COLUMN: Celerating the worst that Hollywood has to offer

From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '00 From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '00Every year, I watch the Oscars with child-like excitement, hoping that maybe things just might be different. Maybe this year Christina Ricci's forehead won't be as big. Maybe this year Joan Rivers won't trash someone's outfit because they got a better facelift than she did. Maybe this year the announcer won't be someone desperately hanging onto the last remnants of his or her career.From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '00Every year, I watch the Oscars with child-like excitement, hoping that maybe things just might be different. Maybe this year Christina Ricci's forehead won't be as big. Maybe this year Joan Rivers won't trash someone's outfit because they got a better facelift than she did. Maybe this year the announcer won't be someone desperately hanging onto the last remnants of his or her career. And maybe this year the movies I actually enjoyed will win.From Ariel Horn's, "Candy from a Stranger," Fall '00Every year, I watch the Oscars with child-like excitement, hoping that maybe things just might be different. Maybe this year Christina Ricci's forehead won't be as big. Maybe this year Joan Rivers won't trash someone's outfit because they got a better facelift than she did. Maybe this year the announcer won't be someone desperately hanging onto the last remnants of his or her career. And maybe this year the movies I actually enjoyed will win. Much like the losing actors and actresses who sit in the audience on Oscar night, my dreams as well have yet to be met. And this year, yet again, I was bored to tears by the Oscars. In my mind, I created a list of what I fondly named "The Ninety-Five Feces Awards," in which awards would be given out based on just how appalling the performances were. It would be a night to remember -- and not simply because a cheesy movie with a kickin' Celine Dion soundtrack would win. And of course, the greatest has-been known to man, Gary Coleman, would host. Below are selections of the year 2000's recipients of the Ninety-Five Feces Awards: · Sleepy Hollow -- The clear winner on the night, this film should have been named Crappy Hollow. Indeed, this should be the last dying breath of both Johnny Depp's and Christina Ricci's careers. Both appalling in its execution and executions, this movie was one of the worst of the year -- so horrible, in fact, that in a "would you rather" game I played with one of my friends, I actually chose "lick a toilet seat at 30th Street Station" over having to watch it again. It is cruel and unusual punishment for viewers to endure the entire movie without a satisfying conclusion in which Christina Ricci's character would die. Known to many as the "largest head in Hollywood," Ricci as a main character in this headless horseman murder movie promised at the very least an amusing scene in which her incredibly oversized head would roll into a gutter; sadly, all viewers waited for naught. It's bad enough that we voluntarily paid to view an actress with such a hideously large face; to not kill her in the end is torture. We paid for the movie. Need we suffer more? As for Johnny Depp, well, let's just say that the decapitations were a noteworthy metaphor for his career: hacked off and over. · Forces of Nature -- I shudder to think of it. Ben Affleck and hippie-Sandra Bullock in an oh-so-witty "What if right before your wedding, you freaked out and cheated on your fiancZe?" farce. More like: "What if I wasted 2 1/2 hours of my time -- when I could have been cutting my toenails -- to see a poorly acted, ridiculous movie whose ending is clearly the result of a telephone survey?" · Bicentennial Man -- Just when you thought Robin Williams couldn't possibly play any more feel-good touchy-feely roles in Hollywood, he blows us all away with a new, slightly worse rendition of his typical character: an emotional robot. As for the writers of this movie, they ought to be ashamed of themselves. Next year's Ninety-Five Feces Awards will be just as exciting as this year's, no doubt. The current crop of spring films has already produced one sure nominee: · The Next Best Thing -- To what, death? At first, this movie offered glimmers of promise -- Rupert Everett is always amusing. And Madonna? Well, it could've worked. After watching the movie, though, we all learned the hard way that this movie worked only in the way that a pencil sharpener works as a fat-free breakfast food. In the "emotional scene" of the movie where Madonna laments her life situation -- living with her gay best friend without romance in sight -- she looks up to the ceiling and dramatically says, "Like, God, hook me up!" Quick, someone call the Feces Academy! I think we've found a winner! Indeed, quality cinema is a jewel, precious and rare. But there's always going to be crap out there.