Hollywood studio moguls, as a species, hate the Oscars. They loathe Oscar weekend. They bitch and moan about going to the parties, and having to a wear a tie or a tux. But, most of all, they can’t stand pretending that they 1) actually know all the people who are coming over to shake their hands, 2) like the people they work with everyday enough to socialize with them during down time, 3) are pleased at the success of their competitors when a rival studio wins an Oscar. And most of all they 5) have flopsweat at the prospect of that late-night interrogation from Sumner, Rupert, Dick, Jeffrey, Bob and Sir Howard: “What the hell happened? Why didn’t we win more awards? You still expect a bonus this year?”
Meanwhile, it sounds increasingly like the final moments of Saigon over at the Oscars, with helicopters whirring in the air (and two small planes trailing banners for the upcoming David Mamet TV military-themed show, The Unit). Just as during the Vietnam War when everybody at the U.S. embassy waited for the radio to play White Christmas as the signal that Saigon had fallen and it was time to haul their asses out of town, the movie business is about to dissemble during and after tonight’s telecast. Quick, everyone up to the roof of the Kodak Theater. We’ve got choppers waiting to take you out to Malibu.
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