And The Oscar Goes to…Hell.

Within about ninety minutes of the publication of this piece, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will begin present its fabled Oscars, with untold billions of people watching throughout this beautiful blue-green ball. Thirty of these ceremonies have taken place since my birth in 1978, at least nine more than I have ever watched. I have never elucidated the many, many reasons I have not watched the Oscars in their entirety since 2001, when Michael Douglas told the world that Gladiator was Best Picture for 2000; I’ve never had a forum to do so until now. Now, up to a point, the Oscars are useful bellwethers for which to measure excellence and to win one is to set you up for life. But…

I am sick to death of hearing about the Vera Wang dresses, the jewels borrowed—borrowed—from the estate of Harry Winston, the Armani tuxedoes and the Prada shoes as though it mattered who wears them. Because some talentless twenty-five-year old starlet wears a purple strapless number that accentuates the marvelous job her plastic surgeon did is no reason to want to buy the dress for yourself; in the first place, the odds are you can’t afford it.

I’m just a little tired of the fake smiles plastered on the faces of the people who lose the Oscar, as though they’re very happy for the person who won. The minute one or other of the also-rans decks the winner in their category with a crowbar, I’ll watch the Oscars again.

I never, ever, ever want to watch another production number based on the nominees for Best Original Song. What gives here? Are we giving out awards, or what? No need to break into song and dance after the latest film clip package; the goddamn show is long enough already, and besides, Wolfgang’s Governor’s Ball dinner is getting cold. No one likes cold caviar, as anyone who can afford to have it will tell you.

That’s another thing; the film clip packages. Too long, too many. Overindulgence here. Good economic times or bad, the Academy has a wonderful time with its excesses. Lord knows we don’t need that fact rubbed in our face, particularly not now.

By the way, when is that ridiculous phrase, “And the Oscar goes to…” going to be discarded? They’ve been making the poor presenters say that for twenty years now. Nobody gives you an Oscar; you have to win one. Why do you think that when your grandmother was in diapers, they were saying, “And the winner is…”? For their health? Try saying it with me once: “And the winner is…”? See? Doesn’t hurt, does it? Oh, but at the Academy, we’re not about hurting other people’s feelings, are we? We just break hearts.

Maybe we should have a little fun at the Oscars. Maybe the host should walk out to the applause and during his opening monologue, start smoking a spliff. Maybe the Oscars should be covered like a news event, which it is, in a way; it’d be neat to have a text scroll informing who’s won and lost. Or how about taking it like a sports telecast? That’d be way cool—wouldn’t you just like to hear Vin Scully or Marv Albert describing the ceremonies, or have the cable-cam that you see at football games hovering over the audience? Here’s one of my better ideas: only one presenter, as it was for the first ceremony back in 1928. The show would be much shorter, the kids would be in bed sooner and Spago’s and Chasen’s might actually close at a reasonable hour. But that presenter had better be one of distinction. Nicholson, De Niro, Streep, Pacino, Hopkins, Keaton, Mirren; the list is shortening with the passage of time.

Hopefully someone in the Academy will read this and think, “Gee, he’s right. Maybe we should try some of this stuff.” Until then, I have found that the best way to criticize a long, boring, indulgent and masturbatory show about movies is to watch a movie. Last year, it was Gandhi. In prior years, over the Oscars, I’ve seen Apocalypse Now, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and other epics. Tonight, in view of my newfound affinity for foreign films, it’s Les Enfants du Paradis. And you know something? I didn’t even need to rent a single item I was wearing.