The votes are in, the shiny statues are dispensed with and Ger Gilroy got thoroughly, thoroughly pissed.
A good night at the Academy Awards then, you might say. Hell, even Michael O'Connor, the one vague Limerick connection with the Oscars that we've been milking for the last few weeks, came good in the costume design category.
But The Board is not pleased. The Board is all at once quietly crestfallen and loud with apoplexy.
The one film that we held mute hopes for, Ron Howard's supremely polished Frost/Nixon, got about as much recognition for its achievements as a Canadian street cleaner.
We don't begrudge Slumdog Millionaire now. And Sean Penn's win in the Best Actor category is a refreshing sideswipe at the tedious hype that had come to surround Mickey Rourke's lukewarm performance in The Wrestler.
But really, no gong for Frank Langella? No actor has ever before captured Nixon adequately, never mind well. To humanise and create pity for the most controversial, nay, despised man of his generation was a supreme artistic achievement.
That and the fact that The Dark Knight failed to receive best directing and best picture nominations has led The Board to lose all faith in the Academy Awards as a reflection of merit.
I shall dimiss them hereafter with a short, shrill Humbug.
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