For the first time in years, the Oscars seemed to actually enjoy themselves. Sunday’s ceremony, hosted by first-timer Conan O’Brien and held at the Dolby Theater in Los Angeles, was a celebratory affair – a necessary lick of positivity for a city that had wethered destructive wildfires in recent weeks, and a shot in the arm for an awards show that seems more and more to have to justify its existence. A brilliant turn by O’Brien and a raft of genuinely very good winners made this the best Oscars in recent memory.
O’Brien, a red-haired court jester of a man, typically leans towards absurdity rather than zingers, so kicked off his appearance with a pre-recorded skit in which he hatched from Demi Moore’s back à la The Substance – then realised he left his shoe somewhere inside of her and dove back in for a scramble. Once he arrived on stage, jokes came thick and fast. “Wicked is the perfect movie for people who watched The Wizard of Oz and thought, ‘sure, but where did all the minor characters go to college?’”; “Conclave is nominated for Best Picture tonight. Its logline: a movie about the Catholic Church, but don’t worry.”
Were the jokes dangerous? Ribald? Even (God forbid) Gervaisian? Not especially. Only the Drake crack (“We’re halfway through the show, so now’s the time for Kendrick Lamar to come out and call Drake a pedophile”) felt particularly scandalous. Rather O’Brien focused on silliness and self-deprecation, far more comfortable mocking himself than the stars in attendance or movie culture at large (“A Complete Unknown, A Real Pain, Nosferatu – these are just some of the names I was called on the red carpet”). But that felt like a relief. Jimmy Kimmel – who hosted four of the last seven ceremonies, including the two most recent – was never a bad Oscar emcee by any means, but he had a distance to him, his gags typically rooted in the idea of filmmaking and filmmakers being sort of ludicrous and exhausting. It was always an odd approach for a ceremony seemingly designed to celebrate these things.
O’Brien took a different, more convivial tack, while the show itself – potentially spurred on by the industry damage left behind by the wildfires – seemed disinterested in sending up the industry as a whole. There were enthusiastic montages about the beauty of Los Angeles (Mulholland Drive, Chinatown and La La Land were among the films featured), and a twinkly, dazzling opening musical number by Cynthia Erivo and Ariana Grande, in which they cycled through “Over the Rainbow”, “Home” and “Defying Gravity” against a starry backdrop. Queen Latifah’s rendition of “Ease on Down the Road” from The Wiz – sung to celebrate the late composer Quincy Jones – brought the house down later on. Mick Jagger presented. Oprah Winfrey presented. Billy Crystal and Meg Ryan reunited to announce Best Picture!
Emilia Perez went into the night as the film with the most nominations – 13 – and won just two, for Best Supporting Actress for Zoe Saldana and Best Original Song. But it did fulfil its long-time potential by being the night’s biggest villain, responsible for its relatively few moments of mortification: director Jacques Audiard’s terrible hat, a terrifyingly half-sung Original Song acceptance speech, and the occasional close-ups of Best Actress nominee and prolific historic tweeter of racist sentiments Karla Sofia Gascon glaring nefariously from the audience. That said, Adrien Brody’s acceptance speech for Best Actor (for The Brutalist) was its own special kind of hell, a long-winded bit of navel-gazing that felt egregious even for a ceremony built for long-winded navel-gazing.
And then there was the oddness of the night’s extended tribute to James Bond – featuring dancing by The Substance’s Margaret Qualley and performances by Doja Cat, Raye and Lisa – which seemed to leave people more confused than satisfied. Ostensibly there to celebrate the Honorary Oscars given to the franchise’s longtime producers Barbara Broccoli and Michael G Wilson, it had the odd effect of seeming like a musical wake mourning the recently deceased, particularly coming on the heels of Amazon taking creative control of 007.
Still, it was a rare blip in a night that didn’t feel particularly long, nor disappointing when it came to winners. The victory in the Best Documentary category for No Other Land, a film about Israeli occupation in Palestine and shamefully without US distribution, led to one of the night’s best and most political speeches, while the sweep by Anora – Sean Baker’s frantic black comedy – was a wonderful surprise. Considering just a month or two ago it felt as if the drab, confused Emilia Perez was going to dominate this year’s Oscars, few could ask for more than a scrappy independent film with heart and pathos suddenly leaping to the front of the pack. Even if that did mean Demi Moore losing out in Best Actress.
A single great Oscar night is no guarantee of long-term change for the Academy Awards, which has always had a tendency to follow up a positive result with abject horror (is there a madder, more erratic run of Best Pictures than Green Book, Parasite, Nomadland and CODA?). But one way to make a start: hire Conan O’Brien again next year. Who else would be able to celebrate LA’s firefighters, mock Donald Trump and introduce a piano solo by the sandworm in Dune all within the space of 15 minutes?
