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Oscar Party Crashers

New York critic David Edelstein and Hollywood producer Lynda Obst on the one big surprise of the evening.

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Host Jon Stewart, Oscar honoree Robert Altman, and Best Supporting Actor George Clooney.  

Dear Lynda,
Dateline: New York City (The Spotted Pig), March 6, 2006 at 12:30am

Holy fucking shit.

See, I had written my lead and have just had to consign it to the trash. I wrote something like, “Dewy Defeats Truman.” No, it was more like, “Wow: The best opening half hour of any Oscar ceremony EVER—the funniest monologue, the best clips—and then three hours of SNOOZEVILLE. And God, how right can one be? SNORE. We predicted everything. It was as if it were predestined. How can two people be so right? We rule, Lynda, know what I’m saying? We fucking rule!”

And then… the Best Picture award. And it took that incredible upset to show us how close everything we took for granted was.

And you, Lynda, were correct in that there was a shockeroonie. Maybe it came later than you thought, but you divined it from your parties. Brokeback fell short. In two seconds, James Schamus saw his third house evaporate… and the idiotarian Right said, “Yes! Hollywood rejects homos!” Well, it awarded Ang Lee and Philip Seymour Hoffman and George Clooney and Rachel Weisz as an enemy of Big Pharma… And if Crash targets limousine liberals, it’s only because it understands that limousine reactionaries are beyond redemption.

Speaking of limousines, it was groovy here in New York at the New York party at the Spotted Pig. I didn’t have the guts to introduce myself to Famke Janssen because she was too tall, but I did meet all kinds of cool New York celebs. Well, Malcolm Gladwell turned and walked the other way, but Andy Borowitz agreed with me that Jon Stewart killed. I heard a few people mutter he was too New York Jewish, but this New York Jew thought he was brilliant, and brilliant in an un-Catskills-esque way. Stewart has a straight man’s modesty: He doesn’t act as if he expects you to laugh. (He’s the anti-Dennis Miller.) The only thing that saddened me was that he had so little presence once the monologue ended. He became a bystander.

Robert Altman is, as I said, my favorite director, and he didn’t let me down. In fact, he surprised me by how passionate he was. It just goes to show that you judge a man by his work, not by how he acts when you meet him. (Altman is kind of a jerk in the flesh.)

I was sitting with Brooke Gladstone, the fabulous host of NPR’s "On the Media," and I said, “You know, anytime a Japanese picture gets nominated for an Oscar in the costume or production-design categories, it wins…” And she said, “It’s like Holocaust movies in the design categories,” and I said, “Can I use that?” and she said, “Please. Take credit for it yourself," and I said, “Hell, no, I don’t want that mail,” and she said, “Well, you can’t quote me,” and I said, “The big ethical press issues of the day are plagiarism—taking credit for stuff you didn’t think of…” So, sorry, Brooke.

Clooney was a class act. Reese looked like a dingbat, but who cares? Philip Seymour Hoffman shaved.

I would say more, but what I wrote in my notebook looks like Hebrew.

Whose bright idea was it to put music under the acceptance speeches—the president of Otis Elevators?

So, um, WHAT HAPPENED?

David

Next: Lynda Obst with the reaction from L.A.


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