SNARK REPORTER

by Melodie Johnson Howe

Hello, this is your intrepid Hollywood reporter standing on the red carpet in her sweats, hair pulled back, and glasses on, taking time off from writing to tell you about the Oscars. I am surrounded by swishing jeweled-colored gowns and frozen smiles. It’s not that cold out here.

Valentino is wearing Anne Hathaway. Marchesa is wearing Hailee Steinfeld, who is only fourteen years old! Wow, not a bad design for a teenager. Marchesa also quickly slipped into a Halie Berry. She must like designers that have the same first names. (Spelled differently of course.) My eyes dart around for an actress who looks really awful tonight so I can dis her publicly, but everyone is excruciatingly perfect, except for Helena Bonham Carter. But she always dresses like Tim Burton designed her gowns. Or is that Tim Burton wearing a Helena Bonham Carter? It can get confusing out here among the stars. Though I must say the British flag painted on her/his leg seems a little empire . . . less.

I am now inside the theater. You should see this Oscar set in person. If you love the look of a cheap casino where seniors can gamble away their Social Security you’ll love this set. Sooo thrilling. Sooo much thought and love went into it. I work my way back stage and to the green room. The man who did the interiors for the Obama White house decorated it. I’m sure he thought this job was a big come down because the room looks more like a very expensive plastic surgeons waiting room, except for the bar. I sit on in a leather chair to interview one of the hosts for tonight.

“So, Giorgio Armani how does it feel to be co-hosting with Valentino?”

“I’m James.”

“James who?”

“Franco.”

“Oh. Gee, you look bored, even stoned, are you up for this?”

“Anne Hathaway is seven feet tall and makes me look like a midget.”

“You mean Valentino?”

“I mean the actress standing in the corner over there shouting, ‘Look at me, look at me.’ I’m exhausted. No, I’m not up for this. I need a stepladder to be up for this. And then I have to come out dressed as Marilyn Monroe. I’m not a funny man. I’m not even a serious man. And I don’t even know why I have to dress like Marylyn. I need another hit.”

“Movie?”

“That too.”

I am now in the audience and to be honest desperation has settled over the great set and all the male and female beauties in the room. There is no other way of putting this because God knows Valentino is a trouper—I mean Anne Hathaway—but there is something very annoying about her. She‘s one of those women who makes your head go back when she talks. And when she smiles she looks like she’s going to eat you. Poor James seems to be getting shorter as the evening progresses and his eyes droopier. And I don’t know why he dressed up as Marilyn Monroe either. Just as I find myself longing for Billy Crystal he appears on stage. For a moment the audience relaxes. A pro has walked on. A man who knows how to be an emcee. I’m not sure why, but he shows a very quick clip of Bob Hope. It makes me long for the good old days. Are the producers trying to show up their inept co-hosts?

Awards are handed out, actors are immodestly modest. Colin Firth is going to do a happy dance later but not in front of millions of people. I’m so glad he didn’t stutter while he was accepting his award. He’s worked so hard on that little problem of his.

Suddenly the stage is filled with little kids. ABC has been touting this children’s chorus telling us they will tear our hearts out with their singing. But I’ve already ripped my heart out somewhere between Kirk Douglas and a man who won something for the movie Inception, which I think I’m still watching. I know Kirk is one of the greats and he’s had a stroke. I also know when an actor isn’t going to get off the stage, let alone tell us who won for Best Supporting Actress.

The children are now singing Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Maybe because I don’t have a heart, I only see a bunch of tiny egotist all moving to their own inner drummer doing odd little gestures that makes sense only to themselves. It doesn’t bode well for the future.

I don’t think I’ll make any of the parties. I have to get back to the real world.

Writing.