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Possibly the cruellest thing you can do to someone who's good at hosting stuff is to suggest repeatedly, after he's nailed hosting this or that awards show, that he host the Oscars. So for the past few years, the refrain became familiar: "Neil Patrick Harris should host the Oscars." "How hard would Neil Patrick Harris crush the Oscars?" And so on, until Neil Patrick Harris actually hosted the Oscars, and turned out to be ... not bad, but not great. Oddly insecure, and ultimately unmemorable. NPH's by-now-expected opening musical number traded on the old magic-of-movies trope until Jack Black blasted in and laid down some cynical truths. Jack Black should host the Oscars. How hard would Jack Black crush the Oscars...
Other than Patricia Arquette, whose call for equal pay for women was refreshingly political, Black was the only Richard Linklater confederate to get much satisfaction. Linklater's Boyhood went home with little, while Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu's Birdman owned the night ... except for Michael Keaton, whose loss of a Best Actor trophy pained me, though I certainly didn't begrudge Eddie Redmayne's win. Really, Boyhood and Birdman struck me as the same movie in some ways -- both are dramas by temperamentally independent directors, riding on something of a technical high-wire-act gimmick (Birdman seems to run in one continuous take, Boyhood was filmed bit by bit over a period of twelve years), and probably a little overpraised. Also, the odds of the average moviegoer having seen either of them before Oscar night -- even on DVD, never mind finding a local theater playing them -- were slim to none.
A few years back, the Academy decided not to restrict the Best Picture nominees to five, because a wider playing field might mean a better chance of a popular nominee. In this respect, only American Sniper qualified this year, and it went home with nothing, which probably annoyed its many patriotic fans. The Grand Budapest Hotel fared surprisingly well, winning a lot of the "what a pretty movie" awards other than cinematography. I was glad to see two longtime favorites, Julianne Moore and J.K. Simmons, finally receiving their due. My feeling on Inarritu is that nothing he's done has equalled his debut, the coruscating Amores Perros, though I'm also glad that the director of Amores Perros now has several Oscars.
As for the show itself, it didn't drag itself out with pointless montages the way it used to. Lady Gaga nailed her Sound of Music tribute, and John Legend and Common's rendition of "Glory" got an understandable standing-O. Harris had a mostly unfunny running gag about his Oscar predictions under lock and key (guarded by Octavia Butler, giving me to ponder once again that the actress who once played an irascible DMV clerk on The Big Bang Theory now has an Oscar). Eddie Murphy seemed more engaged as a presenter here than he did at last weekend's SNL shindig. (There were no Cosby jokes or, really, any jokes at the expense of Hollywood, save for an Oprah joke I didn't really get, and she didn't either.) Harris steered the ship into port without hitting an iceberg -- a metaphor I think I've used before with the Oscars, but it applies this year. Harris wasn't as dazzling as he has been on smaller shows, but all that practice at least ensured a baseline of professionalism. At this point, though, a robot in a clown suit could host this thing and no one would care. The robot in a clown suit should host the Oscars. How hard would the robot in the clown suit crush the Oscars...
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