And all of this happens every single year, even when I’m dead sober. Add a bottle of wine and I’m a sloppy, Behind The Music, MESS of a girl on the couch in the fetal position because Colin Firth just got a standing O because everyone actually WANTED him to win and he did, and he did so with such grace. This is what happens. This is what happens to me during the season of Oscar. And the season of Oscar began two hours ago.

Ok, let’s get down to it because there’s shit to talk about and I’ve only got 33 more days to cover it all.

To begin with, Jonah Hill. JONAH HILL. Jonah Goddamn Hill. Kraut fucking X, you have GOT to be kidding me. Oscar…OSCAR, wake-up, I TOLD you to lay off that fifth martini you lousy lush, now you’ve gone and nominated fucking Jonah Hill. You remember that creepy asshole in The 40-year-old Virgin who wanted to buy the goldfish platforms? Yeah, HIM. And now I’ve got to watch his creepy ill-thin Alton Brown face? Fuck you, Oscar, we’re having words about this when your father gets home (father played by biblical Charlton Heston) (and yes I cast my Oscar fantasies, fuck you).

Jonah Hill took the seat saved for Alan Rickman. That seat was lined in a deep evergreen velvet with sparkling platinum corded ropes dripping off the armrests, with the added bonus of a footrest made from MY MOUTH. That seat was NOT reserved for dragon training, it was not reserved for Michael Cera’s buttmonkey, and it was for goddamned sure not reserved for FUCKING JONAH HILL.

Also, Nick Nolte? Srsly WTF LOL.

My money’s on Kenneth Branagh. OB made the brilliant point that, with The Artist having picked up so many nominations, this is the year of Oscar patting itself on the back. Oscar has acknowledged and awarded a myriad of overlooked groups in the past 10-15 years, but when was the last time Oscar took a hard look in the mirror only to give a chummy fist to its own chin in congratulations. Kenneth Branagh plays Lawrence Olivier. If you don’t know who Olivier is, just take a quick five minutes to go fuck yourself. I honestly can’t think of a better way for Oscar to pat itself on the back than by awarding Branagh for playing Olivier, unless Tom Hanks comes back from the dead to try to be Spencer Tracy again. Oh wait, Hanks isn’t dead? …you’re sure? Right, well, this is how Oscar shows self love; it’s either this or three and a half hours of Billy Crystal masturbating while making jokes about how the show’s running long, and I think I know what number my money’s on.

Best Picture and Best Directing are a study in the classics. Scorsese, Allen, Spielberg. Hell, even Rudin for producing. Midnight In Paris brought the best reviews and box office Woody Allen has seen in a minute, and Hugo was just magic. Like, Harry Potter magic but without the noseless creeper. Moneyball? Give me a break, I thought that went straight to video (and yes, that’s how old I am). War Horse? Sorry dude, his own mother didn’t even see that movie. The Descendants? Ehh…maybe, but let’s give Clooney a rest. Yes, he’s the modern-day Cary Grant (and see aforementioned Olivier if you…oh, nevermind), but come on. He could take some tips from Nolte and Mickey Rourke on how to not be seen for a hot minute (and he should then pass those tips along to Gosling, but that’s another post for another time).

And here’s where we come to the real test of Oscar’s self-love. Do we award the masters in the field for doing the damn thing better than anyone out there, or do we award a film that reminds us all how great the industry used to be? In an industry obsessed with youth and its own self-worth, you’ve gotta give it to The Artist. It’s a Cinderella story of production (and Oscar loves a fairy tale), and the film is so. god. damned. beautiful (and please to imagine His Beatific And Most Stylish Master of Comedy, Mr. Greg Proops, reading that last bit). And it’s effervescent and there’s *gasp* a STORY with *eek* PLOT PROGRESSION concerning *zounds* CHARACTERS ABOUT WHOM FUCKS ARE GIVEN. It’s magic. Like, Harry Potter magic but without the foolish wand-waving and silly incantations.

The Artist, hands down, and in as many categories as possible.

Now. Let’s talk a little bit about something I like to call the radiant hotness of the brunette over the blonde. Every single blond/e I’ve ever seen looks like thoughts are escaping out of their heads at all times. Even when they’re wearing a hat. Every blonde. EVERY blonde (except for Ryan Phillippe). Something is required to ground a body to the earth, and that something is called dark hair. I don’t even see blondes in real life, just human-shaped wavering mirages that I presume to be bodies beneath invisibility cloaks. The Facebook movie? Yeah, something about Michael Cera’s brother sitting at a table, having a conversation with himself about nothing. I didn’t see anyone sitting with him, did you? You know why she didn’t friend him back? Because she was NEVER THERE.

BUT.

Change her hair and poke a few more holes in her? Hel-LOOO nurse, how YOU doin’, and DAMN you can act like a sonuvabitch. Rooney Mara stole that movie. Stole it. Stole scenes she wasn’t even IN. She stole pages out of the book I was still reading, and I’m all, “hey, come back here with those pages, I haven’t finished them yet, I want to see what happens after you,” and she’s all, “Look at me, look into my crazy eyes, look at my bangs for fuck’s sake, what happens is whatever you want to happen because THAT’S HOW FUCKING AMAZING I AM.” And then she’s gone into the night and I’m left with my hardcover of Book 3 with pages missing and you KNOW B&N won’t accept that shit for return. So, Miss Mara, you owe me $12.95, but DAMN you made that film so fucking incredible. Meryl Thatcher and Yentl Close ain’t got nothing on Miss Mara.

And with that, I wind down today’s Oscar talk. Fear not, gentle reader…there’s 33 more days left, plenty of time to talk about the fact that we only get two Best Song nominations? Fucking NINE Best Picture nominations? And seriously, JONAH HILL?!

And at this point I must OF COURSE reference the HP7p2. Because our professor is the fucking star. He’s finally revealed as the end-all be-all of the entire goddamn series. And I know the super fans have seen the Empire ad where Mr Rickman makes one of the very few references to playing a fictional wizard that he’s ever made over the course of the past 10 years. And it’s shattering, because of course now we all know what JKR told him, what she gave him as the one simple key to his character that NO ONE ELSE KNEW ABOUT. And this is why we love the Rickman. And fucking does, and unrequited love and FUCK YOU TWILIGHT.

So, yeah. There’s this other professor. And he’s from the motherland, and he’s older, and intelligent and #foxytome and shit is SO ON.

That is all.

I fucking love Halloween.  It may be my favourite holiday.  So WHY is it that I’m so painfully behind in my Halloween planning this year? (Read: haven’t started it)

In keeping with the Halloween spirit, I am working to the background home-office screening of Tim Burton’s Sweeney Todd.  This may or may not have anything to do with one Mr. Rickman’s rendition of Pretty Women. Also, it’s just gorgeous to look at.  (As is he.  Mr. Rickman, that is.  Who, shamefully, didn’t make it to the afterparty for the film’s NYC premiere.  For shame, I say.  I was disappointed.)

Ah, Tim Burton.  Thank you!  I am so ready for this film.

This is the second Alice in Wonderland trailer I’m posting.  Yes, obviously, there are my lovelies in this film (thank you, Mr. Burton, for being dependably generous in bringing together my favourites).  Roll on, 5 March, 2010.

Speaking of premieres and screenings, I have procured a ticket to the NYC screening of New Moon.  I get it.  I’m a 30+ yr old dork in expensive shoes who squee’s and gets a little gay about sparkly, emo vampires who play piano.  The slagging I get IRL is cruel.  I tried to keep it in my pants for as long as humanly possible, but then, my gays were getting a hard time about reading the books, and me, Captain Rescuepants, had to step in and out myself.  So, I deal with the eyerolls of my ENTIRE local bar when the New Moon trailer is shown on TV as I go ninja fighter to get the remote from the bartender to turn up the volume.  I’ve accepted the scoffing and am ultimately ok with the situation.

So there was absolutely NO hesitancy at all in jumping to the online ticketing site a snarky little bird directed me to.  GOD BLESS YOU, Mr. TWITTERMAN.  Fuck all the haters, Twitter is my lifeline these days.  Both for work and, well, obsessing about nearly teenage man boys.  I will be in attendance with the ever lovely, just as clever in the flesh, original denizens of Twitardia.  I’ve pimped their site hard in the past, and am very happy to do so again today, as last night I had the distinct pleasure of spending the evening knocking back a couple few cocktails and housing the hors d’oeuvres at the Aiming Low event here in NYC.  It was a good time, and honestly brilliant to meet fellow lady bloggers.  Did you know that chick bloggers dig hot guys?  Who knew!?

Before you ask, yes, Jenny Jerkface is afuckingdorable. Honestly, sweet dress and shrug number, hot tights, and a redhead.  And SnarkierThanYou is tall and honestly gorgeous.  And nevermind they’re from NJ. They can do Manhattan just fine, unlike others (college roommate from sophomore year, I am looking at you.  I am looking at you and trying desperately not to vomit in my mouth, but I am looking at you).  I think it’s been determined that  we are going to have to do this again.  Possibly semi-regularly.  It is shocking how much we have in common.

There's this...

and….

then there's this...

and obviously this…

Pfffft, yeah, sure, it's Kristen Stewart who wants it, right? Whatever.

Because once upon a long while ago, he looked like this:

Why this film is applicable to this site goes without saying, ob……..(wait for it)…..viously.  THIS should be amazing visually (heh) and the story is actually a good one.  The casting directors are now on my Christmas card list, and I will think fondly of them in my evening prayers (or would if I still did that.  I may once this week just for Irene Lamb and Maureen Webb.  Thank you, ladies.)

I found a pic of Johnny's bum that I was considering putting here, but it made me feel dirty, like looking at someone I know. Weird, huh.

I think I’ve voiced my Johnny Depp stance before, but just in case I haven’t, or in case you’ve missed it, I LOVE the man.  I do not lust after him post Sweeney Todd Premiere.  Laymee and I attended the afterparty and he held the door for me as I was going out for a cigarette when I discovered, to my great dismay, that in heels, I am considerably taller than him.  He is SO fucking talented that I WANT to lust after him.  But height aside, I cannot.  I find him pretty.  In the way that I find one of my cousins pretty.  And that kind of eeks me.  So, Johnny, if you’re out there, let’s go for a pint.  Or a glass of wine.  It’s not you, it’s me.  I hope that we can be friends.  I think that you and I could have a very good, late night discussion about what we consider to be very important worldly things over a copious amount of alcohol.

Jude, you're lovely. And I don't even normally like blondes. Way to be hot.

Jude Law.  Hello, you.  I don’t know why, but I DO find myself attracted to you.  In a frantic last minute shopping trip some 4 or 5 years ago Christmas Eve or somewhere there abouts, I very nearly knocked you over while you were queuing in FAO Schwartz.  Sorry about that. I may have cursed at you.  You have children, I’m sure you understand.  Up to that point I really didn’t think much about you when I’d watch your films, but there was something about the way you saved the Steif frog/monkey/bear/whatever it was I was carrying from being trampled in the Christmas rush that just begged for me to fancy you, at least a little.  So I did.  And I do.

You have earned your place in The Hall of Nom, Heath. Cheers.

Heath Ledger, I’m not going to get sappy on you here, but damn, you were a fine bit of stuff.  And EXTRAORDINARILY talented.  I refuse to get maudlin, but hats off to you, babes.  Will go see whatever is released posthumously.  I am happy to throw my $12 into the kitty if only for you.

Dia duit ar maidin, Colin. How's about some coffee?

Ooooooooooh, Colin Farrell.  We’ve had a love/hate relationship haven’t we?  Cell Phone?  Or whatever that shit was?  ORLY?  Let’s not.  Gentle readers, let me give you a little insight on the Irish. We can be a nation of begrudgers.  Amongst ourselves, we will not acknowledge the successes of fellow countryman.  In Dublin, you could have half the cast of Fair City in the M&S on Grafton and the Dubs won’t bat an eyelash. (nor should they – I seriously saw that one chick…her name escapes me, but she’s a real smug bitch in interviews, anyway, but she was looking around waiting to be recognised.  My wouldbe MIL has seen the same.  Blech.)  Mention one of our own if you are NOT from Ireland, though, and boy, you have called the wrath of “what the fuck has your country REALLY contributed to the world of the arts ANYWAY” upon you so fast that you won’t even notice we’re going below the belt with attacks on your imperialistic histories and your arrogant attitudes without really having any true identities of your own – trust me, I’ve seen it happen.

Anyway, getting back on point, Colin, I’ve been very proud of you, of late.  You are blessed in the physical nom, that’s granted.  Dunno what it is, but I’ve always gone a little dreamy eyed at you.  Wouldn’t admit it, though, around all audiences, no sir.  I’m impressed with your more recent work and am hoping that you keep along this vein! Apparently, staying on the straight and narrow suits.  Also, should the rumours be true, congrats on your second bun in the oven? (Don’t mind me over here lusting over 2 time babydaddy…it’s what I do.  Men and babies kinda do it for me for some reason.  Blame my ovaries)

So here it is – the one bit of video I will let myself watch before this movie comes out on disc. I can think of five scenes just off the top of my head that I want to watch into the ground and I’m crafty enough to find this film out there somewhere, but I am restraining. If this montage doesn’t make you run right out to see this film, well then God, Jed, I don’t even want to know you.

When fanfiction meets safari, you get "Jungle Cullens" (please sing to the tune of "Jungle Boogie" and add the "ooooooh ah oooooo ah" after. (use of "get down get down" optional)

My own personal Twi-nom goes – Rob, Jackson, Peter, Kellan, Taylor, and the various boys from there.  If I feel compelled to let my mind wander, Jasper often finds himself lost in that big ‘ole house and wanders into an awkward situation with Edward and Bella.  My stories are always so much more detailed than Ms. Meyer’s.

Bitchface goes blonde again post-"The Runaways"

I believe this one is self-explanatory.  Kstew, for the uninitiated, is dubbed Bitchface, for what seems to me, obvious reasons, but for those who are a little more sensitive (and really why would they read this blog anyway) one actually has to HUNT for a picture where this girl looks happy/grateful for what she has/involved in what’s happening around her/or just not a bitch.  I often have to pull her actual name out of the dark recesses of my mind because I honestly cannot remember anything other than “Bitchface.”

And finally, the title track of today’s post:

I was going to think of an applicable caption, but we've titled this file "Jazz Hands" and I think we'll just leave it at that.

*nonsense images courtesy of Awkward Family Photos

Honestly, big auld back the fuck up to anyone who is going to bitch about Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland.  I am super sickeningly excited for this film for several reasons.  Let’s look at them here.

The one that really should go without saying is the Rickman.  I don’t care that he’s not going to have legs or that he will be CG’ed so that only his face will be there.  It WILL be his voice, and I WILL audibly squee because the caterpillar was always my favourite character.  Cut to Effbit’s 18th year.  Getting high in good friend’s room while painting a MASSIVE, will we say 8′ x 12′?, caterpillar and Alice on her bedroom wall.  Her parents were so much cooler than mine, obviously.  It was always my telephone doodle – to draw some incarnation of that scene – I did it in the styles of some of the greats – Van Gogh, Seurat, Gauguin…. I wrote a thesis on Lewis Carroll and his writings.  His collective works is the cornerstone for my “big girl books” – those gold-leafed, leather-bound ones.  So yes.  There is that as well – as a decidedly influential story that carried me from toddlerdom to my just post-adolescent life.  I still read it every so often, I’m not gonna lie to you.

Also, there is Helena Bonham Carter, on whom I have a most definite girl-crush.  EVERYTHING she’s ever done makes me want to BE her.  Silly.

I have a crush on Tim Burton.  He may not be an oil painting, ladies, but the man has a vision, and like it or lump it, it’s HIS and is practically trademarked.  Brilliance, girls, is sexy and a super turn on for me.

And Johnny.  Oh, Johnny.  You were a crush since Edward Scissorhands (I know.  My FIRST crush was Boy George, though.  Took multiple people to explain to me that he actually LIKED boys – I just couldn’t be convinced).  When I ran into you, very near literally, in real life, it turned out you were much more wee than I initially suspected.  Which was soul-crushing.  You were a MAN to me.  How could my measly 5’9″ stature (6’1″ in the shoes I was wearing) dwarf YOU, Johnny?  Sigh.  More to the point though, I love your work when you are on a project with Tim, dear Johnny, and am all butterflies in the tummy in anticipation.

Twinkle, twinkle, little bat, / How I wonder what you're at / Up above the world so high / Like a tea tray in the sky...

The rest of the cast – Michael Sheen (eeee!), Stephen Fry (hip hip!), Timothy Spall (I just want a pint with him!)….Christopher Lee, Crispin Glover…It’s very nearly too much.  And the cinematography looks amazing.  And the COSTUMES!  Good Christ.  The film, honestly, looks like someone just took everything that could be favouritest in my brain and said “Oi, Burton.  C’mere te me.  Do this here now”.  And he did.

But then, shall I never get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way -- never to be an old woman -- but then -- always to have lessons to learn!

So that is my little post for right now.  Will definitely be talking about this more in the future, as tomorrow is Comic Con, and for the first time I am feeling pangs of “what if I were there”.

And you've picked up a bit of an attitude, still curious and willing to learn, I hope.