Oscarzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz (yawn)

Alright, at this point I’ve established myself as a movie lover. At one point in my life, I was also an Academy Awards lover. This year, however, I found myself not particularly interested in the circus event. Yes, I tuned in. Though, I do confess that I changed the channel during almost every acceptance speech. (The fact that I was changing to “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” is really a sign that the Oscars weren’t entertaining me as they once did.) I wonder if the record-low ratings reflect society’s agreement with my indifference. Perhaps I should see how the ratings were for “Sisterhood”….

I will commend Jon Stewart. I laughed aloud, despite watching alone, on numerous occasions. I liked the bit about black and female presidential candidates being an indication of asteroids hitting the Statue of Liberty. I thought the “Binocular and Periscope” montage was sheer comedic brilliance, as well as the “bad dream” montage. The irony with those clips is that the writers were surely responsible for their conception. If the strike had continued, I’m certain they would’ve just taken clips from other Oscar hosts’ monologues—probably the successful ones from Billy Crystal’s early years hosting—and not something as witty as binocular shots. It was an example of how writers do get the short end of the stick, for whoever came up with the periscope and bad dream monologues will remain anonymous.

There was something so anticlimactic about this year’s awards. I knew that Daniel Day Lewis was going to get best actor. His freakish technique, remaining in character on and off the set for the duration of filming, clearly puts him above every other actor who resumes their own personality when the cameras are off. Though it doesn’t make these other actors lazy. It makes them normal. Despite his talent, Lewis just gives me the heebie jeebies. Even Cameron Diaz, questioned about his style on the red carpet by Regis Philbin, seemed to be at a loss as to how to say something nice about him. I saw through her “Oh, yes…he’s extremely talented… Though we rarely interacted….” To fill in her pauses, I’m sure she wanted to say, “I couldn’t talk to that dude because he’s a psychopath.”

Between the obvious winners like Lewis and “No Country for Old Men,” the whole event seemed kind of stale. Also, there was no real reason to tune in for the whole thing, as I could certainly YouTube anything I missed. Hence, I went to bed at 11. With the instant gratification of internet clips, the urgency to tune into events like the Academy Awards is lost. It’s not like the Super Bowl, where no replay can touch seeing something live (think Tyree). The Academy Awards was almost made for Tivo. I mean who wants to watch 4 hours of over paid pretty people celebrate themselves? (Don’t get me wrong, I love pretty people and their equally pretty albeit outrageously expensive ball gowns, but do I love them enough to feel overtired on a Monday morning? Apparently not.) You’re better off recording it and skipping through the boring bits, which account for at least half if not 60% of the show.

Don’t get me wrong, I haven’t written off the Oscars just yet. I will tune in again next year because of moments like the binocular montage. Though I will certainly change the channel when they start showing clips from SEVENTY-NINE best picture winners. Seriously, life is too short to show us all. I don’t care if it’s the 80th anniversary. The Academy loves celebrating itself every year—regardless of whether it’s a round decade marker. I also haven’t written off the event completely because of moments like when Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova won Best Original Song for “Falling Slowly.” They were so surprised and sincere to beat out all three of Disney’s songs from Enchanted. Though, as Marketa encouraged everyone to have hope and keep dreaming (okay, so I did watch at least one acceptance speech), she seemed too real and humble to share a room with all the Hollywood egos.

Yet, maybe that’s the point. For every 5 Hollywood egos that are inflated at the Oscars, 1 or 2 genuinely good and talented people walk away with recognition and a little gold statue to show for it.

Definitely Amazing (do not read if you don't want to crave Mexican)

Definitely, Maybe was like a great plate of cinematic nachos. It had a great foundation of tortilla chips, with just the right amount of fixings--not to many beans and the perfect amount of jalepeno kick--all topped with a wonderful layer of cheese. A proper romantic comedy cannot avoid that top layer, though a well executed one uses the cheese as a compliment and not as the overpowering ingredient.

The movie listens in on Will Hayes, played by the beautiful, albeit plastic Ken Dollesque Ryan Reynolds, recounting his three life loves to his daughter Maya, portrayed by Abigail Breslin. Abigail Breslin is darling, though in a way that suggests she's well aware of her charm, which reduces it slightly. Of course, the stunning Will Hayes has three choice leading ladies: Elizabeth Banks, Rachel Weisz, and Isla Fisher. They all represent a certain kind of woman. The "safety" girl, the "charming heart breaker", and the "sarcastic girl next door." In a way, it's kind of an intense too-much-info bed time story to his young daughter. Maya is much more perceptive that you'd think: "Dad, what's the boy word for 'slut'?" Though, we're supposed to believe it's appropriate because Maya's school dropped the sex education class bomb on her, which sparked the whole conversation to begin with.

I won't get weighed down by the plot, since you can just see that unfold for yourself. I will say that I was utterly charmed by this movie. Of course, if you've read more than 2 of my entries, it's easy to see that I'm easily won over. Yet, this movie manages to be touching in a meaningful way despite the risk it runs of being completely cheesy. The fact that my brother, who has a critical eye for pop-culture, liked this movie proves that it's a successful romantic comedy. Of course this links back to the fact that everyone--especially guys--loves nachos, so why wouldn't he dig into a big cinematic plate of them?

I will say that my main problem with the movie was how "well" the characters aged. Basically, Ryan Reynolds and his ladies look 20 for the entire movie, despite the weak attempt to make them look progressively older with barely perceptable changes in their hairdos. Well, that's a bit off. Rachel Weisz looks 24, despite being 37 in reality. Of course, Kevin Kline, who's minor role is a pleasant surprise, definitely (not even maybe) looks old. I guess they thought one older looking character would distract us from the eternal youth of the other characters.

Will, who arrives in New York City from Madison, WI thinking he'll one day become president, has to settle for life's harsher realities. Plans, when you make them, often crumble apart in your hands. What makes this movie a bit different from others, however, is that despite the fact that life took him where he didn't expect, Will doesn't really have a chip on his shoulder. You truly see Will grow up. His maturation is a nice counterpoint to Kevin Kline's portrayal of a rather surly self-centered and, despite his grey hair, immature old man. It also helps that the movie doesn't have the the straight forward formula of plot set up, high point, low point, and then resolution. The bed time story narrative allows for a more winding structure that throws a few curve balls, kind of like biting into a big jalapeno slice on your tortilla chip--it's bound to throw you off for a second.

Okay, now I'm getting too cheesy with the nacho thing. The fact is that as I left the completely full theater this Saturday, every couple was holding hands, walking out with their arms around each other, or engaging in tasteful PDA. Definitely, Maybe succeeds in warming everyone's heart.

Love storybook endings? Look no further.

Okay, I know it’s been a couple of weeks since the Super Bowl, but the truth is I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the Giants victory well enough to write about it until now. As an English major, I have always looked to literature and poetry for the kind of resolution I witnessed on Super Bowl Sunday. It is a resolution so rarely encountered in life, but when it does cross your path, it is so awesome, so inspirational, that it brings chills to the back of your neck and a goofy grin to your face. I know that ESPN and sports analysts everywhere have already made the best points about the game—better points than I could ever make—but given that my blog tracks entertainment, I simply must write about the Super Bowl on that basic level. Super Bowl XLII was one of the most entertaining sports events we will watch in our lifetime.

The truth of the matter is that the Giants were destined to win. I believe this more and more as their victory reminds me of historic under-dog triumphs. People want an upset. I would go so far as to say perhaps the Patriots wanted it somewhere deep inside, underneath their brawn and football padding. Just look at memorialized victories, like that of Seabiscuit, the little horse that could. In fact, I think 20 years from now there will be a novel and a movie about this season’s Giants, much like Seabiscuit book and movie of a few years ago. Maybe I’ll write it just to prove the point. The formula is exactly the same. Seabiscuit triumphed over War Admiral in the midst of the depression. The Giants, and “little” Eli Manning, defeated the mighty Patriots, and their studly Tom Brady, in the midst of the US’s general depression over Bush and Iraq. The War Admiral-esque Patriots had everything going for them—the coaching, the playing, and heck, even looks. The Giants, however, were mightier at heart, despite their awkward and almost adolescent quality (though this may mostly refer to Eli). Tyree’s catch was also the “So long Charlie” moment of the game. The Patriots brief lead in the 4th quarter, just like Woolf pulling back on Seabiscuit in the homestretch, was exactly what the Giants needed to surge ahead.

So back to destiny. I do believe a football team will go 19-0. The team that does accomplish that feat, however, will face a more equal adversary in the Super Bowl to get their undefeated season. They will face the more stacked teams, like this year’s Packers or Cowboys. It may have taken just a bit more chance that the Giants overthrew those two teams on their way to the Super Bowl, but the fact is that they, at a true relative disadvantage, were fated to beat the Patriots once they stepped onto that field in Phoenix. History, both actual and literary, indicated that they would win.

Of course, like any of these storybook victories, no one is absolutely bet-on-their-life sure the underdog can pull it off. When the clock wound down to zero and it snowed confetti in Phoenix, the Giants fans I heard collectively cheering from every corner of Manhattan were voicing their euphoria and, more important, their realization that they knew all along that the Giants were going to do it. They had just been too cautious and humble—like their beloved Giants—to say it aloud. These victories are about the quiet confidence that goes unsaid. Arguably, Burress said it, but he made no promises. He didn’t exactly make a “Babe Ruth” homerun call. Yet, Strahan knew when he ran through the Patriots like hanging laundry. Tyree knew it when he almost casually used his helmet as a second hand. Moss knew it when he couldn’t complete passes. Brady knew it when he continually fell to the turf. And finally, Manning knew it when—after an entire regular season with an inability to shake off linemen—he shrugged off two Patriots as they grabbed desperately at his jersey.

You want a storybook ending? I give you the New York Giants.