"TV Shows of the American Revolution" (Yahoo!/MSN) "Mergermania" (Yahoo!/MSN) "His Start as a Hack Director" (Entertainment Weekly) "If Stephen Spielberg or David Lynch Directed the Academy Awards" (New York Newsday) NEW YORK NEWSDAY March 28, 1993, Sunday, ALL EDITIONS SECTION: FANFARE; Pg. 20 LENGTH: 1179 words IF STEPHEN SPIELBERG OR DAVID LYNCH DIRECTED THE ACADEMY AWARDS BYLINE: FRANK LOVECE THE ANNUAL ACADEMY AWARDS TELECAST is the video equivalent of Dame Edna — a big, draggy, over-rouged spectacle. Viewers tune in knowing full well to expect wooden delivery of "witty" repartee, production numbers the likes of which killed variety shows, and painfully idealistic speeches by players who'd sell their grandmothers to the Iraqis for an extra percentage of the profits on a movie. And for three-plus hours? A lobotomy doesn't take that long, and gives you the same results. Everyone knows what the problems are: It's overlong, packed with boring production numbers, solemn as a funeral, and banal as a ladies-club luncheon, all of which deadens any suspense. And still no one does anything about it. Yet what if real directors directed the Oscars? What if they approached the telecast as a dramatic TV event? What if — well, what if these people tackled each of the major problems.... PROBLEM: Banality SOLUTION: David Lynch INTERIOR. DAY. STAGE OF THE DOROTHY CHANDLER PAVILION. Ominous music seeps through pitch blackness. A single blue spotlight falls on host Kyle MacLachlan, seated in a large red chair. He remains silent, while an unseen Julee Cruise sings monotone versions of the nominated songs. Presenters Isabella Rossellini and Sherilyn Fenn, standing back-to-back, announce the major-award nominees in rhythmic code. An ethereal dwarf, slowly dancing down the aisle, provides clues in ancient Aramaic. Somehow, we understand. Then a bruised, tattered young woman stumbles in from stage right. "You!" she screeches, gripping the arms of the Best Supporting Actress winner. She continues in this manner until all the major awards are given out. The telecast draws to a close as the sharp live video images transform into grainy Super8 home-movie stock. As the color drains out, leaving sepia tones, we FADE OUT on dirge-like music, followed by a quick, piercing scream. PROBLEM: Solemnity SOLUTION: Steven Spielberg EXTERIOR. DAY. A PRIVATELY OWNED ISLAND OFF THE CALIFORNIA COAST. In a park-like setting, giant animatronic Oscars roar and hunt, backed by a rousing John Williams score. Within a secure enclosure, the host — a cute, unknown child actor — welcomes the attendees to an evening of magic and wonderment. This is followed by a food fight and frequent uses of the endearment "booger-face." The major actor, actress, writing and directing awards are dispensed of in the first 10 minutes. Then comes a two-hour display of Industrial Light & Magic effects, honoring the industry's hard-working art directors, sound editors and visual-effects supervisors. With only the Best Picture award remaining, the nominated-film producers file into a spook-house carnival train. With a high-speed camera mounted on the last car, we capture the exhilarating rush of adventure as the train speeds through computer-generated re-enactments of key movie scenes. At the trip's end, an armada of peaceful spacecraft arrive. In a blinding, virginal beam of light, a pair of Price Waterhouse actuaries descend, carrying with them the name of the winning picture. PROBLEM: Lack of suspense SOLUTION: Alfred Hitchcock INTERIOR. NIGHT. THE FADED GRAND BALLROOM OF A HOLLYWOOD ESTATE. Hitchcock enters, stage left, to Gounod's "Funeral March of a Marionette." "Good eeee-vening," he begins in his slow, precise drawl. "Tonight we have something very special for you. It is a tasteful mystery, in which each of you is both participant and spectator. It is our sincere wish that while some of you will unfortunately go home empty-handed, that all of you will indeed be able to go home." Throughout the evening, as awards are announced, we CROSSCUT to a ticking bomb, hidden beneath the stage. Backstage scenes reveal a mysterious malcontent, disguised as a Pinkerton security guard. Another award is announced. CUT TO the time bomb: tick ... tick ... tick. CUT TO backstage. The Best Actor winner has vanished. The clock reads 11:55. CUT TO the time bomb. CLOSEUP on the digital readout: 05:00. The last presenter takes his place at the podium. 04:00. They show clips of Best Picture nominees. 02:00. They announce the winner. The producers stroll up, basking in applause. 00:59. They start to give their thank-yous. 00:49, 48, 47 ... Will they finish on time? 26, 25, 24 ... They're still talking. 10, 9, 8 ... They're done! The crowd starts a thunderous ovation! 2, 1, 0 ... Oh no! Too late! Too bad. They should've finished on time. PROBLEM: Length SOLUTION: See above PROBLEM: Boring production numbers SOLUTION: Akira Kurosawa EXTERIOR. DAY. THE ROSE BOWL. A spectral mist hangs over a stage at midfield. Behind it, the tops of fluttering banners are barely visible. The host, his features drawn and haggard, declares to the massed attendees that the first of the five nominated songs will now be performed. At this cue, TWO THOUSAND SAMURAI ON HORSEBACK storm through the mist, their scimitars swinging, their banners on high. They roar across the field in a fearsome panorama of man and animal, a wave of destruction that soon engulfs the orchestra. Singers and dancers are brutally carted off by horsemen not breaking stride. Musicians scatter, some escaping, some meeting their ends at the point of a pike. Then, like an army of ghosts, the horde disappears back into the mists. Were they real? A dream? A prophecy? None can say. There are other possibilities. Martin Scorsese could make it seem lyrical and gritty. Tim Burton would make it creepy and dark but visually arresting. At the very least, maybe that Z-movie studio Troma ("The Toxic Avenger") could be called in to inject some low-budget enthusiasm. Because as it is, if the Oscars telecast were a movie, it would be straight-to-video. — top —