When Freddy Krueger sits with his head in his hands wishing he would wake up from a bad dream, you know it’s bad. Last night’s online broadcast of the second annual Streamy Awards was that bad. Repeated camera pans toward the uncomfortable veteran actor, Robert Englund, personified the viewing experience as the online showcase turned into one very long fart joke.
Readers asked me to live tweet the red carpet, and I accepted. I love fashion, well, good fashion, and bad fashion is just plain fun. Without the fashion-ably challenged, awards ceremony carpet critiques would just be the audible equivalent to a holiday fireworks display…ooooh….aaaaahhhh! I readied myself for the pre-show’s scheduled time, but fan favorites began to tweet about their carpet experience at least a half an hour before the scheduled broadcast. I was never quite sure if there was a thirty minute delay on the “live” feed or if by the time the cameras began to roll, many attendees had entered the Orpheum. Either way, the Ikea sponsored pre-show elapsed into a silly, incoherent ramble foreshadowing the night to come. They made their much assembly required bed, and unfortunately, had to lie in it.
The live web cast was beset with technical glitches and audio and video inadequacies from failed microphones to open prolonged conversational bleed-through from backstage. I began to think it was the voice of God offering divine intervention, but no one took advantage of the opportunity. Quite frankly, I could have forgiven the technical shortcomings, it happens, but the script and less-than-comic bits written by what must have been the collective effort of the nearest 14 year old male gym class, deserves no absolution A little self love never hurt anyone, but come on, I lost count after the fifth use of masturbate in the opening monologue. In this media age isn’t that a rehab-able offense? As the night continued, I saw more packages than a Fed-Ex driver at Christmas. Maybe that’s why there was a delay in the red carpet show, half the attendees didn’t have on any pants. For those, like Felicia Day, who tried to use their speeches to elevate the evening from the collective gutter-muck, merely swam against the curb of disappointing debris.
Those who know me and know my writing, can testify that I am no prude. There is a time and place for everything, and when the clock calls for crude, rude, and socially unacceptable, I’m your girl. What disappoints me, and I don’t think that I am alone in that two thirds of the Orpheum audience had ditched by the end, is this was a showcase opportunity for the hard work, commitment, and talent offered by this new media. This was an opportunity to make your pitch to potential sponsors that the web series is a viable investment. Instead, you, whoever you are, played to a lowest common denominator of a low brow number. Instead of riding the inaugural coattails of last year’s ceremony and moving the genre forward, you became a flaccid farce of adolescent pranks and innuendo. Perhaps next year the only jerk off referred to will be in regard to the production team of this year’s award show.