I remember being characteristically excited when it was announced that Anne Hathaway and James Franco would be hosting the 2011 Oscars telecast. This was, after all, before the baffling Hathaway Hate Train flew off the tracks. It was also prior to Franco going from silly stoner to disgraced actor after years of abuse allegations came out against him.
The Oscars switching up the conventional comic host for a pair of younger, charismatic ingenues was a reason for celebration. Well, at least for my 16-year-old self, who was still blind to the inherent corniness of awards shows. I had spent my teenage years on a steady diet of Tumblr scrolling and NBC single-cam sitcoms. In my feeble mind, Hathaway and Franco were gonna be the modern Abbott and Costello, bringing down the house. I even publicly posted my delusion to Facebook. “James Franco and Anne Hathaway are hosting the Oscars this year, I rejoice,” I bravely said to the world. The post received a whopping three likes.
A few weeks later, I sat in front of the television mortified. I had trusted these two, and here they were, not just letting me down but kicking my already lifeless body repeatedly with each canned bit and wretched punchline. I staked my reputation on this! How was I to show my face the next morning and be asked by someone in my Journalism 101 class what I thought about the ceremony? Anne Hath-a-will, but Anne did not Hath-a-way.
Though I had to watch most of the ceremony through my hands to avoid further embarrassment, there was nothing quite so sour as the duo’s opening monologue. This was the do-or-die moment. Here was Hathaway and Franco’s big chance to show that they were just as capable as the Billy Crystals and the Whoopi Goldbergs. So what if they were funny comedic actors and not “real” comedians? We could all stand to have a little faith.
From the moment Hathaway and Franco walked out on stage—a fog machine billowing cinematic condensation behind them like they were on the Irish moors and not the Dolby Theater—things were off to a rocky start. Though the writers of their monologue have since insisted Franco was not stoned during the ceremony, it’s impossible not to note his red, glassy eyes and blank expression. Whether or not there was a little wacky baccy involved, Franco’s low energy was entirely mismatched with Hathaway’s eager persona. With the night’s hosts coming nowhere close to jiving, the audience wasn’t buying a single second.
To her credit, Hathaway was really giving it her all. She has long been one of Hollywood’s most charming actors, thanks to her real-life approachability and knack for transforming into her characters. But that night saw Hathaway’s first brush with cringe. “It used to be: You get naked, you get nominated,” she joked, referring to baring it all in 2010’s saccharine Love & Other Drugs. “Not anymore… not anymore,” she said, trailing off to make room for expected audience laughter. What she got instead were a few uncomfortable chuckles.
The monologue was less than five minutes long, but watching it all play out like an uncomfortable car wreck makes it feel like an hour. At one point, Franco tries to locate his mother in the audience and can’t spot her, making it all the more awkward when Hathaway lays eyes on her own mom in one second. Capping off the random nods to their own family is a yikes-worthy interaction between Franco and Mark Wahlberg—two less-than-lovable modern examples of Hollywood’s reluctance to leave its problematic figures in the past.
Franco and Hathaway ended their introduction to the show with a convoluted joke about the prevalence of lesbians in 2010 cinema (“Toy Story 3, where’s the dad?”) that was so unfunny, it couldn’t even be considered marginally offensive. What followed was a night blurred by bizarro costume choices and dead-on-arrival punchlines that, years later, have had Hathaway and Franco deemed as the worst Oscar hosts ever.
But like me, refusing to hang my head in shame in the halls of my high school the next day, the hosts have taken their chiding in stride. Well, at least Hathaway has. “We sucked,” she brazenly told Andy Cohen last year. Still, is there any better revenge than collecting a statue for Best Actress two years later, like Hathaway did for Les Misérables in 2013? No amount of shudder-inducing bad jokes can take away the sweet sensation of getting to rub your success in everyone’s face.
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