Anne Hathaway had to work overtime to get the crowd going, and it still fell flat. I feel sorry for her. She’s very charming, and her excitement was adorable: here was someone who loves movies, who has probably dreamed about this since she was a little girl, and most importantly LOVES the Oscars, or at least can fucking pretend to.
If I was the producer, I would’ve paired Hathaway with a charismatic older stud, like Hugh Jackman or Clooney, someone just dripping with class and showmanship. That way, her excited little girl shtick would’ve played a lot better. But then again, I’m not the producer, because if I was, the show would’ve included me firing James Franco out of a cannon into Helena Bonham Carter and them both exploding into flames.
Salon had a funny piece about Franco’s own brand of shitty-ness, in the form of a shitty James Franco short story:
Or maybe, Franco thought gloomily, returning to the worst-case scenario, the problem was him.
Maybe if Franco had supported Hathaway more, if he’d given more of a damn — if he hadn’t looked distracted half the time and pained the other half; if he’d roused himself to display the smarmy but irresistible energy that Crystal brought to his sole brief appearance, or that Hope radiated from beyond the grave — maybe Franco wouldn’t be standing there on the precipice of infamy, about to be reviled as the guy who sucked worse than Letterman and Whoopi, the yutz who made the Oscars even more boring than they might have been already, just by being his “Am I really there or not?” self, the handsome Mr. Cellophane.
P.S. I tried to find the douchiest picture of him, but it’s impossible. They are all equally as douchey.