The Academy should have started with the 1965 Best Live Action Short award for It’s Not Just You, Murray and continued handing Martin Scorsese Oscars for each and every subsequent gift he bestowed upon us.

Errol Morris’ opening collection of nominee’s non-sequiturs ranged from Guillermo Del Toro’s sublime “Every time you go to a movie, it’s a blind date” to a sound effects technician talking about his dog watching TV. It would have been nice had someone taken the time to brand each person’s name on screen.

If memory serves, don’t they kick off each ceremony with the Best Supporting Actress award? My guess is that with sagging ratings, they decided to tuck the first major award further into the show in order to keep the audience tuned in.

Why do they cut off winning speeches after 40 seconds? Do away with Jerry Seinfeld and Pilobolus, entertainers who have no relation whatsoever to movies, and allow more time for winners to go nuts over their once-in-a-lifetime chance at Oscar speechmaking.

When did Paul Schaffer put on so much weight and star in The Departed?

Worst dressed: Ellen Degeneres modeling Sears’ Rosie Collection of pant suits, and Quincy Jones looking like he raided The Last King of Scotland wardrobe van.

Mumenshanz + Blue Man Group – toilet paper = Pilobolus.

Scorsese appears to be shopping at the same Beverly Hills Lenscrafters as late super-agent Irving “Swifty” Lazar.

Pixar’s animated insert of two Cars looking dejected after they lost the Best Animated Feature award was funnier than anything in the film.

The evening’s most impassioned acceptance speech came from Ari Sandel who picked up a statue for Best Short Live Action Film. He spoke about the little guys, without budgets and big name stars, and the perseverance it takes to get a movie made. A cutaway to Gwyneth Paltrow indicated that for all she cared, he might as well have been speaking Latin.

All past Oscar recipients save Ben Affleck were referred to as “Academy Award winner.” The booth announcer wisely inserted the word “screenwriter” into Affleck’s introduction so as not to lead the audience into thinking that he ever won an Oscar for his acting.

After a clip from Letters from Iwo Jima, Emperor Spielberg put down his shine box, leaned forward and gave Clint Eastwood a nod of approval. Never a magnum around when you need one.

Evening’s low point: Will Ferrell and Jack Black once again proving their dispensability with a deleterious musical ode to comedians and Oscar. Did they have to drag John C. Reilly down with them?

Not since Kathie Lee Gifford has a parent tried so hard to jam their kid down the American public’s throats as Will Smith.

What with Ellen and gospel singers parading up and down the aisles, and John C. Reilly participating from the audience, the ceremony at times felt more like a dinner theater production of Tony n’ Tina’s Wedding.

One such excursion did afford Ms. Degeneres her brightest moment. Wanting to get a photo taken with Clint Eastwood, Ms. Degeneres stopped and handed her camera to his row-mate Steve Spielberg. Dissatisfied with his first shot, she asked the “director” to reframe. Steve stood over Clint with lens pointed downward, aping the famous high angle shot that Hitchcock used when wanting to make his characters look small and weak. In one film (Triumph of the Will), Hitler proved that he knew more about camera placement than Spielberg.

After rape victim Jodie Foster stumbles out of a bar during the credits to The Accused, we wade through 90 minutes of flashbacks to see the scene re-enacted in a graphic and purely exploitative manner. Fatal Attraction is an ugly, psycho-bitch slasher picture. Sherry Lansing, producer of both films, was awarded the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award.

Best performance by a winner accepting his award: Forest Whitaker.

Most revealing line of the night: John Travolta turning to Queen Latifah and saying: “I love a full-figured woman who can stand in front of a camera and sing her heart out. But that’s enough about me.”

The annual necrology alerted me to the passing of both director Gillo Pontecorvo (Battle of Algiers) and actor Philippe Noiret (Coup de Torchon).

Michael Mann’s compilation tribute to America and the movies quickly disintegrated into a clip reel from his favorite movies.

Nancy Meyers’ ode to writers fared much better, but how did she overlook Joe Cotton seated at his typewriter pounding out a pan of the second Mrs. Kane’s performance?

Considering that the Academy gave Al Gore a chance at five more minutes of inconvenient standup, I demand that Marty be allowed equal time to plug his latest preservation project at the Democratic National Convention.

By now I have studied Marty’s acceptance speech more thoroughly than the Warren Commission did the Zapruder footage. The fix was in. Why else would Francis Ford Coppola, George Lucas and Steve Spielberg all happen to show up and present the Best Director award? Imagine the looks on their faces had Paul Greengrass won for United 93.

Check your DVRs: While Marty was thanking all those connected to The Departed, Mrs. Eastwood pointed at her trophy-husband’s crotch and began rubbing it. Go ahead – make my priapism!

After Team Scorsese won, I was so frenzied that I stumbled from the bar, overturned cars and looted several local area merchants.

The day after Martin Scorsese finally won his Academy Award, the Associated Press reported the possible discovery of Christ’s tomb. Coincidence? I think not.

Directed by Julien Temple

Featuring: Velvet Underground, Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, Radiohead, Björk and David Bowie

138 min.

In 1970, Michael Eavis offered up his 150-acre farm to 1,500 people who assembled to watch a small group of pop and folk stars perform a weekend-long concert.

For more than 30 years, the Glastonbury Festival has withstood riots, Molotov cocktails, a fenced enclosure (constructed in 1986), T-shirt vendors and overall gross commercialization. It lives on as what director Julien Temple imagines Woodstock would have been like “had it continued to exist over the last three decades.”

Rock documentaries have never been my bag, but given that there is no such thing as a bad genre, only bad storytellers, Julien Temple (The Great Rock ’n’ Roll Swindle, The Secret Policeman’s Other Ball, The Filth and the Fury) stands as the master of the form. This is much more than just a performance film intercut with band interviews and audience reaction shots.

Glimpses of early festivals resemble nothing more than a muddy love-in. Throughout the years, enormous colorful tents replaced sleeping bags. Nowadays, it’s not unusual to see a Rolls Royce pull up to the front gate. Aerial shots of the vast, colorful festival reminded me of what it’s like to circle neon Las Vegas at night.

If anything, performance footage is kept to a minimum, although I could have stood a couple more verses of Primal Scream’s “Swastika Eyes.” Instead, this is a joyous video celebration of the festival’s history, appointed with everything from Nicholas Roeg’s professionally shot 1971 footage to home movies.

The most engaging aspect of Temple’s kaleidoscopic tapestry is the way in which the director freely associates the miles of footage. He playfully uses footage from silent Biblical epics to represent historical artifacts. When locals complained about a bunch of fetid smelling hippies sullying the spot where Christ stopped as a child, Temple cuts to images of ragtag beggars from DeMille’s King of Kings.

Fans of both music and quality filmmaking will find something to sing about in Glastonbury.

Glastonbury opens March 9 at Landmark’s Ken Cinema.

3 1/2 stars