Our Teen Film Critic Blogs From The Oscars

teencUntitledabcCommentary by Carbolic Smoke Ball Teen Film Critic, Noah Swayne, Jr.

Hey, dudes, I’m chillaxin here at the kewl Oscars Governors Ball, chowing down sushi, poached shrimp, lobster tails and mussels. Some old lady — she must be 32 – iced out with some serious bling bling, is all up in my grill, verbally bitch slapping me and everything because I’m balls deep texting this to you, instead of beatin’ dem cakes with her — fo’ shizzle!– which is really krunk and everything because, like, she’s got a nice chassy. But I’m getting this report out of the the way right now because as soon as I get back to my phat hotel room at the Renaissance, a couple hundred feet away, I’ll be knocking boots with the GF — likely three times (haha — I can do that three times because I’m the TEEN critic).  So as you can imagine, I won’t have time to do this later.

Let me just say at the outset that this whole town is run by dickheads, pardon my French. You know, the crowd that gave a best director Oscar to Ron “Opie” Howard before they gave one to Martin Scorsese.

The annual ceremony at the Kodak Theater started off on a sickening note with Neil Patrick Harris singing and dancing with a bunch of scantily clad young women. What a waste of breasts, dancing with Neil (if you know what I mean).  Then the evening’s hosts Alec Baldwin and Steve Martin came out and, among other things, commented how the room was full of Jews, which kind of creeped me out because I’m sitting there thinking, “I’m surrounded by Jews. Are they, like, angry at me over what happened in Germany because I’m, like, a good looking Gentile?  Are they assuming I’m, like, stupid because I’m a Gentile?”  You never know with that crowd.

OK.  So. They honored some old woman named Lauren Bacall, who supposedly was married to some dead actor named Humphrey Bogart (phonetic). None of my friends I texted know who he was, either.

I’ll skip all the shitty awards that nobody cares about.  I was texting while they were being handed out anyway. 

Someone named Mo’nique won for best supporting actress for Precious.  I’m going to confess that when I heard people saying that name, I assumed they were referring to Moe of the Three Stooges.  (Hey, dudes, Moe was precious, too.)

Some Austrian named Christoph Waltz won for best supporting actor for Inglourious Basterds.  I was texting when he was up there prattling on (h/t to my English teacher Ms. Walsh, for that kewl phrase), and I just assumed it was Pope Benedict thanking the Academy for something or other. 

Jeff Bridges won the best actor award for Crazy Heart.  He comes from a famous acting family, I’m told, which included brother Beau Bridges, father Lloyd Bridges, and uncle London Bridges. (I made up that last name as a kind of a great joke or something.)

The most interesting race was for best director because it pitted ex-spouses Kathryn Bigelow for The Hurt Locker and James Cameron for Avatar. Of course James Cameron has been married to half the people in the room. Well, we know how that came out – the woman won, of course, because every woman voter in the Academy voted for her.  But this is fitting because every year it’s important to give at least one award for reasons other than merit.

The big news is that I made, like, some serious cheddar betting on the Oscars this year, fo’ shiggidy my weeble!  I picked The Hurt Locker as best picture and got it right. I’d never bother to see the f*cking thing, but I picked it.

The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences announced it was especially proud of the new red carpet outside the Kodak Theater. It was laid by Empire Carpets, and the Academy will make no payments until April 2014.

And speaking of getting laid . . . GTG . . . the GF is waiting. Happy Oscaring!

Mar 8