There are a few interesting surprises/shocks/injustices at the Oscar ceremonies every year: this time, on Sunday, the good news for TV audiences was that 45 minutes were effectively trimmed from the awards show—a compression in the right direction. And there were fewer giant vulgar Las Vegas style production numbers stopping the show in its tracks—only a clever, minimalist opening number featuring host Hugh Jackman, showing admirable restraint.

In fact, there was only one big production number, mid-show, starring Jackman, the inevitable Beyoncé, and what seemed like the entire population of West Hollywood—and, hold on now, oh ye of little faith, it was terrific, the best such number at the Oscars in at least 40 years, in my empiric opinion; the choregraphy/music-mix and the set/lighting/costumery were all first rate. At first I thought I might be hallucinating.

And gone, gone, gone was the endless parade of “cute” couples announcing the winners after allegedly amusing schmoozing. Among the few couple presenters were Tina Fey and Steve Martin, who were hilarious in the midst of a show short on (snarky) comedy. The major awards were presented singularly. Most notably, perhaps, were the ingenious presentations for best actor and best actress, for which winners were announced by five former Oscar winners on-stage simultaneously each, complete with heartfelt presentation of each nominee. There were also fewer nominated songs this year, and better staged and presented.

Gone, too, were the giant chock-a-block stage sets, vaguely totalitarian in nature—that, or resembling the bathrooms in 200l: A Space Odyssey. Instead, a “versatile” set, flexible—ranging from supper club ambience to giant flowing patterns—the best set this Oscar-watcher remembers. All of this framed, glamorously (not glitzily) by a 92,000 Swarovski-crystal curtain, glittering and shimmering in varying incandescences—old style Hollywood but in a digital-age of special effects.

And Honolulu Weekly’s special Oscar goes to producer Bill Condon, writer/director of Chicago, whose choices, along with those of helpmates, were smart and beautifully staged. Talent will tell, and it told impressively in terms of both restraint and, upon occasion, letting ’er all rip. This year’s ceremonies did not resemble the world’s most expensive high school pageant, clumsy and stairstep-ridden. Even nominee Frank Langella, notable for sitting on his hands at such shows, applauded the ever-evolving set and intricately-computerized light. And the on-stage orchestra led by Lost’s composer Michael Giacchino was on target all the way.

The show was still too long, and the tech awards, about which TV audiences understand next-to-nothing, are a problem; but, if you are going to honor your peers, you’d better damn well have them—and live.

The main humanitarian honoree this year was a (noticeably frail) Jerry Lewis, wonderfully free of prolix bathos and sagging muggery. It worked, whether or no you care for Lewis. A secondary honoree was a Pixar genius, Ed Catmull, whose CGI inventions revolutionized animation, and who deserved his moments on stage.

A comedy-bit sketch with James Franco and Seth Rogen, reprising their characters from Pineapple Express, was funny, pointed and just the right length. Franco was there, as in Express, inspired. Rogen, having lost 25 pounds since the movie, was in comedy trim (just watch ambitious Franco, also good in Milk, evolve very soon into a major star). The memorial clips of recently-deceased show people, usually accompanied by a generic fugue orchestra piece, were this year done to a slimmed-down Queen Latifah singing (live) “I’ll be Seeing You (in all the old familiar places),” and it couldn’t have been more effective.

Now, the awards themselves. Show Biz is a gamble, and its players, gamblers and complaints are naive, if self-therapeutic. On the whole, the people-prizes were handed out to deserving people—it is the competition itself that’s brutal, unfair; but that’s endemic to all awards shows, the best of which this year were the Independent Spirit Awards, the Grammies, and our genius, our fool, our darling—the Oscars.

But things were demonstrably different this year: on Sunday, Feb, 22, 2009, the Academy Awards show was—gasp—worth seeing.

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