No Country For Ford's Oscar Wrap-Up 2008

The Mung Hour welcomes the tired rehashing and bashing of our country's most overrated and apparently underwatched popularity contest. More Americans watched last month's premiere of man-boobed Simon Cowell defecate on the dreams of tone-deaf GED graduates than watched Sunday night's Oscar telecast. The show definitely needed more embarrassment and humiliation. Colin Farrell and John Travolta nearly falling gave me hope, but alas no such luck. And what the hell did they slip in anyway? Did Cate Blanchett's water break?

The whole show was as safe as the Obama/Clinton Texas debate. You know the show is sucking when you actually WANT to see porcine Michael Moore up there on his soapbox. Regardless of the show's actual lackluster (despite a decent job by Captain Jon Stewart), why did so few viewers tune out? Could it be that we just don't care about the shiny gold statuette and the celebrities that suck its teet?

This is not to take anything away from the films nominated. Great films to some, but not films that oh, I don't know, PEOPLE HAD INTEREST IN SEEING. Hey, I love P.T. Anderson. But Boogie Nights had Mark Wahlberg getting blown by naked Heather Graham on rollerskates and Alfred Molina in a thong singing "Jesse's Girl." Sorry P.T., but three hours of unshowered pioneers digging for oil in the desert isn't going to pull in the crowds. Would it kill filmmakers to actually make the occasional good film that isn't a violent downer devoid of humor and hope? Toss in just a few crowd-pleasers, man! Remember when you saw good commercial films like Rain Man and Shakespeare in Love at the Oscars? Or at least ass-kickers like Gladiator and The Lord of the Rings?

Oh, and before we all cry, "Juno!" let's remember that Hollywood always anoints one -- ONE successful indie comedy the "Wes-Anderson-esque-hipper-than-thou" Oscar slot per season just to appease the artsy, tortoise-shell-glasses-wearing Vassar-educated kids of the studio heads. Last year it was Little Miss Sunshine.

And while we're scolding Hollywood, let's pause to smack the American actors square in the kissers, shall we? All four acting awards went to the Eurotras-- I mean foreign folks. To quote John Cleese from A Fish Called Wanda, "Boy, they whooped yer hide REAL GOOD." Now until Miley Cyrus is up on that stage holding a statue and not simply appeasing ABC's appetite for the 7-14 demographic, and I eat shit, I just don't see the younger generation of American actors offering up much in the way of competition for the superior trained Europeans. They seem to mint great actors by the dozens while America churns out cute kids for the CW network, some hot teens for the torture porn flicks and a few funny nerds for raunchy comedies.

But too much pontificating for one blog! Bring on the Oscars wrap-up!

• Regis Philben - It’s going to be a bumpy ride in the limo home tonight, wedged underneath George Clooney with your lips firmly stuck to his ass.
  
• Katherine Heigl - Nervous to be on a stage. Good thing you didn’t decide to be an actress—oh, wait. Amy Adams sings in front of millions of people. No problem.
  
• 80 years of Oscar - 80 different ways the show’s writers have had to describe what a 'costume designer' does. Onomatopoeia, folks.
  
• Jennifer Garner - The thinking man’s Cindy Crawford.

Oh, let's just let the pictures do the work, shall we?

Bush and the Bushmen

Dubya has found a way to deal with the difficulties in Darfur. By providing the men of these poverty stricken villages the opportunity for boy band superstardom, he has found his own outlet for crooning in front of panty-moistened teenage girls while showing how down-with-the-naked-homeys he can be.

TOP TEN OSCAR WISHES FROM THE MUNG HOUR

10) PETA nazis paint-ball Travolta for the dead badger he's got atop his head.
9) Jack Nicholsen forgets to turn off his body mic when he hits the men's room to pinch off a grinder.
8) Salma Hayek's breasts explode from 150psi of milk pressure dousing the entire front row with enough colostrum to fill a swimming pool.
7) An inebriated Harrison Ford says to Mary Hart on the carpet, "Your neck looks like my wrinkly beanbag. Hey, you seen my gal, Skeletor anywhere?"
6) The ghost of Jack Valenti literally floats on the stage harping, "Murder! Murder most foul! Scorcese poured the leperous distilment into mine ear!"
5) Ryan Philippe and Chad Lowe co-present the Best Actress Award.
4) In the middle of presenting the Thalberg Award to Terrence Malick, Richard Gere deadpans to the camera in mid-sentence, "Yes, I did it. Let's move on."
3) Right before airtime, a Tyler Durden-esque film editor splices in a few seconds of Dirk Diggler's closing reveal and soliloquy during the "In Memoriam" montage.
2) Soy Bomb runs out dancing during Kristen Chenowith's Enchanted medley.
1) Kirstie Alley and Kathleen Turner crash the red carpet, tackle Keira Knightley and stuff her mouth full of Ho-Ho's before being Tazer'd and dragged off by security.

Giddy Up, Space Cowboys!

**Updated - looks like Hugo Drax's evil plan to kill off all humans has been dashed! Or is this just a fake video put out by the government?

The collective pants-soiling of those fearful of the imminent downing of a dying spy satellite is reasonable considering the fuel tank contains 1,000 pounds' worth of the rocket propellant hydrazine. Call me Mulder, but I don't buy it. Personally, I think it's some Cold War-related secret, and the government has no desire to see it land in some redneck's backyard. The whole scenario is reminiscent of Clint Eastwood's directorial ode to geriatric actors eager to cash a good check prior to a permanent spot on the Bob Hope Classic tour. (Sorry, folks but 48 year-old soap star Jack Wagner usually wins that one.)

At least in Eastwood's 2000 film, the need for wearing diapers under space suits was understandable, given the ages of the main characters. So here we have the U.S. Navy claiming that a 'toxic explosion' is a possibility, hence the need to shoot the dying satellite down from orbit. Why blow it up? Let's send up Eastwood, Garner, Sutherland and Garner to fumble around up there. Great PR for Viagra. I can see the slogan now, "Get it Up to Get it Down."

The Pentagon is undoubtedly lying to us. My guess is the satellite is a vessel for a toxic plant aimed at eradicating all of humankind, ensuring a paradise to be re-populated by genetically perfect couples, chosen by some megalomaniacal billionaire. I think the latter scenario is much more exciting, particularly since someone named Dr. Goodhead could make it into the headlines.

Top Ten Valentine's Day Faux Pas

In honor of the holiday designed to emasculate men and keep the Palmer's Chocolate shareholders happy, The Mung Hour brings you guys a list of what not to do on Cupid's hump day:

10) Actually wear the heart-covered silk boxer shorts your girlfriend gave you. You are the reason Larry the Cable Guy owns a Ferrari.

9) Agree to see the latest Matthew McConaughey/Kate Hudson rom-com. You might as well toss your BMW keys to your Dodge Caravan-owning neighbor and say, "Fuck it. It's yours."

9) Reminisce about your junior year Valentine's Day blowjob. Aloud. She really isn't into hearing about your fellatiated past, and now you've guaranteed one thing is off tonight's menu.

8) Hitting on the salesgirls at Vicky's Secret while you're shopping for your wife's thong. It's just not cricket, man.

7) Getting your date drunk. Dreams of a Basic Instinct style pound-fest will be replaced by the joy of Bissel'ing vomit out of your micro-suede couch.

6) Getting too drunk yourself. Nothing delights a woman more than a man who missed the toilet and has now peed all over her Clinique shelf.

5) Rattling off your ultra romantic and thoughtful Valentine's Day plans to your forever single, bovine female boss who has a date with Grey's Anatomy and a box of Entenmann's Frosted Popems.

4) Promising a night of oiled up massage, and out of the gate you offer her your smelly, toe-jammed, calloused feet to rub while parroting John Candy, "Boy my dogs are really barking tonight."

3) Forgo showering. She'll let you defile her any which way from Sunday, and you can't remember to scrub your taint for one night?

2) Tell her you'll meet her around 11pm. You might as well slather canned tuna and perfume all over yourself, because she's going to assume you're banging some other girl.

1) Forget. You don't remember the one romantic day of the year that EVERYONE remembers, and you may as well direct all calls to the nearest Public Storage, because this will be your new address.

No More Chumming, Chiefie (Roy Scheider 1932-2008)

It is with a heavy heart that The Mung Hour says goodbye to an actor who uttered one of the most famous lines in film history. Roy Scheider has died at the age of 75.

Anyone old enough to sneak into PG movies in the 70's was lucky enough to witness the most pivotal shift in entertainment since the advent of color. The summer blockbuster. While 1977's Star Wars was the seminal moment for sci-fi (and consumer products), it was the shark movie two years prior that really changed everything. (Technically, one would have to credit 1973's The Exorcist for creating the modern blockbuster but that was a December release.)

Steven Spielberg has shown us many times that 'we are not alone' but never so frightening as when swimming, surfing or fishing in the ocean. Jaws was more than just a popcorn thriller that scared the masses, it was one of the best ensemble adventures of all time. Finding a better triumvirate of character and chemistry in the film's main three actors would be an exercise in casting futility. Rounding out the hilarious and abrasive Robert Shaw and Richard Dreyfuss was a fairly unknown Roy Scheider. The man was and always will be Chief Martin Brody, the perfect blend of cop, soldier, father and that clichéd word 'everyman'. How many screen heroes have the balls to go mano-a-mano with a 25-foot great white while dangling off the end of a sinking mast with a rifle and a one-in-a-thousand chance of hitting an oxygen tank?

In the movie Platoon, Charlie Sheen's Chris says, "I've felt like a child, born of those two fathers." At the finale of Jaws, Martin Brody is to some degree the grown-up child born of the crazy Quint and the clever Hooper who pulls the trigger on the aquatic beast and the metaphorical beast, fear. Not exactly a subtle character arc here, but Scheider's nuanced performance reflects every inch of the guy caught in the middle and the last man standing.

Many may only remember Mr. Scheider for his two Jaws movies, the helicopter flick Blue Thunder and the doomed-from-the-the-start 2001: A Space Odyssey sequel, 2010. The Mung Hour recommends checking out his brilliant Oscar-nominated work in Bob Fosse's semi-autobiographical All That Jazz. Portraying the pill-popping and sexually carnivorous Fosse-esque protagonist while Fosse himself stood behind the camera couldn't have been a picnic, but Scheider is mesmerizing in the role. Dustin Hoffman was terrific in Kramer vs. Kramer, but had the Academy known in 1980 they'd be giving him his second Oscar a decade later in Rain Man, they might have reconsidered and rewarded Roy Scheider for the performance of a lifetime.

While he didn't fare as well as an aging film veteran, immortality as the lone police chief who slayed the great white shark ain't a bad way to go. Thanks for the fine performances, Roy Scheider and for reminding us that it's not the size of the boat that counts. It's how and when you shoot your bullet at the air tank.

Giants Not the Only Ones Handing Out Black Eyes

The biggest surprise of this past weekend was not just Tom Brady getting his balls handed to him by the New York Giants. Rather, it was Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus handing Jessica Alba’s The Eye a right cross at the box office. Packing in a whopping $31 million worth of admissions to her 3-D concert film, the Disney Channel crooner did so in a mere 683 theaters. To put this astounding feat into perspective, the flick earned more than double the nearest competitor on two-thirds LESS screens.

Anyone with a daughter between the ages of six and 14 invariably found resistance futile, brokering the deal to sit through 75 minutes of Disney Channel torture to ensure an unfettered Sunday to watch grown men stomp on each other’s nutsacks in the Super Bowl.

Anyone still think 3-D technology is limited to Chicken Little and volcano documentaries at city science museums? Didn’t think so. Add to the cuckold list all those naysayers who poo-poo’d the popularity of one Miley Cyrus and her tween alter ego. (Is Montana the Hyde to Cyrus’s Jekyll?) Regardless, both personalities know how to smack the living crap out of the competition. One could argue that Disney billed this concert as a limited event, but aren’t all theatrical releases technically limited events? Hence, let’s give it up to the appeal of 3-D. And little Miley Cyrus, spawn of the formerly mulleted Billy Ray Cyrus.

Now if Jessica Alba herself was offered up in 3-D, it might have been a different story.