Entry 16:

It did seem as if the audience, which was cheering for and crying with Halle Berry, began to laugh at her when the acceptance speech built to CAA, her managers, and her lawyers. (Another sort of bondage, I guess.) What a sad, spectacular, heart-rending, garishly awful meltdown … I thought her husband was going to have to carry her off the stage—images of Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston. It's probably fortunate that the speech will never be seen again in its real-time entirety. Parts of it, of course, will be seen forever.

You are right: Denzel Washington metaphorically clinking Oscars with Sidney Poitier was the stuff dreams are made of. Hollywood couldn't have written it more splendidly, and it couldn't have been better performed. With a supernaturally brilliant combination of sardonicism and emotional transparency (a blend that as an actor has served him well), Denzel managed to turn his speech into a drama of fathers and sons: First, he made a fast, affectionate joke about competing with the old man; then he paid honest obeisance; then he referred, wryly, to the whereabouts of his own children; then he announced that he'd have been celebrating with his family whether he'd won or lost. More than anything, he put out the word that it all means nothing without a stable family life.

As I said, I loved Washington in Training Day. The performance was a bit of a stunt, but the control was breathtaking: He had the size of Pacino's Scarface, but 10 times the nuance and precision. It was a great comic performance. (Hooray.) The unfortunate thing is that this is a year when the academy's Best Picture would not have been its Best Picture without the towering, transcendent performance of an actor who was passed over. And so the debate about politics versus artistic merit will rage on.

Some final thoughts on the program, which was, as you've pointed out, of brontasaurean length. The more traffic managers they brought on and the more announcers they added (Donald Sutherland and Glenn Close injecting factoids as the winners made their way to the stage), the more inescapable the feeling of bloat. As usual, the plethora of montages (including the running Errol Morris what-movies-mean-to-me montage—pointless) did much to disguise the live-ness of the event. (The disguise disintegrated when Halle Berry took the stage.)

At least the presentations were noticeably wittier. Too bad that David Mamet and Joel and Ethan Coen couldn't have delivered their own amusing tributes. Prejudice against writers?

It seemed peculiar that Arthur Hiller and Robert Redford would be honored the same evening, but there was an agenda. Hiller stood for liberal Jewish philanthropy, especially toward blacks (it was pointed out that he'd hired African-Americans very early on), Redford for liberal movie-star philanthropy toward all young artists. Sidney Poitier was anointed in his own lifetime. Foreigners thanked the Academy (and America) for opening its arms. The voters picked up on all this (there was something in the air) and voted the biggest prizes to two African-Americans. And everyone thanked their agents.

What have we missed?

David