mostly healed but still under a lot of psychological distress, his insurance ran out, forcing him to live on his own. Hogencamp’s pre-attack diaries reveal he was a talented sketch artist, but his now-shaky hand prevents him from being able to draw. As a form of self-therapy, he begins to construct dioramas around his trailer home and yard, using the older, larger G. I. Joe and Barbie dolls as models. With time, he constructs his own elaborate town, a Belgian village during World War II whose name gives this documentary its title. If it all sounds incredibly kitschy, it’s not—Hogencamp is completely serious about his creations. He gives the dolls the names of people from his life—the guys who beat him up are rendered as Nazi soldiers, and he utilizes them in oft-gruesome scenarios to work through his trauma. He also takes artful, arresting photographs of the scenes he’s created, and they’re good enough to eventually lead to his own New York City gallery show. Throughout, Hogencamp appears before us as sweet, sad and more than a little fragile, but details about his past gradually surface that considerably deepen and complicate how we see him (particularly the shocking reason why he was beaten up, revealed midway through and too important to give away here). Jeff Malmberg’s film beautifully, profoundly illustrates the process of art-as-therapy, but it’s just as much a riveting account of a fascinating subject.

HIPSTERS

Easily standing apart from their stern, humorless gray-clad comrades, the young titular characters in this wonderfully weird Russian musical (set in 1955) are the counterculture. They take their cues from the jazz-loving, swing-dancing, zoot-suited Americans of a decade before, but strewn through a kaleidoscopic cross-cultural blender, outfitted in wild, garish, clashing colors, speaking in a beat-derived lingo and meeting up to dance and drink the night away at their own chic Valhalla in downtown Moscow. Mels (Anton Shagin) enters the film as a gawky secret policeman but soon falls under the Hipsters’ allure, much to his fellow workers’ chagrin. Director Valery Todorovsky practically overstuffs the film with elaborate, briskly paced, wildly imaginative musical numbers. Some hit the mark more than others (early on, a slapstick paean to communal living sets a deliriously high standard to match), but HIPSTERS tempers its exaggeration and flash by fully acknowledging the consequences inherent in choosing one lifestyle over another. Still, it’s one of the least dour Russian films you’re ever likely to see, with an infectious, uplifting energy that extends all the way to the finale’s timeless celebration of camaraderie among outsiders.

STRANGE POWERS: STEPHIN MERRITT AND THE MAGNETIC FIELDS

An adequate documentary about an extraordinary subject, this decade-in-the-making labor of love profiles Stephin Merritt, cult musician and head of The Magnetic Fields (and many other side projects). As a songwriter, Merritt seems out-of-time, his lyrics and melodies recalling the arch, witty (and occasionally breathtaking) wordplay of Cole Porter and Noel Coward. As a musician, Merritt’s positively postmodern, veering from cello-laden chamber pop to toy-store electronic settings to an entire album called Distortion that excessively lives up to its title. However, instead of merely fawning over Merritt’s considerable talent, the film wisely spends more time examining his resolutely deadpan, often difficult personality and relationship with long-term collaborator and friend Claudia Gonson. As they bring out both the best and worst in each other, we get a comprehensive sense of how art and life feed off each other and the also the quandary of being well-known in a particular community but not famous outside of it. But great subjects do not necessarily make for great films, and while it contains no serious missteps, aesthetically, STRANGE POWERS feels a little flat, especially compared to a similar cult-artist profile like SCOTT WALKER: 30TH CENTURY MAN.

IFF BOSTON 2010 RECAPS (PART ONE)

Thought I'd try to get these done before Provincetown, the next film festival I will attend. Here's the first three, with three more to (hopefully) follow.

I AM LOVE

From its opulent and deliberately anachronistic opening credits, this is an unapologetically old-fashioned melodrama, albeit one on crack cocaine with every feeling and stylistic choice ramped up to the nth degree. Centered on a wealthy Milan family, it’s initially difficult to get a handle on who’s who as we’re immediately thrust, with little exposition like an Altman film, into its milieu. The narrative comes into focus as the family’s dying patriarch gives the keys of his textile empire to son Tancredi and eldest grandson Edo, who would rather open a restaurant with his friend Antonio. In time, Emma, Tancredi’s Russian-born wife emerges as the key figure, and not just because she is played by Tilda Swinton (speaking fluent Italian, no less). Even as her character gradually succumbs to the film’s hyperactive emotional state, her magnetic (but not overpowering) presence and steady performance gives viewers something to hold on to. Director/Screenwriter Luca Guadagnino eventually throws in a shocking turn of events that some may have trouble taking seriously (although Guadagnino is deadly serious about it), but it sets the course for an operatic, furiously-edited finale where the thrilling, maddening score keeps building and building until the whole film reaches a heart-pounding orgasm of liberation and resolve. Ridiculously massive and moving, I AM LOVE will not appease those seeking subtlety (or even logic), but for me, its skill and sheer chutzpah ultimately transcended those concerns; I could not stop thinking about it for days.

THE EXTRA MAN

With AMERICAN SPLENDOR, Robert Pulcini and Shari Springer Berman displayed a talent for successfully adapting literary material one wouldn’t expect to easily translate into film. Their attempt to do so with Jonathan Ames’ quirky novel doesn’t fare as well, although they get a sublime, career-capping comedic turn from Kevin Kline as an eccentric, preposterous escort of wealthy old ladies who is somewhat aware of those qualities within himself but doesn’t give a damn about what anyone thinks. In his harder-to-define role as the F. Scott Fitzgerald-loving young protégé, Paul Dano is adorably odd, making good use of his tentative vocal inflections. However, as voices go, a full-bearded John C. Reilly does a lot with very little in a riotous extended cameo. Although the film as a whole doesn’t amount to very much, the actors leave you rolling on the floor at the way they deliver their often bizarre and occasionally witty dialogue.

JOAN RIVERS: A PIECE OF WORK

A year in the life of everyone’s favorite bawdy female Jewish comedienne and plastic surgery punchline, it sets out to prove she’s more than that. Blessed with a desirable arc that follows Rivers from a low point in her career to renewed fame and visibility following her winning “The Celebrity Apprentice”, the film mixes in clips from throughout her career (stretching back to early, electric appearances on “The Ed Sullivan Show”) and threads in pieces of a recent stand-up performance at a small club. At 75, she’s as bitingly hilarious and risqué as ever, but we catch fleeting, telling glimpses of another persona—an insecure workaholic deathly afraid of becoming irrelevant, sensitive about subjecting herself to a Comedy Central roast and expressing frustration at her reputation as a brilliant comedienne but not a great actress. One may find it hard to muster up sympathy for such plaints given her continued success, but the film gains momentum and purpose by exploring how much her ability to work and keep pushing herself is a life force: you feel it’s as essential to her as breathing.

A STREETCAR NAMED DEVERAUX

If not the most gifted or versatile Golden Girl, she had her moments, like this joyously absurd monologue that certainly stands out from the era's all-too-wacky/normal sitcom conventions. R.I.P., Rue.

DADDY LONGLEGS

With their first two features, filmmakers/brothers Josh and Benny Safdie already demonstrate a knack for designating reasonably unsympathetic characters as their protagonists: THE PLEASURE OF BEING ROBBED followed an unrepentant kleptomaniac, while DADDY LONGLEGS offers up Lenny (Ronald Bronstein), a divorced father of two who will probably never merit a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug.

Not that Lenny is an inherently bad guy. He obviously loves his two young sons and craves the limited periods of time he can spend with them (he and their mother have joint custody, although the kids seem to primarily live with her). Unfortunately, Lenny often acts like a child himself—he comes off like a zanier, less erudite version of Jason Robards’ character from A THOUSAND CLOWNS, seeking all of the simple pleasures he can obtain out of life without any of the responsibilities. So, while he does take the kids to the museum and the park, his poor judgment repeatedly threatens to overshadow his goodwill. Running late to pick up the kids at school is one thing, but taking them on a road trip with a hook-up he met in a bar (with her beau driving the car!) is on a whole other plane of inappropriateness.

Stitched together like a series of funny/sad vignettes, the film feels loose and casual—almost excessively so (ROBBED was a half-hour shorter and benefited from such brevity.) We see Lenny with his sometimes girlfriend, the improbably-named Leni (Eleonore Henricks, the klepto in ROBBED) and various other friends and neighbors; they all view him as an irascible soul that they’re willing to tolerate (up to a point). It’s the lanky, charismatic Bronstein (think a less-cartoony indie-film version of Cosmo Kramer) who lends Lenny a lot of his charm, but the Safdies should get some credit as well. They aren’t necessarily out to portray a monster or a saint, but a flawed, well-meaning individual who just doesn’t take the time to consider how his actions are going to play out.

That personality flaw comes to a head in the last ten minutes when Lenny’s rational thought processes deplete at an alarming speed. At this point, one fears the Safdies are this close from letting the film get away from them. Instead, they go out on an absurd but melancholy, almost lyrical note. A sense of defeat overcomes everything, as we fear for Lenny, knowing he probably won’t change or grow. But I also smiled at the wonderfully bonkers image the film goes out on. Like so much of DADDY LONGLEGS, you can’t possibly imagine where it will head next. Sometimes, that by-the-seat-of-the-pants quality can frustrate, but it’s also incredibly refreshing.

EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP

It’s rare for one film to fully track how an artistic movement evolves from inception to irrelevance, but that’s just what this ingenuously constructed, gleefully entertaining documentary does for graffiti-inspired guerrilla street art—as it’s all happening, no less.

We begin with secretive British artist Banksy, whose elaborate, provocative pranks (such as playfully defacing a portion of the Gaza Strip wall) elevate street art into something that attracts critical acclaim, mass media coverage and eventually, considerable moolah from collectors. Hiding his face in shadow and electronically altering his voice, he keeps his anonymity while addressing the camera. He relays the story of Thierry Guetta, a transplanted Frenchman who ostensibly runs an Los Angeles clothing boutique but seems to spend all of his time (circa the late ‘90s) filming everything and everyone he sees with a portable video camera.



Inspired by a relative who is himself an aspiring street artist, Guetta begins to track down all the L.A. street artists he can find (including a young Shepard Fairey long before his iconic Obama “Hope” print made him a household name). Under the pretense that he’s making a documentary, Guetta videotapes them as they create and (illegally) display their work on public and private property. In turn, he becomes their accomplice, soaking up valuable lessons. Before long, he befriends Banksy, who tentatively allows him to keep a record of his work. Guetta, however, never had any intentions of actually making a documentary. Feeling mounting pressure to do so from all the artists he’s followed (manipulated?), he proves to be a fabulously inept filmmaker. Banksy suggests that Guetta put the documentary aside and instead create some street art of his own—perhaps even put on a show. Meanwhile, Banksy decides to have a go at making his own documentary using Guetta's voluminous tapes of unmarked footage, and the finished product is the film you’ve been watching.

It doesn’t end there. In an astonishing final act, Guetta unexpectedly turns the whole movement on its head in what’s either a cunning display of his idiot-savant nature or just miraculously dumb luck. As for growing speculation that the film is just another Banksy hoax, well, Guetta is undeniably a character (with his stout stature and massive sideburns and ‘stache, he rather resembles one of the lesser-known Mario Bros.), but he seems so genuinely off that I don’t believe for a moment that he could be made up—even by someone as mischievously creative as Banksy, who proves himself a seriously adept filmmaker. Captivating from front to back, EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP both revels in street art’s illicit thrills and astutely, hilariously critiques the commoditized monster it becomes.

RITES OF SPRING

I always grouse about how Autumn colors in New England do not match up to memories of their Midwestern counterparts, but my adopted home has the advantage where Spring is concerned.

TWO PRISON FILMS

I've been itching to write about these two films together because of the obvious hook it provides, but apart from that, they don't have much in common. Read to find out which one's superior: the Cannes Camera d'or winner or the Cannes Grand Prix winner.



One supposes that the ideal purpose of going to prison is rehabilitation. Malik (Tahar Rahim), the young Arabic protagonist of A PROPHET, Jacques Audiard's meditative, sometimes mesmerizing prison drama certainly betters himself during a six-year stint serving time for a crime never alluded to, although it would be a stretch to say he's rehabilitated to a morally good end. Early on during his sentence, he's immediately chosen as a pawn by fellow inmate Cesar (Niels Arustrup), an older Corsican crime boss. He offers Malik "protection" in exchange for a horrific favor but basically threatens him into it. Malik deals with the guilt of this deed and his subservience to Cesar while slowly ascending through the prison's hierarchy. He eventually gains power via some illicit side business at odds with Cesar's interests.

Tempering a no-nonsense, documentary-like style with occasional scenes of magic realism and lyrical uplift, Audiard's film remains engrossing and well-paced throughout its 150+ minute run. Rahim and Arustrup are both excellent as, respectively, a young petty thief often in way over his head and the wizened but volatile monster passive-aggressively molding his protégé. Unfortunately, for all of Audiard's assured direction, something key is missing at the end. We're left wondering what exactly Malik has taken away from his prison term, and whether he is worthy of his fate. I wanted to appreciate this ambiguity Audiard leaves us with, but I also wanted to know whether he thought prison had an altogether helpful or hurtful effect on Malik's life. Given a week to mull over this, I'm still not certain.



HUNGER depicts the fatal 1981 strike conducted in Belfast, Ireland by Bobby Sands (Michael Fassbender, absolutely magnetic but plausible) and his fellow IRA inmates. For these men, the idea of prison as rehabilitation is completely irrelevant. Jailed primarily for political rather than criminal acts, neither they nor the audience are ever under any pretense that imprisonment will alter their beliefs. The English government sees them as pests one can control but not exterminate, so they respond via an extreme means of protest—first, by not washing (covering their cell walls with their own feces and simultaneously pouring chamber pots under their doors into the corridor, creating a surreal urine river of sorts) and then by not eating.

In his impressive first feature, director Steve McQueen (a visual artist, obviously not the long-dead iconic actor) goes to great lengths for his audience to really feel the shit and piss that dominates the film’s first half, but he does so with such unexpected, understated grace. Employing tight close-ups, precious little music or dialogue, lighting as the focal point and a subtle, nearly dreamlike pace (even the sudden dark-to-light contrasts never overwhelm or disengage), McQueen constructs an uncommonly personal biopic of Sands. Midway through, as a bridge between the film’s two acts of protest, he temporarily breaks the silence with a ten minute dialogue between Sands and a priest. This simple, beautiful sequence effectively outlines why the hunger strike must occur and why it will render Sands more than a mere martyr. Presented in a lengthy two-shot without an edit before separating the two men in a series of back-and-forth cuts, it provides all of the context and rationale any viewer will need. Since imprisonment offers no rewards in this case, we see and fully understand how only sacrificial protest can hope to bring about the greater good.

CHLOE

Atom Egoyan's latest opens with Catherine (Julianne Moore), a gynecologist, describing an orgasm to her patient while practically draining all the life out of one (to her, it’s simply a “series of muscular contractions”). Soon after, her professor husband David (Liam Neeson) appears as an impossibly irresistible object of desire to his female students during one of his lectures. Both scenes felt exaggerated to a point that when the couple’s fidelity problems came to the fore as they tooled around their ostentatiously ultra-modern home, I was left wondering why I should care about them.

Thank goodness that Catherine meets Chloe (Amanda Seyfried), a high class prostitute half her age in a restaurant ladies’ room. Suspecting (with good reason) that David is cheating on her, Catherine hires Chloe to approach him in a café he frequents, flirt with him, and see what happens. When Chloe reports the results to Catherine, she is understandably hesitant to hear what has transpired between this girl and her husband, but voyeurism gradually gets the best of her. She probes Chloe for more details, and asks her to meet with David a second time. Soon, Catherine is living vicariously through Chloe, almost receiving an erotic charge by osmosis as she listens to her describe sexual acts with David with an intensity that eventually proves fatal for one of the two women.

Working for the first time with another person’s screenplay (SECRETARY scribe Erin Cressida Wilson), Egoyan directs far less cerebrally (and somewhat less elliptically) than usual, although his landscapes (in this case, Toronto’s posh Yorkville neighborhood) are as visually seductive as ever. It all threatens to turn into the lurid, sexual melodrama past works such as EXOTICA only slyly skirted around the edges of, but a neat, late twist elevates it considerably from your usual FATAL ATTRACTION-derived trash. Moore brings a visceral depth to Catherine, just barely keeping in control as the world crashes around her. Seyfried both serves as a worthy foil and a believable confidante, her expressive eyes (and lips!) providing a revealing counterpoint to her words. CHLOE is not great cinema like THE SWEET HEREAFTER (the impossibly high standard I’ve held Egoyan to ever since he made it), but at least he’s made a thoughtful erotic thriller and not another empty one—at times, it’s also good campy fun.

RECENT PIX

Until I get back into writing on a regular basis (oh yes, that day is upon us), some photos from the past month, all of 'em taken with my iPhone. For a camera, it's not a bad phone, but I do look forward to breaking out the ol' Canon as Spring comes into focus.

I don't think I've ever seen Jamaica Pond this full; usually the water doesn't even come up to those trees.

On a parking garage roof, overlooking Commercial Street in Downtown Portland, ME at dusk.

Need a scarf?

US Route 1 North of Kittery, ME.

Maggie at 18 months, still as cute as the dickens.

OH, OSCAR

Most ghetto acceptance speech... ever!

Here's the transcript of my blogging last week's Academy Awards, in an easily digestible one-post format. Sandra Bullock aside, history will remember this year's slate of winners as unusually daring (I can't remember the last time one of my own five favorite films of the year won Best Picture); however, these comments paint a more accurate picture of how innovative the telecast was, which is to say, not very...

8:40 PM: "Gabourey and I both have something in common - in our first movies, we were both born a poor black child". Ah, Steve Martin, you make up for the Neil Patrick Harris opener (talented guy, but enough already with the award show shtick), the weird "82" logo (looks like it comes from '72) and the inexplicable appearance of a shot from Turner and Hooch. Loved Alec Baldwin's "cultured" accent (during the Avatar animation and introducing "young Zac Efron") as well.

8:54 PM: The first award of the night, Best Supporting Actor, predictably goes to front-runner Christoph Waltz for Inglorious Basterds. Well, it was a tremendous performance, and only Woody Harrelson probably deserved it as much.

That clip of The Lovely Bones actually makes me feel a little embarrassed for Stanley Tucci (who still wouldn't have won against Waltz if he had been nominated for his lovely work in Julie and Julia instead).

Gee, think these lengthy, multiple film clips for each of the nominees will last as the Midnight hour approaches?

9:05 PM: Pete Docter gives a sweet, humble acceptance speech for his sweet, ambitious Best Animated Film Up.

No performances for Best Song in a Motion Picture on stage this year! And no complaints from me... Jesus Christ, T-Bone Burnett's tall! Ex-wife Sam Phillips must have just come up to his waist.

9:23 PM: What a terrific, innovative year for Best Original Screenplay nominees - Up, The Messenger... and The Hurt Locker gets it. Love all the short, concise acceptance speeches; who will be the first to ramble on into the orchestra?

Ah, so that's why Matthew Broderick (first seen at the red carpet with the wife) is there: to pay tribute to John Hughes, look far more at ease than Molly Ringwald, and show us how much he's aged since Ferris Bueller's Day Off - though, apparently not as much as Andrew McCarthy or especially Judd Nelson, who is headed into Mickey Rourke territory.

9:42 PM: The night's first surprise: the gleefully deranged Logorama wins Best Animated Short. I like me some Wallace and Gromit, but the right short won.

Looks like Best Documentary Short winner Music By Prudence has the first rambling-into-the-orchestra speech of the night!

I've been avoiding seeing Avatar, but dear god I hope everyone in it looks as goofy as Ben Stiller. Quote for the night (as his tail gets tangled): "It's amazing how far technology has come."

9:49 PM: Precious gets Best Adapted Screenplay, which means Up In The Air will likely be entirely shut out. An overcome Geoffrey Fletcher's acceptance speech is the night's most moving moment thus far (and Steve Martin knows exactly how to transition the moment).

10:01 PM: Great to see Lauren Bacall and Roger Corman in the audience, but it would've been nice to hear from them (and less from Robin Williams, a random substitute for last year's Best Supporting Actor winner to present this year's Best Supporting Actress). Mo'Nique, Oscar Winner. Performance, not the politics--damn straight.

10:25 PM: Best part of the Paranormal Activity parody: Alec Baldwin falling out of bed.

Good horror montage, though not as horrifying as the amount of time Zac Efron's stylist spent making his hair look faux-messy.

10:31 PM: Come to think of it, flaws and all, it would be cool to see Inglorious Basterds win another award. Was that Father Time seated behind Tarantino?

10:42 PM: Gee, they must be running late, but of all categories not to show clips for - Best Cinematography??!!! They must have thought that The White Ribbon received enough screen time on the Golden Globes.

Demi Moore must have jumped at the chance to introduce the year o' the deceased because she aint gettin' on that stage any other way.

James Taylor alert! He sounds as alive as the souls being honored.

10:54 PM: Oh, it wouldn't be a true Oscar ceremony without a little interpretive dance (for the Best Score nominees). I was going to say they're trying to avoid cheese (although I would think Sherlock Holmes has nothing to do with West Side Story) but that weird The Hurt Locker sequence could've come from the mind of Corky St. Clair. The lilting, affecting score for Up wins, and deservedly so.

11:09 PM: The Cove wins Best Documentary Feature, so now we have Fisher Stevens, Oscar winner (and the evening's first explicit call to political action via a dolphin text)--but what's up with the swanky swing music leading up to Tyler Perry? Oh, he's so self-deprecating, but I'd rather see him shuffle on stage in drag.

That snuggie bit was worthy of vintage Late Night with David Letterman.

All the awards for The Hurt Locker are a promising sign that we won't have to see James Cameron on stage. Prove me right, Academy!

11:21 PM: "Hey Pedro: your film didn't make the cut this year. Wanna introduce Best Foreign Language Feature as a totally random pairing with Quentin Tarantino?" (although I don't doubt that Tarantino loves his work). Argentinians win and mangle their acceptance speech; Cameron (or is that Haneke?) looks a little peeved.

Oh god, the dialogue from Avatar sounds worse than I feared. And as I look at Kathy Bates, I can't help but think of her fabulous, frightening new character on The Office.

11:37 PM: After a series of exceptionally gushy introductions (Colin Farrell's for Jeremy Renner was the least gushiest and the most genuine), the Dude wins his Oscar, provides a shout-out to his family and, naturally, abides; it appears that he has also imbibed a little tonight, and why not? If this ceremony doesn't wrap itself up before Midnight, I may need another drink myself.

11:53 PM: When Meryl Streep can't even win an Oscar over Sandra Bullock, you know how much of a popularity contest this is. Bullock is extremely likable, and I look forward to the inevitable post-Oscar decline in her career.

11:58 PM: Kathryn Bigelow: "The secret to directing is collaborating." This is why she deserves the award.

12:04 AM: Sorry, Avatar. Well, not really--mark this down as the rare year where the most deserving and relevant film nominated (out of ten!) wins Best Picture.

Steve Martin: "The show is so long that Avatar now takes place in the past." And on that note, good night until next year, when a reactionary academy will probably award the latest Harry Potter film or something like Little Fockers.

Classical and modern architecture butting heads, with Duane Reade worming its way in: typical New York.