Frankly I thought last year DiCaprio set the narcissism bar so high that no Oscar winner would be able to touch him for generations. When you win a Best Actor for bear sex, swimming in cold water and basically grunting your way through maybe the eighth or tenth best movie of your career, then spend your speech nagging your audience about their carbon footprint before you hop a Gulfstream to go bang models aboard the world’s fourth biggest yacht, that level of pretentious self-importance is tough to top. But God bless her, Viola Davis managed somehow.
I mean, this is a masterpiece of self-serving pomposity. First of all, I’m willing to bet my house people don’t come up to Viola all the time and ask “What kind of stories to you want to tell, Viola?” And on the rare occasions someone does, I’ll wager my soul she doesn’t talk about exhuming dead bodies. But I’m convinced she really does believe Hollywood “is the only profession that celebrates what it means to live a life.” One hundred percent.
Take that, pediatric nurses. Fuck off, cancer researchers. Eat Viola Davis’ shit, all you first responders. You don’t know the first goddamned thing about celebrating what it means to live a life. She pretends to emote while speaking words that somebody else wrote, so she’s the one who gets it. After all, she was in “Suicide Squad.” And there’s no better way to exhume and exalt the ordinary people like bringing Harley Quinn and Deadshot together to kill hordes of aliens.
Granted, Viola didn’t quite reach the record level of George Clooney’s legendary Cloud of Smug speech. But next year she gets to present an Oscar. And after a year of getting her ass kissed for winning this one, no level of pompous egomania is beyond her reach.