• Apparently Lindsay Lohan was seen making out and leaving the Sol Kerzner Mazagan Beach Resort launch party in Morocco with 300 hottie Gerard Butler. Wow, the collective tabloid media really really wants this guy to date someone famous—whether it's Jennifer Aniston, Jessica Simpson, or LiLo. Either that or he has a publicist who really really would rather have the playboy rumors floating around than the gay ones. Speaking of no longer gay, it seems Lohan has given up women since breaking with girlfriend Samantha Ronson. She's been linked to Butler and model (and SamRo look-alike) Petey Wright. Both Butler and Lohan's reps deny anything untoward happened between the two and Lindsay tweeted (creative capitalization and punctuation is hers), "One minute i'm dumped, the next i'm dating a model, now Gerard? WHO HAS THE TIME! such lies - it keeps me laughing." Well, and it keeps all of us reading. [Gatecrasher]
• Mischa Barton had a really rough Halloween. Not only is she reportedly off the wagon, she had a drink dumped on her in a NY bar by a guy who says she stepped on his foot. She threw a drink back at him (so unlike Mischa, to waste perfectly good booze) and got her friends to rough the guy up before bouncers stepped in. Things were a little bit more civil on Friday night at Yoni Goldberg's Halloween party, where she and ex Brandon Davis just glowered at each other across the room. Maybe she was too "wobbly" to go say hello. [UK Mirror, P6]
• Jeremy Piven is taking this "you are what you eat" thing way too seriously. The infamous sushigate survivor now claims that he quit drinking soy milk because it was making him grow man boobs. And here we thought that babies loved milk. [Digital Spy]
• Broadway is a tiny community, so it makes sense that Jude Law and his ex Sienna Miller, both currently on the Great White Way, would bump into each other. They are denying that they are anything but friends. If they are rekindling their romance, he's going to have to explain why he was sucking face with a hot blonde at The Box the other night. Cause it's not like Jude Law to cheat. No, never. Not him. [People, P6]
• Kate Winslet is our new hero. She sued the U.K.'s Daily Mail when they said she was lying about not working out before the Academy Awards, and she just won a $40,000 payout from the newspaper. She actually wants people to think she doesn't exercise! She looks good, doesn't go to the gym, and is a badass. Amazing. [People]
• Minus Jon and her eight, Kate Gosselin had a special on TLC last night called Kate's Story. The moral of the story is that "a part of [her] always will [love Jon]. We're glad someone does. Actually, we take that back. [People]
• Gossip dowager Cindy Adams is at some luxury retirement home in Arizona. Then why hasn't she retired? [Cindy Adams]

[Image via Getty]

• Oh boy. Chris Brown and Rihanna both attended Game 4 of the NBA Finals in Orlando last night seperately, but a source tells People that "they requested to sit together" once they arrived inside the arena. However, they sat in separate sections in the game's first half, then retreated to the private luxury box area for the second half. [People]
  
  
• Paris Hilton isn't wasting any time getting over Douglas Reinhardt—All the British tabs are buzzing about Paris' raunchy hookup in a London club with European soccer star Cristiano Ronaldo. An eyewitness tells The Sun that "they were sucking each other's faces off like their plane was going down." [Sun]
  
  
• David Letterman bandleader Paul Shaffer said that Jerry Seinfeld had handpicked him to play the role of George Costanza on Seinfeld, the role that eventually went to Jason Alexander, but he was too busy to return Jerry's calls. [Gatecrasher]
  
  
• Page Six has an amazing gallery up of all the slimy dudes that Paris Hilton has been banging and infecting over the years. Put on a condom before you click the link. [Page Six]
  
  
• Brad Pitt became so enamored with a painting by German artist Neo Rauch at Art Basil, he plopped down $960k for the dang thing. [Daily News]
  
  
• Lil Wayne has knocked up yet another woman so that means he'll be having two children this year with two different women, which will match perfectly with the two other kids he already has. Ladies and gentlemen, meet your new ODB! [Perez]
  
  
• Madonna has been given a green light to adopt yet another African child to add to her ever-growing collection. [Sun]
  
  
• Well, here you were thinking that Megan Fox was physically perfect in every possible way—turns out she has some sort of odd genetic condition called "clubbed thumbs." Aren't you so very turned off by her now? [Daily Mail]
  
  
• Kate Winslet has long said that she would never hire a nanny to care for her children while she worked, but she recently broke down and hire a nanny. Scandal! [Daily Mail]

• Were you one of the two high school boys commenting on Kate Winslet's "big, hot booty" while she walked down 6th Avenue in workout gear? If you were, she wasn't paying attention to you. Because she's British, and a lady, and so you'd need to say "madam, what a fine rear end" to get a wink and a "you cheeky monkey" outta her. [P6]
• The Madonna-witch, still healing from broken spirits after her steed recognized her wickedness and threw her off its back, is being kept company by her man-child lover, Jesus Luz. Aside from the irony of a guy named Jesus hanging around with this devilish creature, the story is notable because Luz keeps getting work from slobbering designers like Marc Jacobs and Dolce & Gabbana not because of his cocoa bean good looks, but because they're all doing favors, sacrifices you might call them, for the Madonna-witch. Luz needs work permits to stay in the country, and I guess fashion modeling counts as work. Sigh. [P6]
• Hugh Grant, who is near about fifty years old, was seen hanging out at a 23-year-old model's birthday party, along with other guests like the bewigged twinks from Gossip Girl. In other news, Divine Brown has been named the prime minister of France. [NYDN]
• OooOOooO. Robert Pattinson, the shimmerfop from the Twiddlytwinkle vampire series, got into acting because his father once nudged him as pretty girls walked into a local theater and said "You've got to go to that." CreeEEeppYyy. [NYDN]
• Casey Aldridge, the 18-year-old father of Britney Spears' niece, Maddie the Baptist, was in a car wreck over the weekend, and is recovering at a Mississippi hospital. The story is apparently that he was at a buddy's bachelor party and then some friends decided to go "crabbing"—in the middle of the night—and at some point he ran his pickup off the road and it flipped over. Oddly enough, when first responders arrived at the scene they found a duffel bag full of clothes, a large wad of twenty dollar bills and a map of Mexico in the glove compartment, and a fading hopeful gleam in the boy's eye. [People]
• Ocotolady has been spending her time well, getting a tattoo dedicated to her 136 children rather than tending to her 136 children. It's an "angel with 14 stars and an infinity symbol" kind of tattoo, just like the ones Puerto Rican transsexuals get in prison. [Us]
• Spencer and Heidi's wedding was "amazing". Hasn't that word lost all meaning at this point? People use it all the time now. How could Heidi and Spencer's wedding, in which the reality star lady was draped in one million dollars worth of diamonds, be "amazing"? We need a new word for what Heidi and Spencer's wedding was. I suggest "fluorbolical". [Us]

The morning after an otherwise forgettable awardscast, count on one particularly strong aftertaste in Hollywood: That of Harvey getting over. Again. There's not enough Champagne in the room to wash it down, not enough hours of sleep to shake it off. Unfamiliarity accounts for much of its potency; this is a man who was last heard threatening to shoot himself if Cate Blanchett failed to net a Supporting Actress nomination in 2007. That wasn't the old Harvey, the dick-swinging, free-spending award-season monolith whose biggest Oscar triumphs came a decade ago at Miramax. There, with Disney's money funding full-on media saturation campaigns, the studio earned 249 nominations and 60 wins.

And the Harvey who maneuvered Kate Winslet and Penélope Cruz to victory last night wasn't necessarily the old Harvey either. He went two-for-six overall, fully knowing it really was an honor for The Reader just to be nominated. Sure, he'd have liked to win big (he was the prime suspect in numerous acts of supposed sabotage against his Best Picture competition), but what the new Harvey needed more than anything was an affirmation for his reeling moguldom. At first chastened a bit by his public battles with (and 2005 split from) then-Disney boss Michael Eisner, the Weinstein Company was a running joke of dump-and-run genre trash, hemorrhaging hundreds of millions of dollars while Miramax went on to near-perennial Oscar glory. His few awards splashes — Blanchett for I'm Not There and Felicity Huffman for Transamerica — yielded little gain on Oscar night or at the box office.

He had a few modest successes in there, though, and 2008 was, relatively speaking, the Weinsteins' banner year. When Vicky Cristina Barcelona earned $23.2 million last summer — on a maximum of 726 screens, according to Box Office Mojo — Harvey seized the opportunity to say he was back. Almost instantly, TWC began circulating Oscar buzz for Cruz.

Then came the layoffs. And the shelvings. And the excuses. And then — The Reader. He probably could have coexisted with co-producer Scott Rudin, with whom he quarreled over their previous collaboration The Hours, but Harvey didn't lift a finger to stop Rudin from leaving The Reader last fall over release-date issues. That was his first coup — likely unplanned, and generally pretty ugly, but it allowed Harvey to lock director Stephen Daldry in the editing room until his Oscar bait was ready. Neither Rudin nor Winslet wanted to compete against her other Big Serious Turn in Revolutionary Road, but Harvey had a studio to save.

Moreover, he had a point to prove. With films by Quentin Tarantino and Rob Marshall anticipated in 2009 — and with financing partners vanishing into thin recession air — it wouldn't be enough for Harvey to get over on Rudin once. Only real prestige would serve him going forward. Enter New Harvey, the half-man/half-animal whose misfortune all of Hollywood seemed to celebrate until he showed up with The Reader. Holocaust themes. Oscar darlings Daldry and Winslet, both career 0-fers but ready for redemption. It had cred. And Harvey was so much more charming these days! What's an Academy voter to do?

Knocking Revolutionary Road off at the Oscar nomination level could have been triumph enough. But Harvey's next opportunity was too good to be true: Not only did he have Winslet vs. Meryl Streep in Best Actress, he had Cruz vs. Amy Adams and Viola Davis in Best Supporting Actress. The competition from Doubt pitted Harvey against Rudin and Miramax. This required a vintage Harvey offensive — armies of publicists, truckloads of screeners, parties, abundant media buys, Winslet in front of any TV camera in America that was turned on. Basically, the expensive stuff that Rudin and Miramax did last year while pushing No Country For Old Men to its Oscar wins, all of which was based on the original Harvey schematic first sketched out 20 years ago.

And it worked. Of course it worked. Some will say New Harvey is just Old Harvey without the cigarettes, but as much as his legitimacy (if not his very solvency) required Academy validation in 2009, the Academy requires someone like Harvey Weinstein to bully, coax, nudge and compel in the service of their own self-importance. For better or worse, no one does it like Harvey, and whether or not Winslet's crappy accent or Cruz's canny hysteria "deserve" the recognition is as useless a debate as whether or not Harvey and the Weinstein Company are "back." In this insular world of totems and myths, no one ever really goes away. You just get used to a certain, well, taste.

And whatever Harvey put in our drink last night, expect more where that came from. Talk about thanking the Academy.

Thanks go to whiz Mike Byhoff for the video magic.

Slumdog Millionaire dominated as expected, an international sweep in a night studded with British, Indian and Australian wins. Not that there was much danger of nationalist unity within Hollywood; host Hugh Jackman managed to work some surprisingly vicious showbiz digs into the show, including lines from Steve Martin and Tina Fey not-so-subtly mocking Scientology and Ben Stiller's unsparing imitation of Joaquin Phoenix.

There were some misfires, like the lengthy nominee tributes involving top stars giving overlong, wedding-toast-style speeches for each contender in top categories like Best Actor and Actress. But there were also more memorable moments than any viewer had a right to expect. The best:

10. Franco and Rogen turn the Reader into stoner comedy

"Their giggling and guffawing at The Reader is somehow more damning (and more exposing of the film's overweening pomposity) than a thousand bad reviews." —Guardian. (OK, sure, but Kate Winslet's little gold man begs to disagree about the Reader.)

9. Angelina Jolie grins big at Jennifer Aniston

You just had to cut to Jolie during Aniston's animation award presentation, didn't you, ABC? OK, so we secretly enjoyed the shot of the Brad Pitt-stealer's wide grin, but that's not the point.

8. Philippe Petit's statuette-balancing magic trick

The star of Best Documentary Man on the Wire was making a naked bid to become the stuntman for all future Academy Award ceremonies. We're all for it, as long as the Frenchman returns each year with his charming white scarf.

7. Host Hugh Jackman: "The Musical Is Back"

Is it? Because some of us felt like we were stuck on the lido deck of a cruise. Including Penelope Cruz, judging by her arched eyebrows at the close of the biggest number.

6. Ben Stiller as Joaquin Phoenix

Oscar presenters don't normally go after their own. Stiller did. His deadpan, unmistakable imitation of Phoenix's notorious performance on David Letternan is as good a sign as any that Phoenix, who has declared himself retired from acting, is now being as much pushed out of the Hollywood community as leaving it.

5. Tina Fey and Steve Martin's Scientology dig

Or maybe they were talking about some other "made up" religion involving an alien king scattering seeds across the Earth to "fuel our positive transfers." But you don't have to be a Clear to know that's unlikely. (Though this is the best bit, Fey and Martin's overall routine was excellent. As was their rapport.)

4. Heath Ledger's family accepts his award

The late Dark Knight actor received a touching tribute from his father, mother and eager sister. But what happened to the mother of his child, Michelle Williams? She wasn't even mentioned.

3. Kate Winslet's whistle

The Englishwoman's Best Actress win was widely expected; her sweet call-and-response with her father was not.

2. Dustin Lance Black on gay rights: "God does love you."

The Mormon-raised Milk screenwriter once found inspiration and emotional sustenance in California. With his heartfelt message to "gay and lesbian kids," Black returned the favor.

1. Sean Penn: "You Commie, homo-loving sons of guns."

Accepting for Best Actor, Penn killed. The tightly-wound actor was charmingly self-deprecating. And his cutting comments on California's gay marriage ban, which came near the end of the Oscar telecast, provided the perfect bookend for Black's statements, near the start.

Despite Winslet's best clothes-shedding efforts, we've long suspected the Best Actress category was a closer call than most would give it credit for (see the new issue of Time Magazine for starters). Yet it wasn't presumed silver-medalist Meryl Streep making the biggest late strides, but rather Frozen River's Melissa Leo — a 25-year film/TV veteran who may accrue enough rank-and-file votes to split Winslet and Streep and sneak in for the win. That's how Marcia Gay Harden did it in 2000, as Sasha Stone noted this morning; David Carr was even more direct at The Carpetbagger:

[W]hile Ms. Winslet does appear to be the favorite for her role in The Reader, The Bagger heard some stuff at parties last night at parties about Melissa Leo coming on strong; this line of thinking holds that many people did not see Frozen River and her amazing performance until recently and that some have been put off by Ms. Winslet's admission that she would like this year to be hers.

Meanwhile, Winslet's husband Sam Mendes played dumb about her Oscar groveling, instead throwing his own light weight behind the campaign yesterday in New York: "Give her a break from Losing Face, everybody." Was he not at the Globes? Break's almost over, Kate — it might be time to get back to work.

• The Bagger in L.A.: It Better Be Kate [Carpetbagger]

In addition to her six Oscar nominations, Winslet has racked up an impressive eleven citations on the Celebrity Nudity Database and this year was honored with a "Lifetime Skinchievement Award" from Mr. Skin (not that we know any of those sites or anything). Still, Winslet tells Time that those unclothed days may be behind her:

The nudity required for the [The Reader's] sex scenes didn't unsettle her - though she now says, "I think I won't do it again: a) I can't keep getting away with it, and b) I don't want to become 'that actress who always gets her kit off.'" But she wondered if she could handle a German accent, play Hanna convincingly into old age and find a foothold in a character who exemplifies the banality of evil.

Well, who couldn't do those things? The real feat is to do them nude (especially the old age part—you're in the makeup chair for a full day!). Sadly, this is what an Oscar within grasp plus the constant, neverending "Tell us about your body! Kinda bigger than most actresses, huh?"-ism has done to Winslet; we hope you're all happy when she films Titanic 2: Escaping the Challenger while wearing a burqa in every scene.

• 
  Best Actress: Kate Winslet's Moment [Time]

While you could chalk up the fury over Winslet's mawkish acceptance speeches to cultural prejudice, this latest wave of vitriol, epitomized by a typically restrained offering from the Daily Mail's Liz Jones, is somewhat more mysterious. Much of it seems to center on Winslet's body — or, more accurately, the fact that she still pretends to be normal when she obviously puts Hollywood-level effort into keeping svelte. "It is the duplicitousness that enrages me and most other women I have spoken to," says Liz Jones, claiming that Winlet's repeated disingenuous claims to comfort with her image grow wearisome. What's more, Jones implies, the actress is ungrateful, biting the normal hand that fed her:

But Kate? Surely she is more normal than most? Why would she give up that unique appeal, as vital to her success as Angelina Jolie's lips and hips are to hers, and give up that appeal so completely and utterly so that she has become, in my opinion, as drippy and as impossibly vain as the rest of them?

There are several odd things going on in this critique. Perhaps most strikingly, why can't we leave actresses alone? Kate Winslet has not broken up marriages, made (many) terrible films, or swanned around in pelts — so we can't even pretend a measure of moral outrage. Has she done anything but been around for a long time and, as a result, said a lot of different things and looked a lot of different ways? And even then, we're not talking claims of virginity for life or bizarre, Xtina-style makeovers. There's a petty bitchiness to the criticism that feeds into the worst woman-on-woman stereotyping. Might some of us feel a measure of disillusionment that a Hollywood movie star wasn't, in fact, exactly like us? Winslet after all belongs to the small society of Hollywood types who we tacitly believe, despite the trappings of success, secretly nudge-wink understand that the industry is stupid, that most of what they're dong is vapid and that they could give it up in a moment. And, sorry, it's not the case. Most of us feel stupid when we have one of these moments of disappointment over a public figure we've never met. Others, apparently, write self-righteous columns.

Perhaps the strangest part of the diatribe is that Jones never once comments on Winslet as an actress. And isn't it this, after all, which has kept Winslet in public esteem? We get angry with Jennifer Aniston because her persona, onscreen and off, is the same: Winslet is actually an actress. Even those of us who found Titanic tripe, consider this year's award-winning turns to be overwraught, and have no great love for Little Children, have at least one Winslet performance we love, and can acknowledge that she's a risk-taking talented actress of tremendous versatility. Maybe she's not our "best friend" anymore, but she doesn't need to be: she's a performer, and a good one. (For best friends, we have Kat Dennings, who's obviously totally normal and exactly like us...right?)

Should Kate Winslet win an Oscar for the world's most irritating actress? [Daily Mail]

Earlier: English Not Amused By Kate Winslet's Acceptance Speeches

Sure, it may be horribly cliched to see a weepy movie star who gets shocked (in the exact same way) whenever they win a prize. But Academy voters seem to like that sort of stuff. And if Winslet pulls off the role convincingly enough she might win that man-shaped golden apple next month. A speech strategy can be that important.

Her acceptance speeches thus far have been stabs at the demure-but-forceful, understated-and-elegant genre. You may remember that Winslet won two Golden Globes, one for Supporting and one for Leading, a couple of weeks ago. And now she's been Oscar nominated and be-SAG-ed. Steadily accumulating hardware, her chances have been improving that she'll win the Best Actress Oscar for her Nazi emoting in The Reader.

Remember when Jamie Foxx went on his awards tear a few years ago for Ray, and every time he picked up a statue he essentially did the same speech? He'd thank grandma and Ray "for living" and then do a little call and response thing with the giddy, thrilled whitey audience. It was a song and dance on par with Cuba Gooding Jr.'s Jerry Maguire barnstorm, and it kept him riding a high wave of momentum all the way to the big Academy Awards. Forrest Whitaker did a similar, if far more subdued, take on the old give-the-same-speech-every-time initiative when he won everything for Last King of Scotland. Like Foxx he thanked history and heritage and all those chest-thumping things. Once again, whiteys liked it. They wanted to see it again.

As victorious black actors are expected to issue stirring evocations or shuck-and-jive for a bit, leading ladies ought to be poised and humble in their shaky-hands, fluttery-heart excitement. Winslet is doing the "Oh my God" kind of speech, assured and calculating in her execution. She knows just how to play British Prestige to a dopey, popcorn-stuffed American audience.

But maybe, just maybe, it's not as strong a strategy as it seemed earlier. Meryl Streep sneaked by Winslet to win a surprise Best Actress prize last night for Doubt. And Streep was, as always, the charmingest of acceptance speech givers. Brassy, funny, genuinely grateful but not cloyingly overly modest. Everyone loved it. A younger actress, like Winslet, could never get away with such a display. People would call her an arrogant bitch. (I mean, they might be calling Meryl that, but it's in a good way.)

So Winslet will have to hope that her boring and irritating breathless amazement will continue to echo favorably in voters' heads all the way til the Oscars, at the end of next month. If not, Ms. Streep might just snatch the glory away from her. She's just that tricky. And that good. Luckily for her, Winslet is nominated for The Reader rather than Revolutionary Road. The latter has only earned her one of the major awards, while the former has nabbed two. Perhaps people appreciate Holocaust-related gravitas a bit more than the self-congratulatory aren't-Americans-miserable back-patting she gave herself toward the end of the Globes broadcast.

Watch Winslet's SAG speech above, and Streep's below.

Apart from a surprise Supporting Actor nod for Michael Shannon's truth-hoarding suburban loony, we face the life-affirming prospect of Revolutionary Road's disappearance from the awards-season scene. Think about it:

· No more shrill DiCaprio or histrionic Winslet bellowing Oscar clips under Sam Mendes's lip-licking, sadistic gaze.

· A foreseeable end to the public gang-rape of source novelist Richard Yates.

· No more Reader vs. Road chatter calculating Winslet's optimal Oscar odds.

· An awardscast without the threat of hearing its theme replayed ad infinitum lest, God forbid, Road won anything.

· The likelihood its box-office will plunge this weekend.

· The likelihood its full-page newspaper ads will cease to exist as early as tomorrow.

· An unofficial rebuke to Mendes and those audience-flagellating hacks who would follow him, cheaply defying the basic laws of art, entertainment and taste.

· Remember that lost wager with Nikki Finke? Best million dollars Harvey Weinstein ever spent.

Join our ovation, will you — piss on its shallow grave below.

1. How much will Harvey Weinstein spend to buy Kate Winslet an Oscar? The Reader's extraordinary showing this morning owes everything to Harvey's secret formula of marketing, publicity and assiduous word-of-mouth since last fall. But the cash-poor Weinstein Company doesn't stand a chance against Slumdog Millionaire in Picture, Director or Adapted Screenplay, so it comes down to Actress. It's one of the weakest categories of the year, with Winslet facing her stiffest competition probably from Anne Hathaway. Or Harvey can take the nominations — and the advertisement/DVD box copy that accompanies them —- and run. Ha. Right.

2. And what does "nominees to be determined" mean for The Reader's Best Picture nod? No producers are yet named for the famously contentious Rudin/Weinstein awards-season prize, suggesting that the Academy is debating one or both of two things: How Scott Rudin fits into the equation after pulling his name off the project (and being snubbed for Doubt and Revolutionary Road), and/or the eligibility of the late producing partners Sydney Pollack and Anthony Minghella, who developed The Reader in the first place.

3. Is Werner Herzog a powerful-enough quantity to command a sympathy win? Consensus might have Man on Wire and Trouble the Water vying against each other for Best Documentary Feature. But Herzog, whose Grizzly Man was memorably snubbed in 2005, should be considered as likely a winner for Encounters at the End of the World as are either the higher-grossing Wire or more critically acclaimed Water. Why? Because with no Iraq docs on the list and perhaps its last chance to recognize a doc pioneer, the Academy's documentary branch can safely go for the man, not the movie. If it sounds outrageous, ask Errol Morris and Michael Moore their takes.

4. How will Disney and Focus handle their multiple Best Original Screenplay nominees? With WALL-E and Happy-Go-Lucky out of the running in Picture and Director, respectively, Disney won't want to compete against its own Miramax for a Screenplay win. Same thing at Focus Features, whose Milk may be a front-runner here but whose In Bruges has previous Oscar darling Martin McDonagh and its Golden Globe afterglow going for it.

5. Can Slumdog Millionaire's double-nomination in the Best Song category shorten the awardscast? Is it impolitic to kindly request combining "Jai Ho" and "O Saya" into one Bollywood-style number led by host Hugh Jackman? We'd appreciate it and will volunteer our aid any way we can.

Often the only thing that saves an awards show from being a total bore (aside from the fashion) is the prospect that a celebrity will deliver a charming and/or emotional acceptance speech that will be added to the annual clip reel of the most memorable moments. From the opening gasps of Winslet's acceptance speech for her second Golden Globe on Sunday night, it was clear it was such a speech (video below). But, while it seems many American critics found Winslet's speech endearingly flustered, the British were mortified.

Winslet apologizied to the other nominees (and dared to forget Angelina Jolie's name), but according to The Independent, it's not her fellow actresses who need an apology. "Never mind sorry to Anne, Meryl, Kristin and oh God, who's the other one," says the review. "It's us, her loyal British fans, to whom she should apologise. We expect less of you, Kate, much less."

Reviews of the Golden Globes from the British press attacked Winslet for everything from playing up British stereotypes to possibly being inebriated. The review in The Independent said the speech would "make a corpse wince with embarrassment" and that it was unexpected of an actress, "whose irreproachably middle-class upbringing in Reading has always seemed to imbue her with a rather sensible outlook on life." According to The Guardian, the speech "raises the occasional wave of nausea, swiftly followed by a rush of hands to eyes in order to block out the spectacle." The reviewer said of Winslet's urging herself out loud to "gather," "It would be interesting to know if anyone has ever said this outside the Mitford family, since 1932." And The Times critique asked if her second emotional trip to the podium could have been the result of her "down[ing] some bubbly between her two awards."

With The Telegraph reporting that bookmakers say Winslet is an "absolute certainty" to win at least one Oscar following her Golden Globes success, should Winslet start penning her Academy Awards speech now, lest she make a career-ruining speech and further anger the Brits? Angelina Jolie may have come back from announcing during her 2000 Best Supporting Actress Awards speech, "I'm so in love with my brother right now!" However, while he was leaping around the stage after his 1996 win for Jerry Maguire, Cuba Gooding Jr. probably didn't imagine he'd end up in Snow Dogs.

Winslet's first win for Best Supporting Actress for The Reader:

Winslet's second win for Best Actress for Revolutionary Road

Brian Viner: Get A Grip, Kate. You're Embarrassing Us [The Independent]
Winslet Joins The Cast Of Hollywood Howlers [The Times]
Gather! How To Accept An Award The Kate Winslet Way [The Guardian]
Kate Winslet Favourite To Follow Golden Globes With Oscar Win [The Telegraph]

1. Is this Kate Winslet's year, like, for real this time? To the extent we all love to hate the Globes and downplay their implications in the awards-season sweepstakes, the Best Actress winners are reliable-enough indicators of the competition in that Oscar category. Without a Helen Mirren or Reese Witherspoon tear-assing ahead of the pack, we get home-stretch sprints like last year's Julie Christie/Marion Cotillard race — revived this year as Winslet vs. Happy-Go-Lucky's Sally Hawkins. The latter actress has a Globe, Miramax and virtually the entire critical establishment at her back; Winslet has her own Globe, Scott Rudin, and gales of sentimental support at hers — not an unfavorable scenario, except she's only 33, and her movie is deplorable. Despite seven previous losses, the Academy doesn't owe her anything, and it will require a little more convincing than last night's showing to honor Winslet before it's ready. For now, it's still Hawkins's Oscar to lose.

2. Was Sunday night the beginning of the end for Sean Penn? Some observers have noted the HFPA's general distaste for Penn, a 2003 no-show when he won for Mystic River and an absentee loser last night to Mickey Rourke. But narcolepsy-inducing Globes politics aside, it's worth returning to the pre-Milk days, when Rourke was literally everywhere that mattered — Venice, Toronto, New York — stockpiling buzz, and Focus Features, for whatever reason, trickled Penn out with unusual deliberation. Milk's showing at last week's Critics Choice Awards implied Rourke may have peaked too soon, but Rourke's Globe allowed him a riveting onstage moment that the Academy will likely want to one-up.

3. Moreover, will Rourke dress any better to collect his Best Actor statuette next month? We're just saying, if only because that ridiculous wallet chain won't make it through the metal detector.

4. Does Paramount have any 11th-hour tricks up its sleeve for Benjamin Button? Slumdog Millionaire's Globes sweep doesn't portend Oscar supremacy, especially not in the continuing sting of 2007's indie-friendly awardscast backlash. Danny Boyle is all but assured Best Director, but Paramount has a suitcase full of campaign cash holding the Best Picture window open. But how much? Button slipped at the box office this week, but it's still a probable $120 million-grosser by Oscars night, and alongside The Dark Knight, it's the Academy's only hope of studio bone-throwing in a year when someone, anyone is needed to counteract the minimajors. Let the fourth-quarter comeback begin.

5. Wasn't it great to see Harvey Weinstein smile? A Best Picture for Vicky Cristina Barcelona and Winslet's supporting prize for The Reader took us back to the good old pre-suicide-threat/million-dollar-bet-losing days. He'll be at the Oscars with at least Winslet and Penelope Cruz and maybe a couple screenplay nods for their respective films. Baby steps, Harvey, baby steps. 2009 is all yours — we can feel it.

• The pair was seen last week with a group of 10 or so people at Lure in Soho enjoying a three-hour tour. Billionaire man-about-town Ron Burkle was there. The captains of wealth ate and ate and ate, their mouths glistening with fish grease, their bellies sloshing with beer, the salty dogs laughing heartily all evening. Sexy! [P6]
• Don't worry. The Blue Parrot, the "honky tonk" Mexican restaurant in decidedly un-honky tonk and un-Mexican East Hampton, will live again. And it will refuse to modernize or "go trendy." Phew. [P6]
• For $50,000 wan actress Chloe Sevigny will show up to your party and sulk for a while, then whine to you that she doesn't know how much a quart of milk costs. For an extra ten grand, she'll chain smoke in the corner and pass out in a heap on the floor. [P6]
• Swoony vampire hunk Robert Pattinson, from teen sex tingler Twilight, apparently told a young lady at a bar: "If I could, I’d have a — on the inside of my elbow so I could lick it all day long.” We're assuming the "—" is code for popsicle. [NYDN]
• Everyone at the Golden Globes took home bags and bags fabulous, glittery swag except for a few pompous principled little prisses. Vanessa Hudgens, the superstar from High School Musical, chatted modestly about her enormous new house while taking $12,000 worth of free shit, like a BlackBerry and a year's worth of movie passes and a gym membership and she smiled and politely farted while outside a hobo ran by in flames and helicopters began dropping out of the sky. [NYDN]
• Elsewhere at the Golden Globe Awards last night: Sascha Baron Cohen scandalized everyone by calling Guy Ritchie Madonna's hired help, Tina Fey made fun of bloggers, Kate Winslet won all the awards, Brad Pitt and Brangelina or whatever were "chaotic and messy," Aaron Eckhart said that Heath Ledger's posthumous meaningless trophy was "fantastic," a movie about horrifyingly impoverished Mumbai won many awards (the ones Kate Winslet didn't snatch away) as well as lots of self-congratulating nodding, knowing applause from the audience, and then across the country everyone else went broke [Us, NYT]

Image via Splash

As a result, Golden Globes were actually interesting. Outside of Hollywood.

Tina Fey killed by telling the internet to "suck it." Only Sacha Baron Cohen seemed to go over the line and fall on his face, because there's just no sport in laughing at Madonna's ex-husband.

Colin Farrell explained his case of the sniffles:

If Tracy Morgan doesn't get an Emmy nomination for his Golden Globe speech, hope is dead in America:

Tina Fey wisely conserved her ammo for her own speech:

Darren Aronofsky turned an entire generation of children into future thugs, with obscenity:

Sascha Baron Cohen died a little inside (and a lot outside):

Kate Winslet would like to apologize to all the losers, for being so awesome. What's that one loser's name? Brange-something?

In her new film The Reader, Winslet plays 36-year-old Hanna Schmitz, whose sexually explicit relationship with a 15-year-old schoolboy has already led some cultural critics to wag their fingers. According to Coming Soon, one interviewer tentatively broached the subject with Winslet herself, eliciting quite the reaction:

Q: Do you ever have any trepidations about approaching controversial material like abortion in "Revolutionary Road" or statutory rape?
Winslet: I'm so sorry, "statutory rape"? I've got to tell you, I'm so offended by that. No, I really am. I genuinely am. To me, that is absolutely not this story at all. That boy knows exactly what he's doing. For a start, Hanna Schmitz thinks that he's seventeen, not fifteen, you know? She's not doing anything wrong. They enter that relationship on absolutely equal footing. Statutory rape – really please, don't use that phrase. I do genuinely find it offensive actually. This is a beautiful and very genuine love story and that is always how I saw it....She wasn't cruel to him. She didn't force him into anything at all. There's nothing I believe to be remotely inappropriate or salacious about that relationship.

Salacious? Well, we've never seen a teenager's ball hair lit so romantically in a film, but then, we haven't yet caught up on our Criterion editions of the Bel Ami catalog. Certainly, it's an intriguing Oscar trend that The Reader can join Doubt in this year's Queasy Underage Sweepstakes; let's just be glad that David Fincher demurred from shooting a graphic Benjamin Button scene where Cate Blanchett ushers an acne-ridden Brad Pitt through the back end of puberty.

• Kate Winslet: Grace Under Press [Coming Soon]

So Bad it's Good: The Spirit (Dec. 25). Perhaps it's best to know as little as possible going into this adaptation of Will Eisner's classic 1940s comic series, written and directed by Eisner acolyte Frank Miller in the arresting visual style of his debut (with Robert Rodriguez) Sin City. But the silhouettes, snow and sooty (if green-screened) Central City backdrops are less-convincing a reason to have a look than the gleeful pageantry of Miller's bad taste: The Spirit (Gabriel Macht), essentially a zombie cop turned oversexed masked-vigilante enforcer, introduces himself by way of an epic fight with equally unkillable Central City crime lord The Octopus (Samuel L. Jackson). Mud is thrown, balls are crushed, toilets are slammed, and expectations are dashed. "This," you should expect to mutter to yourself and/or your incredulous date, "is fucking terrible."

Well, kind of. Your first impression — that Miller has no idea what he's doing — eventually surrenders to an intrigue with what he'll do next. Will Scarlett Johansson put her beguiling badness to work as Octopus right-hand Silken Floss, or simply stand around like a line-reading cleavage prop? Will Eva Mendes (as jewel thief Sand Saref) test the PG-13 rating with her de rigeur gratuitous nudity? Will doctor Sarah Paulson ever tire of her male-slut superhero crush? Will Jackson's fat, annoying cloned henchmen ever shut up? And is that actually Sam Jackson up there in Nazi regalia, shouting about eggs?

By the time Miller answers most of these questions, you're already barreling toward The Spirit's climax — a convergence of the hero, villain and their intimates for a hyper-violent This is Your Life variant for the soul of Central City. With spectacle to spare and absolutely no interest in Iron Man's optimism, The Incredible Hulk's self-seriousness or The Dark Knight's social criticism, The Spirit instead emerges as the comics genre's semi-lucid inbred cousin. Hating this movie would be like booing at the Special Olympics.

So Bad it's Bad: Seven Pounds (now playing). At some point one might expect an ebb to the extraordinary critical tsunami that helped devastate Will Smith's morality play. Or at least a backlash of some kind, anything pledging some redeemability to the story of a purported IRS agent making a set of mysterious rounds to help an ensemble of sick, blind and otherwise downtrodden strangers.

Alas, we won't be the ones inaugurating that movement. Seven Pounds is everything its detractors say, with baffling plot contrivances and dramatic ineptitude compounded by the cardinal sin of utter boredom. As Smith's mission crystallizes and his motivations surface — in a twist so random it really does defy spoiling here — the likelihood of any emotional payoff diminishes behind the vast horizon of its star's ego. We imagine Seven Pounds' final 40 minutes may someday acquire some esteem in the Cult-Classic Canon for its adroit interweaving of printing-press repair, bone-marrow transplants, bad sex and killer jellyfish. But for want of anything worthwhile preceding them, it begs the question: If Will Smith falls in the forest and the audience walked out around the one-hour mark, does he make a sound?

So Bad it's Ugly: Revolutionary Road (Dec. 25) . While novelist John Cheever traced the glide path of America's fall from post-WWII euphoria to disillusioned ennui, his contemporary Richard Yates was the black box that captured every primal, panicked cry in the seconds before the crash. Nearly 50 years on, Sam Mendes likely fancies himself to share a little of each man's qualities, with his decade's worth of moodily revisionist entries surveying suburbia (American Beauty), crime and the Depression (Road to Perdition), the first Iraq War (Jarhead) and now Revolutionary Road, Yates's debut novel about an idealistic young couple's suffocation in the Connecticut suburbs.

But Mendes crafted not so much an adaptation here as he did a stunt. It was one thing to reunite wife Kate Winslet and Leonardo DiCaprio, tricking the Titanic generation into a bit of po-mo awards-season whiplash; it was another entirely to impose his semi-literate condescension on Frank and April Wheeler, Yates's doomed ad man and his housewife, whose shared yearning for a life beyond the social constraints of their titular street capsizes in devastating slow-motion. Their unraveling was a symbolic end to the optimism of Eisenhower's '50s, no less nightmarish for its yowling, virtually unprecedented depiction of complacency's costs. It created a stir that never altogether faded, influencing American Beauty itself and prompting no fewer than a dozen failed screen attempts before Mendes and Scott Rudin coaxed around $40 million of DreamWorks' money to smear their quasi-pedigreed patina over the Wheeler family's implosion.

It would have been bad enough with screenwriter Justin Haythe digesting Yates's piercing dialogue into compact, Oscar-clip-compatible bursts. It would have been bad enough with DiCaprio and Winslet, each miscast, delivering those bursts in furrow-browed, you-shout-now-I-shout order. It would have been bad enough with Michael Shannon dropping by as the neighbors' candid loony son, the Connecticut equivalent of Southern dramas' "magical Negro" whose cruelly omniscient nuggets coincide conveniently with key junctures of the Wheelers' dissolution.

But Revolutionary Road's real failure transcends tone-deafness. Here, Mendes actively perverts his source's vanguard qualities — grossly commodifying the Wheelers, fetishizing their anguish, and in fact reveling in the excruciating emotional turmoil that tormented Yates until his death in 1992. We knew Mendes was a bit of a serial masturbator, but a necrophiliac? Moreover, a cold-blooded cultural murderer? Quick — someone save Kate.