This is not going to be an article about fucking party frocks or designer suits. When it comes to the Academy Awards the most painful moments in a night of guaranteed painful moments are those seen on the red carpet before the ceremony begins. Hearing mincing girlie men and wannabe actress bimbos ask banally superficial questions of the nominated about their apparel is almost as nauseating as the endless retrospective deconstruction of who wore what that is played out across various media for weeks after the awards.

The Oscars should be more than a fashion show. They should have something to do with recognising the best movies of the previous year. They should strike a balance between history and current events, celebrating the significant achievements in cinema over the last 12 months whilst acknowledging Hollywood's creative legacy.

How did the 82nd Awards stack up? The changes made to the rules and the format were many, so was there any improvement as entertainment or, dare I say it, art?

No, not really. Doubling the list of films up for Best Picture from five to ten didn't increase either the standard of those nominated or the range of competition. Even with ten spots the Academy still failed to recognise arguably the most compelling movies of 2009 - Terry Gilliam's "The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus", Pedro Almovodar's "Broken Embraces" and our own Jane Campion's "Bright Star" - and interesting independent efforts like "Moon" and "(500) Days of Summer" were also slighted. Whatever the sum total of the fillies at the starter's gate as per usual the Best Picture contest narrowed to a two horse race, a battle of the ex's that pitted Jim Cameron's box office record breaker "Avatar" against former wife Kathryn Bigelow's Iraq war drama "The Hurt Locker".

Whilst nominally art won out over commerce when it came to opening the last envelope the Oscar ceremony itself was peculiarly bereft of politics. Bigelow might have made history as the first woman to win a Best Director gong but she proved herself no public speaker, uttering a rather bland ode to "all folk in uniform fighting wars everywhere" rather than a specific statement on the military mess the US has blundered into in the Middle East. New Zealand audiences have yet to see "The Hurt Locker" - that pleasure awaits us on April Fools' Day - but it is to hoped that its political position is more challenging and focused than that of the woman who directed it.

Perhaps with a black Democrat in the oval office 'liberal' Hollywood feels no need to satirise the incumbent administration. Certainly the opening monologue of co-hosts Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin - la la land's answer to the Two Ronnies - was entirely devoid of jokes about anything other than movies or the people that make them. The likes of Bob Hope, Johnny Carson or even Billy Crystal could be relied upon for the odd topical quip. Martin got his biggest laugh by suggesting that Meryl Streep had an impressive collection of "Hitler memorabilia" and his edgiest one when telling "Inglourious Basterds" 'Jew hunter' Christophe Waltz that he had struck the 'mother lode' by attending an event that by implication is dominated by the kosher. If Mel Gibson was in the audience he is bound to have laughed in agreement.

Before we even got to the Martin and Baldwin act proceedings were kicked off in the worst possible way with a Doogie Howser song and dance number. Yes, that's right, television's one time juvenile physician favoured us with a Broadway routine more notable for effort than achievement. We are not talking Fred Astaire, Gene Kelly or even last year's Aussie impostor, Hugh Jackman. I could barely hear the guy and he was wearing a microphone. Best that you stick to the sick bay and the "Starship Troopers" set, Doogie, at least until you've learnt the fundamentals of theatrical projection.

Martin and Baldwin worked better than you might think. Big boy Alec seems to have lost a bit of weight and attitude and is surprisingly capable of playing the straight man to a wit that at his early 80s height threatened comic genius status. The Oscars also bring out the best in Martin. The one time 'wild and crazy guy' is able to reconnect with his stand-up roots and put away the hammy schtick that has plagued the latter portion of his increasingly depressing, populist career.

In other words there was more subtlety evident in Martin than in his last five movies combined and none of the smugness that tended to afflict fellow repeat host Billy Crystal. His one liners consistently undermined the fake Hollywood sincerity and crass sentimentality that is the stock and trade of award ceremonies. My favourite came during his introduction of Sandra Bullock. He called Sandy his "best friend in the world" and then added the quip "I have never met her before in my life". Well, it was funny at the time.

There sure was a need for this type of levity. While strenuous efforts continue to be made to limit the length of acceptance speeches - unless you are movie royalty like Jeff Bridges, of course - the bullshit flowed in other areas. The 82nd Awards might not have seen anything as cringe inducing as a bawling Gwyneth Paltrow or a distraught Halle Berry thanking everyone from Hattie McDaniel to her slave great grand mammy or even James Cameron's immodest "king of the world" declaration (his ex-wife proved herself humble in comparison), but 10 Best Picture nominations require 10 Best Picture introductions. Then there is the small matter of the sycophantic promotion of each and every lead actor nominee.

Having a colleague gush about you to the world before however many billion people is a logical extension of the kind of arse licking that features on the 'electronic press kit' extras of most DVDs. Except it feels ten times worse than that. Especially if Oprah Winfrey is involved. Oprah's oration on the merits of fellow fatty Gabourey Sidibe showed what two decades as the queen of talk shows can do to your delivery style. After hearing Winfrey on Sidibe I was ready to change my Best Actress vote from the WASPy Streep to the inconceivably obese African American if only to inspire all those struggling black kids from the ghetto (it is a shame that rights to the Elvis song could not be secured: it would have induced further tears as Oprah's backing track).

As with last year you could pick the Best Actor and Actress winners by the calibre of those who introduced them. Jeff Bridges, for example, wasn't talked up by his "Crazy Heart" co-star Colin Farrell. Farrell was there, but pled the case instead of "Hurt Locker" also-ran Jeremy Renner. For Bridges only the divine Michelle Pfeiffer was good enough. Her classily told tale about getting into make-up on the set of "The Fabulous Baker Boy" seemed more authentic and insightful when it came to Bridges' character than the rest of the gushing. Then again, I might just be prejudiced.

Sandra Bullock got to be celebrated by her one time director Forest Whitaker, a man who is physically a shadow of his former self. I think Forest might have gone down that route trod by David Lange, Peter Jackson and Tariana Turia. The stomach stapling does not bode well for him playing Louis Armstrong in future but it could give Gabourey Sidibe some ideas about how to live beyond the age of 25.

The Bridges and Bullock acceptance speeches were a highlight of the show. Both took their leads from an early winner who without any overt tugging of the heart strings mentioned that his father had died the previous month. Dead parents became the recurring theme on the podium thereafter with Bullock's voice cracking ever so when reflecting on her own shortcomings as a daughter and Bridges bringing the house down with reference to his journeyman actor dad, Lloyd.

"Big Lebowski" fans the world over would have rejoiced that 'the Dude' was finally recognised as something of a cinematic icon. As great as he was in "Crazy Heart" Bridges won more for a forty year career of genuine substance. It was uncanny how his natural speech patterns seemed to emulate his "Lebowski" alter-ego. Perhaps, like Martin claimed of Supporting Actor nominee (and notorious drug user) Woody Harrelson he was "like, so high".

Only substance abuse could have helped one endure the nadir of the night: a "tribute" to the mercifully deceased John Hughes. If ever you have cried yourself to sleep late at night pondering the question "whatever happened to Molly Ringwald?" this was the moment for you. The answer was far from pretty, Molly being very much a piece with her 80s Brat Pack co-members, all of whom were wheeled out to give testimony about what a genius their mentor was. The ravages of age combined with po-faced grief to produce an experience roughly akin to rubbernecking at a car crash: you didn't want to look but some sick sense of curiosity compelled you to.

My major issue with Hughes memorial is that it took the place of the usual honorary awards. For serious film buffs and aspiring movie historians the 'life time achievement' section of the Oscars were bits to be savoured. Seeing clips of old time veterans' work and hearing from bona fide Hollywood legends often provided the only resonance the modern shows were capable of. With the rule changes this year the honorary gongs were awarded months ago at a separate ceremony. Lauren Bacall, Roger Corman and others were lauded by their peers in a closed party that was not broadcast.

It doesn't take much perspective on the history of American film to grasp the fact that Bacall's and Corman's contribution to the medium are inexpressibly greater than John Hughes'. Humphrey Bogart's widow, a star for 66 years in everything from "To Have and Have Not" and "The Big Sleep" to "The Shootist" and "Dogville" is slighted for the pudgy little man who gave the world "The Breakfast Club"? The king of the B-pictures, who discovered and nurtured talent like Coppola, Nicholson and Scorsese and whose 1960s adaptations of Edgar Allen Poe are definitive, is overlooked for the guy who gave Ally Sheedy her first big break?

The Hughes tribute was a commercially inspired, shallow exercise in nostalgia. It had nothing to do with quality of his output and everything to do with the perceived demographics of those watching the ceremony. To put it another way: though Hughes and his movies were never once nominated for a single Oscar, though he was rightfully overlooked by the Academy in life and had not directed a film in almost 20 years, his name and image were cynically harnessed in death to boost television ratings amongst those for whom the 1980s was a formative movie going time.

Rivalling the Hughes business for irrelevance was a montage of horror movie clips that attempted to pay homage to an entire genre in about three minutes flat. The point of this was less than clear. It did give Martin and Baldwin an opportunity to parody a scene from "Paranormal Activity" and it is always good to hear some Bernard Herrmann music played loudly but I was struck by the irony of it all. The Academy has never really taken horror movies seriously in any category other than make-up, so why are they pretending otherwise? "Psycho" is one of the half dozen greatest American films ever made but didn't win a single Oscar in 1960. Herrmann wasn't even nominated, nor was the most famous piece of editing of the sound era.

Moments like the horror film montage have exactly the opposite of their intended effect. They emphasise the limitations and the hypocrisy of the Academy, not its respect for the art and craft and history of film making. I would be more impressed if the montage portion of the ceremony was for once devoted to the theme of "masterpieces Oscar ignored" or "when the Academy got it so wrong". Imagine seeing a clip of Judy Garland's brilliance in "A Star is Born" next to the comparative blandness of the actress who won over her in 1954, Grace Kelly. Or the bald mugging of Yul Brynner in "The King and I", the Best Actor of 1956, set against the seething intensity of John Wayne in "The Searchers", a role for which the never better Duke failed to be nominated. The possibilities are endless.

If the 82nd Academy Awards demonstrated anything it is that the more things change the more they stay the same. The decision to no longer require all Best Song nominees to be performed live - an effort to quicken up the ceremony, and get rid of often dull material - was offset by some interpretive dancing during the Best Score category ranging from the hilariously inept to the impressively acrobatic. I don't think I'll ever forget the attempt to give the themes of "The Hurt Locker" rhythmic expression: choreographing bomb disposal is a challenge that the dance director could not quite rise to.

The complete and utter predictability in all the major categories was if anything a greater problem in 2010 than it has been for many years. Any who bet against Waltz winning Best Supporting Actor and Mo'nique taking out the equivalent female gong for "Precious" just weren't paying attention to the sundry rival award shows that predate the Oscars or industry publicity. Bigelow's win was an absolute lock, one clearly signalled by the fact that Barbra Streisand was asked to present the statue. Only in the Best Actress category was there the slightest contest, with a minority view suggesting that it was about time that Meryl Streep be given her third golden man. Even so, Bullock's win wasn't exactly a surprise.

In a flat, mostly apolitical ceremony there was still some moments to keep the rabid fan awake. The pairing of Quentin Tarantino and Pedro Almodovar as presenters was interesting: two huge talents, mutually respectful yet completely unlike in their sensibilities, briefly co-existing on stage. It made a pleasing change from the youthful starlets and non-entities who too often presented the other awards. If I was handed an Oscar by the likes of Miley Cyrus or Gerard Butler I'd consider handing it back.

With Robin Williams having lost his comedic heart after his recent cardiac surgery and Cameron Diaz looking and sounding far too much like a post-plastic surgery version of Goldie Hawn moments of humour were few and far between. Ben Stiller, attired as one of "Avatar"'s Na'vi, complete with blue body paint and tail, at least had the courage to call James Cameron on his arrogance. And Stanley Tucci displayed the driest wit, suggesting that Oscar nominations be capped at 16 so as to limit Meryl Streep's future changes and give her fellow thespians a greater opportunity of tasting glory.

The highest point of all came when Bacall received a standing ovation. It provided the briefest of links to Hollywood's golden age, reminding the attentive viewer of what was missing in both the night itself and contemporary cinema in general.