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Match Play is a golf/suspense novel. Dust of Autumn is a bloody one set in upstate New York. Prairie View is set in South Dakota, with a final scene atop Rattlesnake Butte. Life in the Arbor is a children's book about Rollie Rabbit and his friends (on about a fourth grade level). The Black Widow involves an elaborate extortion scheme. Doggy-Dog World is my memoir. And ES3 is a description of my method for examining English sentence structure.
In case anyone is interested in any of my past posts, an archive list can be found at the bottom of this page.
My newest novel, Happy Valley, can be found here.

Monday, February 27

Oscar Night

The 84th Academy Awards. So much to say, so little time. Everyone kept insisting Billy Crystal wasn’t right for the job, that he’d fall on his face with the same old crap he’d used eight times before, that surely there was someone else who’d do it better. They were all wrong. Billy Crystal did himself proud. The opening segment in which he pointed to those up for best film was good but oh so very expensive, duplicating the sets of the nine nominated movies. And Clooney’s kiss made it all worthwhile. All in all, this was the best Oscar production in a very long time: the theatre was classy, the sets were classy, the production numbers were classy (how about that Cirque de Soleil flying act!), most of the presenters were classy (I’m not sure what Emma Stone or Robert Downey Jr. were doing), the “In Memoriam” section was classy. The Talking Heads sections were especially well done, assorted actors and directors telling us what so attracted them to movies. The acceptance speeches were good, most well within the time they were allotted. But if some of us were hoping for controversy, like Brando’s non-acceptance or a streaker dashing across stage, we didn’t get it. Even the multiple acceptors didn’t get too trapped into the microphone hogs. Why don’t those multiples nominated agree beforehand how they will split up the thank yous? I hate it when one person takes it all and the other poor schmucks stand there looking uncomfortable. The ladies and their gowns. Sandra Bullock’s white over black was my favorite. Classy. Then there was the gold lamé on Meryl Streep. Oh, my, that was ugly. And the Lady Gaga of filmdom, Angelina Jolie, came out in that black, bustled, double-slit-to-the-waist thing. Come on, Brad, just tell her not to wear it. I missed on a few of my predictions: best supporting actress to Octavia Spencer, who nearly had the vapors when she weepingly climbed to the stage; best director to Michel Hazanavicius for The Artist; best actor to Jean Dujardin (instead of Clooney). And I was happy for all the accolades to The Artist as best film. The clips made me want to go see it again, if only to watch Uggie do his Jack Russell thing. I have only two complaints. I want to know how we mere mortals ever get to see all the short films that were nominated. Where in the normal world are they ever shown? And I think the Academy should be increased to include more women, more young people, more critics--just more voters to get a more accurate set of winners. There, now I’m ready for the 85th Academy Awards.

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