The first critics association awards were announced this weekend, widely considered to be Oscar barometers, up until the actual Oscars when we are reminded annually that the Academy is looking less for critical achievement, more for films exhibiting what best could be described as an inherent "Ron Howardness." A round-up of the nominees and winners thusfar:
· The Los Angeles Film Critics Association names Brokeback Mountain, the shattering film that flipped over and spittle-diddled our hearts, Best Picture. Ang Lee, who went to comic book villain extremes in his quest for cowboy-love-thwarting realness, is recognized for the effort with a Best Director nod. Philip Seymour Hoffman's uncanny kazoo-voiced transformation into Truman Capote won him Best Actor, while Best Actress went to Vera Farmiga in Down to the Bone, which in turn wins the LAFCA its own award: Best Recognition of a Performance No One Has Seen.
· The New York Film Critics Online go with Defamer repeat viewing favorite The Squid and the Whale for Best Picture, and the curveballs keep flying from there: Best Director, Fernando Meirelles for The Constant Gardener; Best Actress, Keira Knightley for Pride & Prejudice. The only non-surprise goes to Hoffman for Best Actor.

Today's NY Times confirms what we've all known in our hearts since the final credits of last year's Oscar ceremony: that Chris Rock won't be back to emcee for the billions of worldwide gays that tune in for Hollywood's Biggest Night. Says Rock's flack:

· But you knew this already: Mariah Carey, Kanye West and John Legend lead Grammy nominees with 8 each. [Variety, THR]
· Usual awards seasons starter-pistol firer National Board of Review discovers that its ballots were FUBAR'd, forcing them to postpone their announcement a few days and risk being drowned out by the roughly ten thousand other organizations releasing their awards lists. [Variety]
· Seth MacFarlane teams up with Family Guy alum Ricky Blitt to resssurect his live-action comedy pilot Becoming Glen. Oh, how we love it when sitcom writers get quoted: "'Sadly,' the project has a substantial autobiographical component, Blitt said. 'Not only did I, too, live at home with my parents past the age of 30, like Glen, I have OCD, too. Though, not to toot my own horn, I personally had unpaid-for consensual intercourse at the ripe young age of 31.'" [THR]
· Dismayed by the death of the action hero, Stealth director Rob Cohen throws his hands in the air and seeks solace between the pendulous breasts of a biopic about sexploitation flick auteur Russ Meyer. [Variety]
· Sarah Michelle Gellar, now way too big a star for sequels of Japanese horror remakes, signs on for the minimum contractually allowable amount of screentime in The Grudge 2. [THR]

Hey, remember when awards like the Grammys used to, like, matter? Us neither, but we're sure that at some point they must've, right?! Maybe in an era before inexpicably named bands like Maroon 5 and SugarLand, both of which are nominated for awards this year, perfectly exemplifying why the Grammy lacks any sort of prestige. And, to make matters worse, Mariah Carey's garnered nominations all over the place, which only encourages her to continue making offensive fashion choices. (To wit, she's on the Today show right now, discussing wardrobe malfunctions. Seriously.)

· A bikini-assisted appearance on E! continues to propel once-forgotten Full House middle child Jodie Sweeten up the horny websearch charts.
· Dude—Snapes on a Plane!
· The way to an Academy member's voting heart is almost certainly through his perforated liver.
· The Smoking Gun guys are definitely keeping themselves busy today.

We're going to veer ever-so-slightly off our usual beat here, just for the sake of absurdity: Tuesday night was the Women's World Awards, held at the Media City in Leipzig, Germany. We're fascinated by the thought that Germany has a "media city" (why can't New York be so simply named?), and the event itself would put any local awards gala to shame. Mikhail freaking Gorbachev presented the honorees with their awards, including the World Fashion Award, which went to none other than Donatella Versace.

With Cinderella Man so spectacularly shitting the box office bed in its ill-fated summer-event-movie release (remember the refund offer?), Universal now hopes that a limited rerelease (in densely Academy-vote populate LA and NY) and an early December appearance on DVD will mitigate the damage by helping the movie pick up some awards nominations. More interesting, however, is the way the studio is selling the Oscar-trolling reincarnation:

We hate to take another trolley ride through Lohanville so quickly, but after perusing a gallery of images from last night's American Music Awards, it seems that everyone's favorite Mercedes crumple-zone tester used her platform ("an erratic and miserable performance," raves the Boston Herald!) to embrace a message of peace for the holidays. The simple, repeated gesture warmed our hearts, but we have to admit that we find it somewhat lacking after the seasonal catharsis offered by a single, spontaneous, "Jesus! It's Thanksgiving! Be nice. FUCK!"

The early awards season buzz was that George Clooney's performance in Syriana, for which the actor famously scaled Charlize Theron-level heights of self-uglification in the name of his craft, would be submitted for Supporting Actor categories only. No longer, says the Los Angeles Times's The Envelope's GoldDerby blog:

With the tragedy of Hurricane Katrina fresh in everyone's minds, the producers of this Sunday's much-hyped Emmys are trying to balance fun with a sense of caring and compassion. After all, they've hired post-9/11 Emmy host and New Orleans native Ellen DeGe—-Hey! Chocolate walls! Chocolate! Fucking! Cocktail! Tables! YAAAAAAAY!

You've got to admire MTV's resiliency. It takes guts to shrug off God's warning shots, a life-taking, Biblical hurricane (it seems He's far more angry with the New Hollywood and hates runaway production as much as the Governator) and a bullet to Suge Knight's leg, and defiantly continue the proud traditions of celebrating music videos that no longer play on their channel and giving away scads of free shit to rich people. If only Jessica Simpson's assistant had fallen down and turned an ankle while fumbling with an armload of goodie bags, they might've endured enough hardship to merit a very special movie of the week on VH1. They'll probably just have to settle for a True Hollywood Story.

The Front Page Award, given by the Newswomen's Club of New York, is, in certain rarefied circles, a big deal. The winners come from the city's finest publications, and the whole event is an estrogen-fuelled banquet of honors and accolades. So you can understand how absolutely strange it was, then, for a close associate to find the above award sitting discarded in a pile of garbage on the North side of 19th street, just West of 3rd avenue.

Less than a week after stunt coordinators picketed outside the offices of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences for the inclusion of an Oscar category recognizing their craft, the Academy board of governors has flipped the proverbial bird at their efforts:

Taking a cue from the Oscar telecast visionaries who forced winners to enjoy the proudest moment of their lives while standing uncomfortably in the aisles of the audience like overdressed ushers or arrayed on stage like firing-squad fodder, the television academy has recommended similar, time-saving changes to their ratings-impaired Emmy show. Some winners will be urged to keep their speeches brief (choosing "thanks" over "thank you" will save half a second at least), while others will be asked to pre-tape the spontaneous outburst of joy that comes from basking in the highlight of their careers. Still, writers and directors turn the lemons of discontent into the lemonade of acquiescence:

Not everyone in Hollywood was pleased with the changes to this year's Oscar telecast, in which producer Gil Gates forced the recipients of some of the ceremony's technical (read: less sexy) awards to receive their statues in the audience—or by herding all nominees onto the stage, where the losers' spontaneous expressions of agony could more easily be captured in a single camera shot. The professional organizations of movie editors and visual effects artists penned letters to Cates expressing their displeasure with the new format:

Needing a break from the stresses of winning her second Oscar and inconspicuously scarfing Astro burgers in front of blinding paparazzi flashbulbs, Hilary Swank and oft-emasculated house-husband Chad Something have earned a vacation:

The whiskey fumes rising from Dustin Hoffman's skin haven't even dissipated, and already the AP is looking at candidates for next year's Oscars. You can find all of the no-brainers in their round-up: Cinderella Man (dumb Russell Crowe/Ron Howard/Brian Grazer boxing movie that will pretend to be smart), War of the Worlds (Tom Cruise shouts while looking constipated, Steven Spielberg blows shit up), Memoirs of a Geisha (Spielberg was too busy blowing shit up to direct it himself), All the King's Men (Sean Penn gets serious, again, and perhaps squeezes in a manly cry), and Untitled Steven Spielberg Project (Spielberg begs Academy to forgive him for blowing shit up by making an Important Movie About a Tragic Event). Our bold prediction: We will be so fucking high while watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Given the diminished ratings that other awards shows suffered during this season of kudo-oversaturation and the splintering of television audience by the proliferation of cable and satellite, the Oscars were considered a relative...what were we talking about? Hey, can we get some sound-bites from geezers in the Academy complaining about the all the newfangled doodads in the overhauled talkies telecast?

· Beware, TiVo watched your Oscar-surfing habits. They know if you rewound fifteen times to see if you actually caught a glimpse of Hilary Swank's ass-crack creeping out her dress, or if you were engaged in more intellectual pursuits.
· Being your own lawyer: All the crazy, drifter/stalker types are doing it!
· The all Trim-Spa diet isn't the best idea we've ever heard. Someone may need to start mainlining Krispy Kremes to reverse the damage. [via witz.org]
· We offer a warm welcome home to sodomy-n-policy lovin' sister blogger Wonkette, who returns from her month-long, peyote-fueled vision quest to unleash another ass-fucking-fueled reign of terror on Washington.

Wow, Hilary Swank is really taking this "I'm just simple folk from the trailer park" schtick to an absurd extreme, isn't she? While Swank devoured her veggie Astro cheeseburger, her "best friend and publicist" frantically searched for an oil-stained wife-beater, a can of Keystone Light, and a mullet wig to complete the totally spontaneous photo op. Not shown: husband Chad Lowe, sporting a shiner for getting too lippy.