Anthony LaPaglia (Getty Images)

Anthony LaPaglia, once the star of TV's Without a Trace, is to star in an Australian TV movie called Underground, about Julian Assange. This ripped-from-the-headlines tale features Mr. LaPaglia as a detective attempting to thwart a young hacker, Rachel Griffiths as that hacker's mother, and one Alex Williams as the hacker himself--one Julian Assange. (May we suggest a slimmed-down Jeremy Renner for a flash-forward to Julian Assange's future as a world-renowned information trafficker?) IndieWire speculates that it will end up on NBC given the network's financial interest in the Australian production house behind Underground.

First up: the Supporting Actresses.

Supporting Actress, Comedy: Kristen Chenowith, Pushing Daisies; Amy Poehler, Saturday Night Live; Jean Smart, Samantha Who?; Holland Taylor, Two and a Half Men; Vanessa Williams, Ugly Betty

Who we're pulling for: This is the first year that Saturday Night Live cast members are eligible for Emmy Awards consideration, so we think it would be quite fitting if Amy Poehler went home with the trophy. Ms. Poehler has really grown as a performer during the past few years. Her relentless mugging from early in her SNL career has been replaced by a cool confidence, even if she does still laugh at too many of her own jokes on Weekend Update. Perhaps the sea change in her performance has something to do with her fantastic Hillary Clinton impression. It's so good that it can be placed alongside Will Ferrell's GW and Phil Hartman's Bill Clinton in the SNL Political Figure Hall of Fame.

Prediction: We don't think any of the other performers here standout more than Ms. Poehler. Plus with a baby on the way and an NBC sit-com in the works, she's becoming America's Sweetheart!

Best Supporting Actress, Drama: Candice Bergin, Boston Legal; Rachel Griffiths, Brothers and Sisters; Sandra Oh, Grey's Anatomy; Dianne Weist, In Treatment; Chandra Wilson, Grey's Anatomy

Who we're pulling for: Despite the fact that Grey's Anatomy is one of the most annoying shows on television, Chandra Wilson's Dr. Miranda Bailey constantly makes us happy. While her other cast members seem to get swallowed up in the pull of all the arch melodrama, Ms. Wilson stands out as a shining beacon of class and talent. Plus, we know she'll give a great acceptance speech, complete with tears! Go Chandra go!

Prediction: Sadly, we have a feeling Ms. Wilson will split the Grey's vote with co-star Sandra Oh, leaving the door open for fellow ABC star Rachel Griffiths to win for Brothers and Sisters. Ms. Griffiths, for years so good on Six Feet Under, is long overdue for some recognition.

Tomorrow: the Supporting Actors.

Like Clark Kent in Superman , Billy Batson in Captain Marvel and Peter Parker in Spider-Man , there's a mild-mannered wimp behind the humongous, rampaging creature called the Hulk. He is Bruce Banner (played by Australian actor Eric Bana), a nice, brilliant, desperately poor, idealistic but strangely moody young scientist whose girlfriend and pretty lab partner, Dr. Betty Ross (Jennifer Connelly), is horrified when Bruce's emotional detachment changes dramatically after a sudden, deadly dose of gamma radiation. Betty doesn't know it, but guys in the audience who used to be teenage boys obsessed with the Hulk before they learned to pad their Speedos already know what's coming next. Bruce starts acting like something other than a Bruce. Terrible headaches lead to blackouts that leave him sapped. Something is stirring inside. Suddenly he expands like a blowfish, destroying freeways, turning his science lab into toothpicks, punching the walls out of his house with bare knuckles. Looking like a cross between King Kong and a two-ton Arnold Schwarzenegger overdosing on neutraceutical hormone-replacement shakes, the Hulk goes ballistic. The reasons behind this Jekyll-and-Hyde mutation are so convoluted that none of them make much sense, but in flashbacks we get shards of childhood torture in which his demonic father used Bruce as a guinea pig in human regeneration experiments, injecting the little boy with chromosomes from starfish, jellyfish and sea cucumbers. Bruce grows up with a powerful genetic immune system that he's unaware of until a weird janitor shows up at the lab and starts messing with the test tubes. Jumping Jolly Green Giant! The mop-pusher is really Bruce's demented Dad (Nick Nolte), a fiend who has been locked away for 30 years. It's never clear just what this lunatic wants from the grown-up Bruce, but they are both pursued with a vengeance by the insane U.S. military, led by Betty's father, General "Thunderbolt" Ross (Sam Elliott), and archvillain rival scientist Glenn Talbot (Josh Lucas, last seen as Reese Witherspoon's handsome hillbilly husband in Sweet Home Alabama ).

But enough about the interminable plot, which lasts no more than half an hour of the two-hour-and-19-minute running time and remains rigidly resistant to logic. It's more fun to cut to the interminable action sequences, which consist of split-screen computer graphics and all manner of visual tricks that are entirely too terrifying for any child under 12 years old. (Not to mention incomprehensible.) The metaphysical mumbo-jumbo about molecular biology, cellular penetration and enzyme replacement is just padding inserted to drag out the script by John Turman, Michael France and James Schamus, without a trace of educational enlightenment. The high points are the secret government lab in Pop Art Crayola paint hidden behind the entrance of an old drive-in movie theater, and the incredible Hulk himself, like a green rubber ducky the size of Mt. Rushmore, using the mountains and canyons of the Mojave Desert as his personal trampoline, tossing U.S. military helicopters through the sky like Frisbees, kicking armored tanks off the sand dunes like footballs, and bouncing off the Golden Gate Bridge in time to reduce the city of San Francisco to Tinker Toys at rush hour. Like I said, none of this makes one bit of sense (what does the Hulk want, besides a chance to hold the terrified Jennifer Connelly in the palm of his hand like Fay Wray?), but it's fun to spot Lou Ferrigno, the Muscle McGurk who played His Hulkiness in the TV series, in a cameo appearance, and a recommended suspension of disbelief will pay off in a few unintentional laughs, especially when Mr. Nolte is on the screen.

On the downside, The Hulk could benefit mightily from a pair of scissors. It seems somewhat beneath the talent and vision of its director, Ang Lee. (Hard to believe this is the same man who directed the unforgettable The Ice Storm , even though he did demonstrate an enthusiasm for escapism with the more imaginative and far superior Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon .) Finally, like all comic-book flicks, The Hulk is not about acting, so the impressive cast is hugely wasted, but do check out the weird, hysterical and howling histrionics of Mr. Nolte. Instead of treating The Hulk like the overpaid job it is, he works the role of a babbling old nutcase like it was King Lear. Looking like a cadaverous Albert Einstein stoned on hallucinogenic mushrooms, he misses the fun, overcompensating for the material's intellectual paucity in a kick-ass riot of bad acting.

Writer's Block

A bogus, smile-free comedy called Alex and Emma is a real head-scratcher. It's been decades since Rob Reiner played Meathead on All in the Family , but has he lost every trace of his once-famous comic timing? Can this dirge have been directed by the same Rob Reiner who immortalized When Harry Met Sally ? In the field of humor, he comes by his credentials seriously. None of the experience shows here. Alex and Emma is a boring, hapless cinematic corpse that deserves a eulogy by Billy Crystal.

Nobody survives. Luke Wilson, the more appealing of the two current Wilson siblings (and a much better actor than brother Owen), plays Alex, a writer with 30 days to write a complete novel he hasn't even started yet, thereby earning a publisher's advance that will save him from death at the hands of the Cuban loan sharks to whom he owes $100,000 in gambling debts. Kate Hudson, who is making so many movies she's in danger of wearing out her welcome fast, plays Emma, a stenographer who arrives to take dictation. While she jots down dialogue, corrects errors, ruins his train of thought with annoying questions about character, structure and trajectory (all valid, if you ask me), and casually points out hundreds of clichés, the plot changes by the hour. In no time at all, it looks like a movie made with a rewind button. In fictional inserts, he becomes his own hero and she becomes all of the peripheral romantic objects of his lust. Playing Swedish, German, Spanish and American au pairs, Ms. Hudson shows off different wigs and accents from scene to scene. Eventually, she gets so involved with the fictional characters that she falls in love, her attention wanders, she loses a chunk of the manuscript in a mud puddle, he has to start over, they break up …. It goes on and on in a marathon of tedium, with no hope of igniting anything that vaguely resembles audience attention.

In a movie with lines like "The mind is an ethereal web of contradicting emotions" and a plot about a bad writer working on a book of mind-boggling ineptitude, anemia is fatal. The book Mr. Wilson is dictating is so boring you can't even hear it read aloud without dozing. People all around me were checking those watches that have light-up dials. One man snored incessantly. Whatever were these people thinking? Alex and Emma isn't funny, clever or interesting. It has no tempo, energy or pulse. It isn't even contrived enough to be aggravating. It just arrives on a slab, ready for the autopsy. This is especially sad for Kate Hudson. As a romantic leading lady, the daughter of Goldie Hawn lacks her mother's sparkle and huggable charm. I don't think she's ready to carry a whole movie by herself at this point in her career, but bad movies are happening too fast and she's starring in entirely too many of them at once. Take a little time to learn something, honey. Acting careers have a shelf life, too, and with a few more bombs like Alex and Emma , the expiration date on yours could mature before your pension.

Aussie Posse

I could watch Australia's tempting and versatile Rachel Griffiths read the Melbourne phone book aloud and never glance at the clock, but there are times during the gritty crime drama The Hard Word when I would rather be reading it myself. In her Golden Globe–winning performance on HBO's Six Feet Under , Ms. Griffiths' clear, precise American accent is as perfectly edgy and neurotic as any native-born Californian's. Back in her homeland for The Hard Word , you could cut the density of her flat, hard-boiled Australian dialect with a hedge trimmer. The same goes for Guy Pearce, who went from the lisping, hilarious Sydney drag queen in his breakthrough film, The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert , to the callous cop in L.A. Confidential with amazing ease. These people can do just about anything. But when it comes to success, they're still at the mercy of script and direction. The Hard Word , written and directed by Scott Roberts, needs more of both. In a nutshell, this latest entry in the overworked crime-family genre is about three brothers in the same prison cell (a credulity strain for starters) serving time for armed robbery. Now they're about to be released from prison at the same time (yeah, sure), but first their longtime, arrogant and very crooked criminal lawyer, Frank Malone (Robert Taylor), blackmails them into one more multimillion-dollar heist. Dale (Guy Pearce), the dominant brother and gang leader, risks everything to find his way back into the arms of his sexy blonde wife, Carol (Rachel Griffiths), unaware that she has been screwing around with Frank while he was behind bars. Betrayed, felled by food poisoning and running from both Frank and the cops, the brothers knock off the Melbourne Cup, dismantle the video surveillance system, cuff the guards, rob the bookies of millions and head for Sydney in the hijacked car of a lady meteorologist. Everybody underestimates Carol, who knows her way around the jungle and will stop at nothing to get her share of the profits, including murder. There's an incredible chase through traffic, a daring escape that culminates in a leap from a bridge onto a moving freight train, and a series of snafus as Carol moves from bed to bed, using every natural attribute at her disposal to score. The movie has its distractions, but it reminded me of a tamer, less convincing take on the great Raoul Walsh film, White Heat , with Mr. Pearce in the James Cagney role and Ms. Griffiths as Virginia Mayo. It's the kind of predictable programmer that used to fill the bottom half of double bills, but it's worth the effort to catch Ms. Griffiths as the kind of seductive siren who lures men to the edge of the cliff with their headlights on, ready to die with smiles on their faces. In the New Age mold of Lizabeth Scott and Lana Turner, she's just swell as a trashy, curvaceous carnivore with Farrah Fawcett hair and a heart beneath her tank top that beats like a cannibal's tom-tom.

Interestingly, Aussie Rachel, with her freaky shredded frock and jellyfish hairdo, didn't really look so hot. Could there, I mused, be a correlation between bad style and the nouveau actorish self-importance? The only way to test this theory was to watch the 74th Academy Awards, see how the actors had elected to enrobe their "instruments," and cross-reference it with their acceptance-speech drivel.

As the actors accumulated on the red carpet, a theme quickly emerged-or should I say a pair of themes? Yes! BOOBIES ARE BACK! But not in a crude way: This season's Oscar rack is a statuesque dŽcolletŽ. And why not? A classically pushed-up bosom is a tried and true way to flaunt yourself, get your picture taken and still look like a classy broad. Uma Thurman brimmed over her Gaultier like a 19th-century opera singer; a suspiciously trim Sharon Stone showed off her assets in a black, backless Versace. Helen Hunt-who wisely elected to come as Cameron Diaz instead of her less charismatic self-wore a flirty nipple-proffering black lace-up number by Gucci. The fashion Tit-anic of the evening? Gwyneth Paltrow sank in a nipple-scrunching frock by the normally great Christian Lacroix. It looked as if her boobs had been removed, allowed to dry and then ruched back onto the front of her body.

The other big theme of the night? The dirt-bag coiffure. Lazy, overpaid hairdressers have propagated this trend, and why wouldn't they? They get paid the same whopping fees, and they're done in half the time. Clients are embracing these beachy, dŽgagŽ styles on the grounds that they are younger and less prissy than the upswept tunnel curls and chignons of yore. This is true … but only if you are young (e.g., Kirsten Dunst). If you're no longer in the first flush of youth (Julia, sorry!), your funky dreads will become a vicious reminder of temps perdu .

Now, the men. Manhattanites who inhabit "the dance belt" (that magical neighborhood favored by theatrical folk in the West 40's) know that, left to their own devices, actors favor a bad jean, a hideous promotional blouson and a tragic sneaker/topsider worn with a white sock. Thank God they all have stylists! A simple, pleasing, Prada-ish neatness was favored by most male Oscar attendees (e.g., Toby Maguire, Owen Wilson and Ben Stiller). Baz Luhrmann wore a silver satin tie to match his hair; it's an old trick, but it totally works. The only discernible trend was the knee-length tux: Will Smith and Samuel L. Jackson were big-pimpin' in Ozwald Boateng and Armani, respectively. Russell Crowe also wore a knee-length jacket (Armani), but with his grumpy carb face-why does everyone think he's so cute?-he looked more Charles Laughton than Superfly."

The awards began and, right off the bat, it looked as if my style/self-importance hypothesis would be a slam dunk. "By some beautiful twist of fate I've landed in this vocation that demands that I feel," bleated a humor-impaired Jennifer Connelly as she clutched her Oscar for best supporting actress. Yes, the beautiful Ms. Connelly, drearily attired in an unflattering Balenciaga beige burlap bustier dress, was living proof that pomposity and problematic personal style might well go hand-in-hand. She also proved that ultra-groovy high fashion is utterly irrelevant on Oscar night. Interestingly, Armani, who has long since lost favor with the fashion cognoscenti, scored a bumper number of celeb hits: e.g., Jodie, Helen (Mirren), Julia.

Then it all started to go wrong. First, sincere and blokey Brit Jim Broadbent won for best supporting actor. His endearingly unpretentious acceptance speech began with the antiquated working-class phrase "stone the crows," which, F.Y.I., translates to "you could have knocked me down with a feather." He didn't mention his instrument-not once! My hypothesis was unraveling quicker than Thoth's deranged twirling. (Didn't you love Thoth? I thought he was jutht thmashing.)

Then the African-American landslide happened-Sidney, Halle and then Denzel-and my snarky survey went right out the window. Strange, when Sidney Poitier used the word "courage," it seemed to have just a tidgy bit more meaning than when the undertaker's girlfriend was tossing it around back at the Golden Globes.

A tidal wave of genuine sincerity engulfed the new Kodak Theatre and filled my living room, warming my heart, but also making me glad that I had packed in a few chuckles with Joan Rivers earlier in the evening. Ms. Rivers, whose anarchic sense of humor reached an all-time anti-Lipton high during her E! red-carpet coverage, managed to bust through several celeb taboos, including incontinence. "Liza and David Gest are planning to adopt," shrieked Joan from behind a chic little pair of pink sunglasses. "They're adopting Ann Miller and Esther Williams-both of whom are back in diapers." On the subject of Rosie's gay declaration, Ms. Rivers had this to say: "Her girlfriend left her last week after she came out of the closet. She had no idea she was gay-she thought she just liked to cuddle upside-down."

Re Rosie: Gorgeous Halle gets major props as the first black chick to win the best-actress Oscar, but it takes major guts to announce to the world, as Rosie recently did, that you're a big dyke-albeit of the more palatable caring-mother-who-happens-to-be-gay variety. The good news for Rosie is that nobody really seems unduly freaked-out or remotely surprised. On the Richter scale of public reaction, Rosie's proclivities are registering a big fat "Whatever!" Rosie, I think it's quite possible that everyone already knew. I mean, if you weren't a lesbian, who was? It's sort of like when Liberace came out. No offense!

Courageous gals like Rosie make me very suspicious of obviously gay Oscar attendees-we all know who you are-who remain in the closet. What sordidness can they possibly be hiding? I suppose it's really rather quaint: They're protecting us from their torrid inclinations.

Thanks for nothing-and good luck, Rosie!

The way Ms. Karmel's script is constructed, the movie is focused almost entirely on the career woman Pamela after she has made the mistake of wondering idly what would have happened if she had married her old sweetheart Robert Dickson (David Roberts) years ago when she had the chance. In the trade-off she actually chose, she has traveled around the world as a celebrated award-winning journalist, but her rancid romantic life has been comprised mostly of pleasantly platonic relationships and blind dates from hell. From time to time she has even answered personal ads, only to end up alone in her messy apartment after midnight, gorging herself on junk food while watching heavy-breathing soft-core sex scenes on Australian television.

So when the married Pamela literally runs into the single Pamela with her family station wagon, the two contrasting existential versions of the same woman confront each other in married Pamela's suburban home. The double image does not last very long, inasmuch as the married Pamela takes this opportunity to fly the coop without the family being any the wiser. As a consequence, a clueless career woman is awkwardly thrust into the strenuous stop-and-go work routine of the wife and mother she would have become if she had followed her heart instead of her head.

When hubby Robert returns home, his matter-of-fact demeanor suggests that most-if not all-of the magic has gone out of the marriage. At this point Ms. Karmel resists the temptation to veer into either madcap farce or fuzzy family sentimentality. Instead, the experimental couple unexpectedly evolve into complex characters, with first conflicting and then compatible agendas. Meanwhile, Pamela is reunited with two old lovers, both of whom are played by Sandy Winton.

Admittedly, the transitions back and forth between the two Pamelas are a bit on the shaky side as far as credibility are concerned. Indeed, it would take a fabulously flexible and accomplished piece of acting by Ms. Griffiths to keep Me Myself I from falling completely apart well before the final fade-out. And, fortunately, that's exactly what Ms. Griffiths provides, with a display of detailed histrionic virtuosity such as comes along only once or twice in a decade.

What is particularly surprising about this one-woman breakthrough show from Ms. Griffiths is her previously overshadowed portrayals as a second fiddle to such bigger names as Emily Watson in Hilary and Jackie (1998), Julia Roberts and Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend's Wedding (1997), Kate Winslet in Jude (1996), and Toni Collette in Muriel's Wedding (1994). Ms. Griffiths did shine in her one feminine lead as a London heart-of-gold hooker in My Son the Fanatic (1998).

Still, one has the feeling through the 90's that Ms. Griffiths piled on the mannerisms to compensate for being cast in essentially supporting roles. Some people may think she is still a bit mannered in Me Myself I. All I know is that from her first appearance on the screen to the last shot of her leaning triumphantly out a window I couldn't keep my eyes off her. After a while I stopped keeping track of all the right acting choices she made at every turning point, and these were many and varied. I fully realize I have over-used the term "mesmerized" in my more exuberant reviews, but I must trot it out again as if it were for the first time. Nothing less will suffice to describe how bowled over I was when I saw the film.

Nor did I have to consult the program notes to discern how closely Ms. Griffiths had worked with Ms. Karmel to fashion a character so bumptiously vibrant and yet so delicately nuanced. I may be responding also to the peculiar genius of the best Australian films for hitting all the half-notes between comedy and pathos without becoming either strident or sappy. Mr. Roberts and Mr. Winton are excellent, too, as the two men in Pamela's lives, both no pushovers for Pamela in the manner of the masochistic leading men in the old Bette Davis vehicles.

As for the attitude of the film, I can't improve on the quotes attributed to writer-director Pip Karmel ("Regret is futile"), producer Fabien Liron ("Destiny always makes the right choice for you"), and co-producer Andrena Finlay ("The past is the past, you have to leave it behind"). Another way of putting it is that the heroine of Me Myself I is not nearly as egocentric as the title of her story suggests. She listens to other people, and can see their point of view. In the end she has learned to live with herself, to accept all the decisions of her life, and to generate a lot of fun in the process.

Me Myself I is Ms. Karmel's first feature film as a writer-director after a decade (1984-1994) of making award-winning short films, both fiction and non-fiction, for Australian television. She was nominated for an Oscar for her editing of Scott Hicks' Shine (1996), and the same year edited Mr. Hicks' non-fictional The Ultimate Athlete . My auteurist research over the years has unearthed the curious fact that directors are more likely to come from the ranks of editors than of cinematographers. Of course, Ms. Karmel shortened the odds even further by writing her own screenplay, which was immediately snapped up, and by showing her directorial prowess with five short films for television.

Writers and actors, of course, have an easier path to the director's chair than either editors or cinematographers. But why do cinematographers rank so low as future director material when their art and craft are the most essential of all in the film-making process? I suspect it is because by being able to do anything and everything with a camera that directors may desire, they get out of the habit of making personal decisions. In this context, cinematographers remind me of gifted tennis players in the past like Ilie Nastase and Hana Mandlikova, who had every shot in the book but often lost key points through indecision because of the fact that they had more options than their opponents. In any event, Ms. Karmel, whether as erstwhile writer, editor, or maker of short films, has earned the right to a long and fruitful directorial career on the strength of Me Myself I , one of the most striking feature-film debuts ever.

Ordinary People on Long Island

Eric Mendelsohn's Judy Berlin , which he also wrote, turns out to be a lyrical lament for life's losers, and for Long Island besides. After winning a slew of festival awards here and abroad, it has managed to linger awhile in limited release. It is an easy film to like and respect, if only because it is the kind of low-key undramatic project that makes the moguls with the big cigars snort with disgust.

"Where's the action, where's the sex? O.K. You don't have money for stars or special effects, but you Sundance kids have cheap ways of getting customers on the sly. You can be more way out and low-down. But what's all this crap about a town on Long Island called Babylon and an eclipse that makes all the characters look even more depressing and defeated than they would in the blazing sunlight? And where are the babes and studs? Everybody here looks ready for retirement. Who's gonna pay 10 bucks for these boring people…Chekhov? Who the hell is Chekhov, and when has he ever opened a big weekend? Blah, blah, blah."

For those of us who don't mind a quiet night at the movies for the sake of an authentic talent, it might be noted that Mr. Mendelsohn, a native of Old Bethpage, Long Island, has placed himself in diametrical opposition to fellow Long Islander Hal Hartley, who once described Long Island as a long corridor with no door at the end. But Mr. Hartley, most notably in Trust (1991), expresses the point of view of young people who feel stifled by the sheer banality of suburbia. And for all his absurdist stylization, Mr. Hartley is no stranger to violence and melodrama.

By contrast, Mr. Mendelsohn loves ordinary people with all their frailties and failures, to the point that he invests them with dignity and nobility. One thinks back to Thornton Wilder and William Saroyan as bards of the commonplace when one looks at the ravishingly beautiful townscapes fashioned by Mr. Mendelsohn and his cinematographer Jeffrey Seckendorf. A gallery of gallant twilight performers is led by the late exquisite Madeline Kahn and includes Barbara Barrie, Bob Dishy, Julie Kavner and Anne Meara. The younger generation is represented by Aaron Harnick (Ms. Barrie's son), whose David Gold has returned to Babylon to live with his parents after his movie career fizzled in Los Angeles, and by The Sopranos ' Edie Falco as the title character, who is leaving Babylon for Los Angeles probably to face David's fate.

David and Judy bond in their mutual insecurities after a chance reunion, but they are no more glowing with optimism than the older people Judy is leaving behind. After Judy Berlin , one wishes a better fate for Mr. Mendelsohn, though he may have gotten a break with Ms. Falco's star power.