By: Michael O'Mahony
You have free reign with the column, they said. Anything you want to send that fits is good.
Ah, that fits. I see what you did there. Epic poetry is probably out. Keep it topical, fast moving, relevant. Write about something meaningful, something people will respond to, something you feel strongly about, like a band or a movie or a cause or…an event.
Yes. You see, it’s that time again. Awards season has come around like the limp climax to another year of frenzied Hollywood masturbation and I have seen exactly six of the fifty films nominated for Oscars, a couple of them sneaking in via categories as prestigious as Achievement In Sound Editing and Achievement In Sound Mixing. And yes, those are separate awards, with different films nominated for each. Iron Man, for example, was notable for its sound editing, but not so much for the mix, where it was beaten to the nomination by The Curious Case Of Benjamin Button for reasons I will never understand or care about.
As for the main awards, I’ve always felt that the winner gets to take home the statue based on factors other than how well they acted or how good their movie actually was. You can see Mickey Rourke waltzing off with Best Actor because he’s been Out In The Wilderness for so long, Heath Ledger taking Best Supporting Actor because in a world where being gay or black or disabled routinely means being patronized with a little gold statue, being dead beats all, and Slumdog Millionaire winning best picture because those funny little foreigners and their funny little films - well - it just never gets old, does it? They’re so cute.
The Oscars are basically meaningless little insider shills that wrap up a year in the industry in a nice, shiny package that reminds us what a warm and fuzzy place Hollywood is, where underdogs always win and everyone has a shot at recognition. What this fails to acknowledge is that neither The Dark Knight nor The Wrestler are spectacular achievements in the field, and had anybody else played those roles with an equal amount of vim and vigor, they would not have been nominated for an Oscar. And never mind that you could make a pretty good case for the industry bearing a degree of responsibility for both Ledger’s death and that of Rourke’s career.
And then there’s the cost.
What bothers me more than anything else is the expense. You routinely hear about the amount of money spent on tanks and guns and missiles and planes and military technology of all shapes and sizes, but never about the cost of all the faux-sincere backslapping ceremonies that roll around at this time of year. Sure, hearing that the Oscars as a show costs around $30 million might raise an eyebrow or two, but take a step further back and look at, say, the dresses, jewelry, and make-up. Last year, for example, there was mild controversy over Juno screenwriter Diablo Cody’s last minute refusal to wear a pair of shoes designed by Stuart Weitzman for the ceremony. The cost of the footwear in question? $2.5 million.
A pair of shoes.
Extreme, for sure, but not isolated. Recent Oscar history is full of tales of million dollar dresses and jewelry, of designers and stylists hired at exorbitant rates just to make that one actor stand out in the crowd. I find myself wondering what the real cost of The Oscars (and The Golden Globes, The Grammys, The BAFTAs, et al.) actually is. Something grotesque, I bet. A figure so bloated as to be almost unimaginable. And all in the name of an Anne Hathaway looking her best for the cameras.
Call me naïve, but I thought we were in The Worst Economic Crisis Since The Great Depression. Aren’t people losing their homes and their jobs and their livelihoods? Never fear, America, Mickey Rourke is coming in from the cold and Jessica Alba’s post-pregnancy body looks divine.
All is well.