Tom Hanks once confided that, while watching the big musical production numbers is often the lamest part of the Academy Awards telecast, "when you see them live, they look kind of cool." As with so much else in life, we'll have to take Tom Hanks's word for it. Unfortunately for those in the audience at this year's Oscars show, the musical component of this year's event started out downsized and is getting smaller by the minute. In previous years, the people in charge of picking out five "original songs" to nominate for that treasured category have rolled up their sleeves and worked with what God gave them, forcing the people onstage to read out words that were never meant to fgo together, such as "Love Theme from The Towering Inferno." (It's also because of the Best Original Song category that such movies as The Karate Kid, Part II, Yes, Giorgio, Mannequin, and Whiffs can truthfully claim to have been Oscar nominees and so may well turn up on Turner Classic Movies during their annual "Thirty Days of Oscar" celebration, while Robert Osborne smiles into the camera and wishes he were dead.) This year, though, the category consists only of three nominees. There's a precedent for this: it happened in 1988 (when Carly Simon's theme song for Working Girls beat out a Phil Collins tune from the Phil Collins movie--you see what I mean about words that were never meant to go together?--Buster and something from Bagdad Cafe), and again in 2005, when the relative lack of competition turned out to be windfall for those musical craftsmen Three 6 Mafia. (They won for their contribution to the soundtrack of Hustle & Flow, "It's Hard Out There for a Pimp", a sentiment calculated to get Hollywood agents and studio chiefs standing on their chairs screaming, "Can I get an amen?") But this year, the three songs were selected from a grand total of two movies: Slumdog Millionaire and WALL-E. This in spite of the fact that anyone who's been to the movies more than a couple of times in the past few months has had Bruce Springsteen's song from The Wrestler imprinted permanently in their brains, even if they haven't seen the movie. Now comes word that Peter Gabriel, whose WALL-E theme "Down to Earth" has already won a Grammy for Best Song from a Motion Picture, has pulled out of the ceremony to protest the decision that he would only be allowed to perform a brief snippet of the song as part of a medley. Gabriel will be in the audience in case he wins; "I’m an old fart," he says, "and it’s not going to do me any harm to make a little protest. But the ceremony will be fun and I’m looking forward to it." So anyone who volunteers to take his place and perform part of the song on stage will do so knowing that the composer is staring at him trying to kill him with hate rays.

Gabriel, who discusses his gripes with the Academy in a video posted at his website, co-wrote "Down to Earth" with Thomas Newman, the son of the legendary film composer Alfred Newman. (He and Randy Newman are cousins.) It's the first Oscar nomination of Gabriel's career, though he has composed three well-regarded original film scores, for Birdy, The Last Temptation of Christ, and Rabbit-Proof Fence. And he has a special place in Oscar history for his appearance at the 1998 awards, where he sang Randy Newman's theme song for Babe: Pig in the City.

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On the occasion of the release of Scarlett Johansson's debut album, Matthew Oshinsky has assembled a handy wrap-ups of actors, or at least professional camera subjects, turned vocalists. It comes divided into categories: "the teenyboppers" (Annette Funicello, David Cassidy, Hillary Duff); "former child stars" (a category that, perhaps surprisingly, seems to be the likeliest to yield an actual recording career, along the lines of those enjoyed by Janet Jackson, Phil Collins, and Alanis Morissette); and my personal favorite, "former soap stars" (including Rick Springfield, who Oshinsky notes "was already a popular singer in his native Australia when he suddenly found himself on millions of afternoon TV screens in 1981 [on General Hospital] and learned that he didn’t know what popularity meant"). For those fully fledged adult mainstream celebrities who decide that this is their big chance to show that they've still got what they had at the high school talent show, Oshinsky favors the label "Meatheads." Here we find your Russell Crowes, your Eddie Murphys, your Steven Seagals (no shit, really!?), and Bruce Willis, whose 1987 Motown release The Return of Bruno (with backup work by Booker T. Jones and members of the Temptations) tried to hedge its bets by presenting itself as a "soundtrack" to an HBO special in which Willis pretended that he was pretending to be a legendary white soul singer on the comeback trail. He thus hedged his bets in a way that, in this specialized field, passed for clever, inviting people who noticed that his music sucked to treat the whole thing as a joke. His hideous, malformed cover of the Staples Singers' "Respect Yourself" made it to number five on the charts anyway. If I live to be a thousand, I will never understand how anyone could miss the 1980s.

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You may not know who Jack P. Pierce was, but if you've seen or even heard about the Famous Monsters of Filmland that made millions of dollars for Universal Studios in the 1930s, you know his work.  Pierce, a Greek immigrant who ended up in Hollywood more or less by accident, was the head of the makeup department at Universal Studios from 1928 until 1947, and crafted, on conjunction with stars like Lon Chaney, Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff, some of the most memorable creatures in cinema history. In the days before CGI or even most photographic effects as we know them today, Pierce worked with theatrical equipment, padding, chemicals toxic by today's standards, and inventive use of costumes to create the visual hook of characters like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, the Phantom of the Opera, Dracula, Ygor, Frankenstein,  the Wolf Man, and the Mummy.

When Universal merged with International after WWII, Pierce fell on ill fortune, and, after several decades working on television and for low-budget big-screen productions, he died in 1968, little-remembered outside of the people who had the good fortune to work with him.  Still, anyone who played such an integral part in defining one of Hollywood's most famous and fertile periods wasn't going to stay forgotten for long.  A DVD documentary about him was recently released focusing on his horror work; the motion picture industry's Makeup Artists and Hairstylists Union has named their lifetime acheivement award for him; and his hands, which crafted so many terrifyingly familiar faces, are featured on an American postage stamp, transforming Boris Karloff into Frankenstein's monster.

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