I lost my innocence to Forrest Gump. When the sweet but slight movie swept the 1994 Oscars–best picture, director, actor–the veil lifted. Even Tom Hanks, winning the award for the second year straight, looked almost embarrassed, which only underlined my late discovery.
Apparently the Academy Awards have little to do with the actual films.
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Oh. You probably already were well aware of it, but until that year, silly me, I was halfway serious about the whole affair. I thought the best actors and movies actually won. Once the skepticism kicked in, however, everything did seem a little suspicious. The ad campaigns in the newspaper, the momentum behind certain nominations, the fact that competent but uninspiring movies walked away with the top prize.
This year, the marketing blitzkrieg was toned down (with the exception this month of “House of Sand and Fog” producers promoting Shohreh Aghdashloo’s performance by specifically urging people to vote against Renee Zellweger for “Cold Mountain”). But it still comes off like a high school popularity contest. How appropriate that in an interview Tuesday, Julianne Moore called it “the biggest prom in the world.”
This time the cool kids likely will end up recognizing at least one bad boy outsider. Bill Murray and Sean Penn, both favorites to win best actor, reportedly keep a safe distance from Hollywood types. Neither is exactly Mr. Congeniality.
But just because the Oscars are a farce, a sham and a three-hour ad for the American movie industry, doesn’t mean I don’t watch the telecast. There’s still a lot to love:
– What’s an Oscar party with out some choice zingers? Dish or die. After my rude awakening, a.k.a. “Forrest Gump,” I stepped into the realm of ridicule–and never looked back.
– There’s nothing like designer couture and Harry Winston ice to bring me out of my post-“Sex and the City” fashion funk. They’ll be gaffes, too–no one has forgiven Bjork for her feathers, I think–but that’s just fodder. See above.
– Plastic surgery is just a modern marvel. Hopefully Melissa Rivers will have skipped a Botox session or two. Lately, the E! host looks like a ventriloquist who can’t speak for herself either.
– Maybe we’ll see some razzle-dazzle to boost TV ratings? The Oscars pulled in only 33.1 million viewers last year, down from 55 million people in 1998, a peak year.
The evening will be entertaining, but here’s what I don’t expect:
– Live TV. In the new world of nipple rings and jittery network executives, the 76th Academy Awards will be broadcast on a 5-second delay.
– Only one Janet Jackson joke. Nah, too rich. With all the guaranteed cleavage on stage, it’s sure to be a free-for-all.
– A concise speech. Obvious, yes, but it always puzzles me. Between the personal trainers, dietitians, stylists, language coaches and acting teachers, a starlet can’t afford a speechwriter?
– Adrien Brody sweeping up 13-year-old Keisha Castle-Hughes in a dramatic movie kiss if she wins best actress. The FCC might just keel over for good.
To be honest, I’m not entirely clear why I block off three hours of my life for a show that’s mostly filler. I haven’t seen all the films. I have no plans to become an actor. The kid who pinned up pictures torn from movie magazines? Not me.
It’s probably because as calculated as the whole Oscar night seems, there’s that slim chance the underdog nomination (Murray!) will upset the favored choice (Penn!). Or that someone will make a memorable speech. The lure of a surprise pulls me back after each commercial. Even though it’s really all a big tease, I won’t remember that until the show is over. When I’ll forget until next year.
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