(An exception: his appearance as Tintin in the opening monologue in which, as per the Crystal norm, he was folded into an array of defining scenes from the film year just gone during which, yes, he got to kiss George Clooney.) On the other hand, Crystal’s ninth go-round as Oscar’s main man merely made one hearken back to the comic’s glory days, next to which his efforts this year looked comparatively pallid. Go the putative-hipster route, as the show did last year by offering James Franco and Anne Hathaway as comperes, and you look as if you are trying too hard. The prevailingly lacklustre feel of the evening pointed up a serious Oscar bind. The woman sparkles, whether or not attired in the gold dress on view at an occasion at which she managed this time to stay in her shoes.
All of which offered another reason for Streep to feel like a class act, her self-deprecation at the podium notwithstanding. Instead, we were treated to a roll call of actresses (Rooney Mara, Rose Byrne, Gwyneth Paltrow) so interchangeably emaciated that they seemed to be vanishing in front of our eyes. Even the red carpet, at least in the live coverage offered on Sky, missed out on the fun by focusing not on Sacha Baron Cohen in the guise of his forthcoming screen character in The Dictator or the arrival of Uggie (pictured below, accepting an Oscar), The Artist’s headline-making pooch. I say that not just because Streep’s trophy for playing Margaret Thatcher – a surprise in a town that for weeks had been tipping The Help’s Viola Davis to take that category – unleashed a volume of cheers from the audience that seemed to catch the veteran nominee genuinely off guard in her first actual win in 29 years.īut the outpouring of affection afforded Streep sent an 11th-hour surge of energy coursing through an otherwise bland and uninspiring show. But my God did the 84th annual Academy Awards need Meryl Streep by the time The Iron Lady was called to the stage as Best Actress in the penultimate award of the evening.
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