If the term controversial can accurately be attached to an event most commonly commemorated by being ignored, adding musical numbers from shows other than those nominated for Best Musical or Best Musical Revival to the Tony ceremony was controversial. When the telecast kicks off with “The Circle of Life” from The Lion King, it seems smart in that the performance is spectacular and gripping and just the kind of thing to send 60 Minutes viewers who haven’t yet changed the channel to the appropriate ticket-selling monopoly, but I do worry that the rest of the numbers will pale by comparison.
The first closed captioning weirdness of the evening comes in “The Circle of Life” when the subtitles indicate “Singing in African dialect.” If they don’t teach it in high school, is it a “dialect” instead of a language?
Whoopi Goldberg’s first moments decidedly shaky—the crab costume schtick brings back painful flashbacks to her turn hosting the Oscars when most of her material seemed to consist of her putting on costumes (I still remember the QEI outfit), and when she returns, she doesn't seem to have had enough time to get her dress on properly. I like Whoopi Goldberg, and I’m already reaching for the Fast Forward button. The line about Thurgood Marshall being “the only African-American Supreme Court justice” seems like a goof rather than a political dig at Clarence Thomas.
Even before Rondi Reed is announced as the night’s first winner, it’s obvious (as if there were any doubt) that August: Osage County is going to need a new trophy case. Featured Actress is probably their weakest category, but the applause for Reed overwhelms the rest. Her dedicating the Tony—part of it anyway—to Tracy Letts’ dad, who played the father of the ferked-up family until he died of cancer earlier this year—was touching. “Happy Father’s Day” is a great thing to say just before you walk off stage with a statue.
Cry-Baby does a smart number. The license-plate song is fun and energetic—far more fun and energetic than the rest of the show.
The second bit of close-captioning subversion comes when Bart Sheer thanks “my designers” and the subtitlers render it as “my design whores.”
For totally irrational reasons, Lin-Manuel Miranda’s acceptance rap, which might well be the coolest acceptance speech ever, kind of bugs.
Laura Benanti goes into a superhigh register when she accepts the Tony for Best Featured Actress in a Musical. Shouldn’t actors—especially actors known for their singing—be able to control their voices?
The musical selection from Grease achieved the impossible and failed to meet even my ankle-high expectations. The reality-show-recruited leads, and the rest of the cast for that matter, seemed incapable of singing on key, and they chose horrific numbers. Whatever else it lacks, Grease has some incredibly catchy songs, none of which they chose to sing. Although I think the show is doing pretty well at the box office, it looked like they chose to play it cheap. Instead of doing songs that required a set (which requires the producers to drop a wad of cash to create another set of scenery and stage props just for the telecast), they stuck with doors and a kick-line. They did themselves no favors, but I suppose the fact that the show’s doing OK financially proves that quality is irrelevant to the success of this production.
Third piece of unintended subversion (or absolute genius subversion) came when the Chicago cast members appeared over a network promo for “Greatest American Dog.”
The selections from The Little Mermaid and A Catered Affair were pretty uninspiring—especially the Little Mermaid excerpt. The song had horrific lyrics, and Sierra Boggess had appalling breath control and a puny little head voice. We didn’t even get to see the cool skatey gliding except from a great distance.
After Anna D. Shapiro’s husband kissed her when she heard she’d won for Best Direction of a Play, he immediately resumed chewing. I wondered if she’d passed her gum to him during the smooch.
Mark Rylance’s speech made me feel uneducated. I’m sure truly erudite viewers immediately recognized its provenance, but I didn’t. (UPDATE: He revealed the source of the text in a post-award interview.)
Sunday in the Park With George was robbed in the Best Scenic Design category. I loved South Pacific, but the SPWG set was far better.
Shocking to see how early in the evening the Best Play winner was announced--and how early the music started playing on Tracy Letts.
Mandy Patinkin's beard was a little scary. Made me wonder if he is going to play the lead in The Harvey Fierstein Story.
Liza Minelli looked amazing, though she sounded like Sean Connery. Paulo Szot was shockingly excited about receiving his Tony from her. Thanking his dresser was the sweetest tribute of the evening.
Patti Lupone looked gorgeous in that beautiful dress. And if the conductor thought a mere orchestra could overpower her, he obviously hasn't seen Gypsy. Her "Thank you. Good night!" really should've been the end of the show.
Most shocking part of the evening? We got through an entire Tony Awards ceremony without a single overt display of homosexuality. What is Broadway coming to?
Wow, William Shatner and Frederica von Stade performing the Star Trek theme was really something, eh? I can’t believe I blew my vote on Kristin Bell (though really I was voting for Veronica Mars, which was cruelly underappreciated). Flicka did look disturbingly like a tribble, however, and is it just me, or did she miss her cue after Bill’s big oration?
Best miniseries was won by another show that went completely under my radar—I didn’t even know if the show was The Last Prince or The Lost Prince (turns out it’s the latter), but I liked the woman who accepted the award because she looked like a friend of mine. (Hi, Moira.)
What did Alan Alda have on his lapel? It looked like the iron cross.
Although I fundamentally disagree with the notion of Desperate Housewives being a comedy, I was glad Felicity Huffman was the winner of the Best Actress award—she really has skills, but her speech was a little spiky. It was almost as if she’d be in her children’s ADD medicine. Patricia Arquette was very appealing, and I loved that her words about the hurricane devastation and the soldiers in Iraq seemed very heart-felt and moving.
I do watch Monk (though I’m not sure I’d admit that if the show didn’t win awards), but it’s a very peculiar show—a throwback to the mystery movies of the 1970s. The lieutenant is straight out of (if you’ll forgive the term) Macmillan and Wife, and Monk is Columbo with actual psychoses. Like Columbo, the show is padded with a lot of business for the lead actor, but in both cases, without the business it’d be a short and not terribly fascinating mystery.
James Spader’s victory came as a big surprise to me, since that felt like a strong category, but it must be extra-sweet since the end of Boston Legal’s season was essentially shelved in favor of non-winning Grey’s Anatomy. Spader has a very peculiar affect—as I said last year he’s creepily similar to Arthur in Six Feet Under—but he gave a sweet speech.
The boy from Everybody Hates Chris and his “new friend” were adorable. Charles, from New Orleans, was apparently being directed not to smile, but you could tell that he just couldn’t help myself, and Tyler James Williams came across as a very mature and warm young man.
Ellen glitched at the end, ironically forgetting to introduce her comrades-in-presenting, Hugh Jackman and Whoopi Goldberg. It was definitely an awkward moment, but Ellen had been so chronically underused all night, it’s hardly surprising. (And although she wasn’t given much to do, she does have an understated charm that works very well, and I was very glad that, unlike last year when Garry Shandling chewed up precious speech time with very bad material, she kept things moving. The telecast finished right on time, which is pretty amazing.)
Lost seemed like a good choice for Best Drama—it’s obviously had a big effect on this season’s lineup with lots of puzzle shows on the schedule—but I was shocked by the comedy choice where Everybody Loves Raymond beat Desperate Housewives. For all its flaws and for all the mysteries of its nomination categories, Desperate Housewives is a solid show with some fine actors, and I don’t know anyone who can even stand Raymond. Ah, well, at least its long, befuddling reign is now OVAH!
And so now are the Emmys! (For a full list of winners, click here.)
Oh, man, we’re in the bit where there aren’t many surprises and you’re sitting there waiting for Ellen to walk in on someone in the women’s room. Jon Stewart’s tribute to David Letterman was sweet if rather unconvincingly delivered; Macy Gray seemed to be fighting with Gary Durdain over whether he could hold her hand rather than enjoying his grip; and why so many cuts to Naveen Andrews? (Is it possible they don’t know he isn’t really Iraqi?)
I was SO relieved that Quentin Tarantino didn’t win for his direction of last season’s CSI finale—I know some people whose judgment I respect enjoyed it, but I’m of the belief that you cannot, well, should not change all the characters and motivations in the last episode of the season. Plus I just don’t like him. I was not happy that The Wire didn't win the Drama Series Writing category—I don’t understand why that show doesn’t get respect. It’s by far the smartest, best-written show on television and has been every year it’s been on.
Oy, then we got to the miniseries or movie categories. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—TOO MANY AWARDS! How is it fair that you can run up a whole slew of statue-ettes for something that lasts two hours when many of the best shows on television are consistently overlooked (to name just three: The Wire, Veronica Mars, and CSI). Geoffrey Rush’s words about his wife were lovely, but the movie just wasn’t that good—for it to take three consecutive awards shows how lame that whole category of categories is.
But I’ll relax my disdain for the category thanks to the loveliness and charm of S. Epatha Merkerson’s acceptance speech for Lackawanna Blues (though I miss her dreads). That was one of those classic nervous but sincerely moved victory reactions that you just can’t get enough of. (And I’m so glad that in the age of breast-less supermodels, an actress who’s big and bomb was the one to lose her acceptance speech in her cleavage.)
For the second year in a row, Arrested Development’s Mitchell Hurwitz came across as one of the smartest, wittiest guys in the crowd, and his observation that “the Academy has twice rewarded us for something that you people won’t watch” pretty much says it all for that show. (Let’s face it, the TV sitcom is dead.)
The Blue Man Group did a very cool presentation of the Best Reality Show category—and doubtless drummed up some business for their Vegas show—but I don’t really like presentations by men-machines or animals or puppets or cartoons—it doesn’t feel truly live. What’s more, I couldn’t really tell what other shows The Amazing Race had bested.
I like Blythe Danner as an actress, but having tried to watch Huff and having given up in depressed disgust, I can’t get behind that choice. And did she mean to embarrass Keifer Sutherland by telling the world (or the bit of it that’s watching the Emmy-cast, anyway) that he used to baby-sit Gwyneth (but not her lesser-known son?). Ah, but she provides the first bit of political speechifying of the night, paying tribute to "our kids in Iraq. Let’s get the heck out of there." But she had the smarts to do something I’ve tried on conference calls—if you’ve been a bit abrasive, you end by saying, "Love you all." She might play the therapist’s mom, but she knows a thing or two about psychology.
I don’t think Blythe name-checked Apple, but she started a run of publicly proud grannies. The next award went to Jane Alexander for her role in Warm Springs (which either ran while I was out of the country or few right under my radar—and I would say that "what’s on TV" is one of my areas of greatest erudition), who gave a shout-out to her “six grandkids,” and then two awards later came Doris Roberts who loves her two grandsons so much she brought them up on stage.
I cannot believe the Olympic Games Opening Ceremonies won an award—Katie and Bob’s inane commentary alone should’ve made that impossible (I don’t leave the country during Olympiads for nothing), and Jon Stewart’s going to have to come up with a new line—he only slightly reworked last year’s acceptance when he said that when they started the show people said you couldn’t have a late-night comedy show with a staff that was only 80-percent Ivy League-educated Jewish men. Oh, and I’m pretty sure I’m not a prude, but Da Ali G Show went too far in the tape that accompanied their writing-award-nomination.
I was surprised by the massive hand for David Letterman, who came across as a mean, Sean Pennishly humorless mouth-mangler in his buildup to the Johnny Carson video tribute. I’m guessing a lot of the applause was really intended for Johnny. The tribute itself was fantastic—moving and hilarious. I don’t remember ever really watching the show (it was before my American TV days), but now I wish I had.
I have to blog the Emmys “live,” because the standards are so much lower that way. Just as award-show producers get graded on the "live/" curve rather than on "in the can" standards, if you blog while the show’s still running, you don’t have to worry about big themes and grand arcs.
The opening tapes—John Travolta reminding us of his once-famous love for older women (less palatable as he gets older himself, I guess); Candice Bergen re-living the Murphy Brown/Dan Quayle flap; Charles S. Dutton outing himself as a convict, and Billy Crystal conjuring his 700 award telecasts—were a little strange, the sentiment slightly misjudged for the opening moments, but the Earth Wind and Fire/Black Eyed Peas musical number was energetic and fun. (It would’ve been even more fun if I could’ve made out more of the words; I hate to sound like an old fart, but I could’ve used subtitles.) Going out and dancing in the aisles seems like a better way of establishing that the "stars" are good sports than mocking them in the Billy Crystal Oscar-cast fashion. I must admit my negative attitude to Doris Roberts was softened by watching her get down with a Pea; and Marg Helgenberger strutted the stuff that makes it so easy to believe that her CSI character is a former exotic dancer.
Ellen’s opening monologue was a little iffy, but as she said, "It’s an icebreaker, don’t judge me yet." Getting all five Housewives (yes, they included Nicolette Sheridan) to announce the first award set a good tone, though I do tend to think that it’s time for the DH folks to wean joke-writers off the feuding cast meme (though the Eva Longoria bit after the first commercial break was nicely pitched). And as much as I groaned when Brad Garrett got his last Everybody Loves Raymond Emmy, I have to give him credit for getting a topical joke (Britney’s baby) and an impromptu joke (riffing off Charles S. Dutton’s tape) in a short speech.
William Shatner’s win for Best Supporting Actor in a Drama didn’t displease me—though Alan Alda’s apparently embittered expression as he ripped up his acceptance speech was rather too convincing for comfort.
The Donald Trump/"Karen Walker" duet on the theme from Green Acres was mind-blowing—and given Megan Mullally’s chops as a cabaret queen, it was a little odd that the Don was the musical anchor of the number. Was it supposed to be so short?
Hugh Jackman’s win in the Variety or Music Program category was very odd—his performance in the Tony Award telecast beat the televised version of Whoopi Goldberg’s Broadway show, Tracey Ullman Live & Exposed, Jon Stewart for the Daily Show, and Jay Leno’s Tonight Show turn. I imagine more people watch any single episode of the Tonight Show than have seen every Tony telecast in the history of televization. I never thought I’d see Jon Stewart not win an award (and for him not to win for last year’s election coverage!). I guess people really like the Boy From Oz, and television people really feel guilty about upstaging Broadway actors.
Being a New Yorker certainly makes watching the Tonys more interesting, since for once I’d seen several of the nominated works and have the chance of seeing more whenever I can snag tickets.
I think the ceremony set a new high for same-sex kisses and shout-outs, which makes me feel even better about the world of theater. Jerry Mitchell, who won the Best Choreography award (for La Cage aux Folles; he was also nominated for Dirty Rotten Scoundrels) had a big smooch with his boyfriend before he went up for his statuette, and he thanked him by name (as bland as that sounds, it’s hard to imagine a winner using his partner’s name on national TV until very recently—even if the Tony ceremony isn’t exactly the Oscar telecast); Edward Albee dedicated his lifetime achievement award to his "life partner," who died last month; and the magnificent Cherry Jones snogged her girlfriend (who she also name-checked in her acceptance speech) when she heard she’d won Best Actress.
It’s funny how worked up we can get strictly on the basis of hype. Since I’d seen just a handful of the nominated productions, it was a little absurd for me to have strong feelings about the winners—but even having only seen The Pillowman among the works in which the five Best Actor in a Play nominees appear, I still had a sharp intake of breath when they announced Bill Irwin over Brian F. O’Byrne. And while I haven’t seen—and have no plans to see—Spamalot, the craptacular number they performed during the Tony telecast confirmed every snobbish preconceived notion I had about the show. I was really hoping for an upset by Dirty Rotten Scoundrels (which I saw and enjoyed much more than I expected to) or The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, and I was actually disappointed when Spamalot’s name was called—even though it would’ve been a major upset for anything else to take the trophy. (And talk about a dreadful speech—even the fawning audience at Radio City couldn’t feign amusement at that appalling display; leave the jokes to the professionals, money man.)
