Hugh Jackman will dance. But will Brad and Jen collide?

Perhaps it's appropriate that the inaugural post here at Pop Goes the Culture comes on Oscar weekend. And an Oscar weekend shrouded in secrecy, no less, swirling with delicious rumors that have nothing to do with award presentation.

All we know is that Hugh Jackman will sing. Most likely in a tuxedo. And that Heath Ledger will win. So people will cry.

It's time for a revamping of the outmoded show, criticized for its never-ending self-congratulatory brouhaha and subsequent lack of viewers. Those who do tune in watch for the gowns. But for the time-crunched, InStyle Magazine will cover the red carpet quite beautifully. As will every fashion blog known to man. Including Woman.ca. So come back.

So this year, producers are trying something different. They're banking on our love for the Sexiest Man Alive. They're not announcing presenters; instead, they're letting the gossip factory (of which I'm now a part) leak rumors of Anne Hathaway and Zac Efron singing on the stage alongside Wolverine. No, you didn't miss the High School Musical nomination. Things really are different this year; being shut out doesn't exclude you from taking part, apparently.

And then there's the carefully plotted red-carpet collision of Brad and Jen. Yes.

Brad Pitt is nominated for Best Actor. He won't win. Angelina Jolie is nominated for Best Actress. She won't win either. But they'll be there. And they'll be beautiful.

John Mayer, the king of verbal diarrhea (remember his song "My Stupid Mouth"? Very appropriate), let it slip last week that he'll be attending the Oscars as a boyfriend. So Jennifer Aniston will be there, crossing paths with the ex and "the other woman." And while it's probably no big deal to the individuals involved, for those of us living vicariously through their tangled web of babies and betrayal, we will tune in, hoping that Ryan Seacrest will nab the world's most awkward double interview.

Please, let it happen.

Tune in on Sunday. Give Hugh a chance. See if Zac dances. See if Mickey Rourke thanks his recently deceased dog. And hold your breath that Brad remembers to shave off his Tarantino-obligated mustache.

By Nadine Bells

Nadine Bells, Pop Goes The Culture
		About the author:
		A seasoned Toronto-based writer, Nadine has scattered her musings on entertainment and lifestyle throughout cyberspace. With a post-grad in TV Writing and Producing (she grew up without cable and had to compensate by embracing a television addiction later in life), she offers pop-culture fixes and celebrity scoops exclusive to WOMAN.ca. Her non-writing life features late nights at the piano, eavesdropping at the gym, reenacting scenes from Top Chef in her tiny kitchen, and other quarter-life adventures.
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