“How dare you let this happen, you overdressed baboons? Dolts in Dior! Lummoxes in Lacroix! Vomit in Versace!” shrieks Miramax czar Harvey Weinstein, waving his unwanted LOTR2 Oscar statuette like Braveheart brandishing a broadsword. “I made it clear that Chicago should win Best Pictureand you mouth-breathing morons went and voted for The Two Towers! So what if it’s obviously the best movie of the year, better than its predecessor, like Godfather II and The Empire Strikes Back, and the most profitable blockbuster franchise since Batman? This wasn’t supposed to happen! Do you think we do this Oscar thing for our health? We studios spend $54 million promoting movies for Oscars, and we get $400 million back in added revenues. It’s not a game! I mean, it isbut it’s a game I’m supposed to win!”
Harvey’s reddening neck protrudes so far out of his too-tight tuxedo it appears to be about to pop right out and create a third Weinstein brother, Mini-Mogul. He pauses to mop the flop sweat from his vast forehead and drops his voice to a menacing lower register.
“You realize, of course, that now I’m going to have to have you all killedthen I’ll wreck your careers! I blame you actors out there; you’re only 20 percent of the Academy, but you’re the dumbest 20 percent. You were supposed to be manipulated, choreographed like the dancers in Chicago. I don’t care if you all cop Oscars: None of you will ever work in this town again!”
The hall goes silent; nobody dares to mention that, since Harvey only exec-produced Towers, he shouldn’t really be collecting the award anyhow. And the guy with the baton doesn’t cue the orchestrain Hollywood, nobody tells Harvey to stop talking. Not with 13 Best Picture nominations since 1992, 13 nominations for Chicago alone, and 40 nominations this year.
But Harvey finally stalks back to his seat, flinging the 8-pound Oscar into the orchestra pit and braining the timpanist. “Have that thing cleaned!” Harvey yells.
Jennifer connelly wobbles timorously up to the podium, rips the envelope, and stammers, “A-and the Oscar for Best Actor g-goes to . . . J-Jack Nicholson!” Jack acknowledges the ovation and says, “Siddown, allayaz! I’m not gonna accept the damn thing. I already got two, and the girls keep knocking them off the shelf. Michael Caine, get your septuagenarian ass up here! You campaigned for it, and you only have one girl at home!”
Skillfully ducking a blocking action by Weinstein (who tried to bury The Quiet American), Caine vaults jauntily to the stage and grabs the gold-plated doll. “Besides, this way I get to be as cool as George C. Scott,” says Nicholson.
Annette Bening wriggles up to the mike, taps it, and says, “Hey, folks, remember me? I’m the one who got bupkes from American Beauty. But, here’s the goddamn doll for Best Actress: Nicole . . . hold it, what the heck does this card say? Julianne Moore?”
Halfway to the stage, Kidman faints, falling and breaking her nose. Moore steps lightly over the prostrate Aussie, puncturing her Valentino gown with spike-heeled shoes, and wrenches the Oscar from Bening. “Damn straight!” shouts Moore. “I’d like to thank Nicole for being so very incredibly unluckybut at least her faux nose will come in handy now! And I’d like to thank Meryl Streep for being too snooty to campaign for awards. And the Academy for recognizing that The Hours was a pretentious snore compared to the deep and artful Far From Heaven. And all the horn-dog editors who plastered my $54 million cleavage on half the magazines in America.”
TAP DANCING PAST Ren饠Zellweger and Catherine Zeta-Jones (catfighting so furiously they resemble the Tasmanian Devil), Richard Gere hoists the Oscar for Best Supporting Actorbut to bestow it, not receive it. “Say, folks, remember me? I’m the one who got bupkes from Chicago. I’d like to thank Harvey Weinsteinno, actually, it was being too publicly effusive in my remarks about Harvey at the Golden Globes that probably lost me this nomination. Everyone is furious at Harvey’s 40 nominations this year, but they’re afraid of him, too. So I’m the schmuck they take it out on. Let’s get this over with: The winner of what should’ve been my award is . . . Chris Cooper for Adaptation!”
“Thanks, Richard,” says Cooper. “And also let me say I know Christopher Walken was the best actor in Catch Me If You Can, Ed Harris in The Hours, and John C. Reilly in Chicago. But I was even better! Plus, my mouth prosthesis was much more effective than Kidman’s rubber schnozz.”
Patricia Clarkson takes the podium. “Since I gave the best supporting performance of the year next to Chrisremember me, I was better than Moore as her false best friend in Far From Heaven?they’re letting me hand out this Oscar.” From the audience, Streep rises and says, “Excuse me, I think that’s for me.” “Sure is,” says Clarkson. “Even though you’re really just getting it for your overall reputation, not your wacky role in Adaptation. Wasn’t everybody else in the picture better than you? I mean, Maggie Gyllenhaal was better.” “I know,” says Streep. “But I’m still Streep.”
“And I’m still Scorsese,” says Martin Scorsese, standing up in the audience during the confusion. Suddenly Harvey Weinstein sprints from backstage, head butts the next presenter, and pitches Scorsese the Oscar for Best Director. “Nice career, Marty!” yells Harvey. “The movie? Eh.“
“OK, I know Pedro Almod� or Todd Haynes deserves it more,” snaps Scorsese, “but is it my fault we work in an industry full of closet homophobes?” Scorsese turns toward the audience and screams, “I feel 5 feet tall!”
