This was supposed to be a good year for women at the Oscars. And I did appreciate that Catherine Zeta-Jones performed while she was nine months pregnant and that Queen Latifah got to be so big and smart.But it wasn't enough to erase my gut feeling that, while that other big blow-'em-up-and-take-over-the-airwaves war is going on at this historical moment -- and Hollywood celebs show they care with their coy peace signs -- the war against women grinds on.
The way I see it, the Academy fed the enemy. Who could blame Barbra Streisand for being a bit shaken when Eminem walked away with the best-song award? I know all about his talent and all about how his mom wasn't nice to him, but right now he's gone beyond fucked-over poor boy status to become one of the most influential pop stars on the planet. Check out his latest wad of hate sputum. It's called Superman, on his current chart-topping disc The Eminem Show, and brags about putting "anthrax on your tampax" and other degrading sports.
In Eminem's case, you can't separate his talent from his misogyny -- the message is the art. It's easier to separate the two with Roman Polanski, the fugitive statutory rapist who was honoured as best director for his sensitive Holocaust film The Pianist. Surely, you could hear the Academy thinking, Roman's suffered enough. We forgive you, they seemed to say. As they always do. At the height of Woody Allen's sexual abuse scandal, the Academy festooned his movie Bullets Over Broadway with four Oscar nominations, including a best-director nod for Allen himself.
I watched Halle Berry wipe her mouth off after Adrien Brody, in the heat of his excitement, laid the lip-lock on her for five full excruciating seconds. She was stunned, and seemed to have no idea what had happened to her. I'll tell you what happened, Halle: it's called sexual assault.
But given how everybody was so busy winking away the indiscretions of their favourite stars, who would even firstname.lastname@example.org