The Academy Awards are just around the corner, and we will watch them—hopefully this year’s show will be a good one. Truth be told, it rarely is, but they can feature some special moments: deeply moving speeches (usually these involve tributes to mentors and inspirations, as opposed to agents and children), incidents of genuine spontaneity (like when this speech by Bert Schneider totally freaked out Bob Hope and Frank Sinatra), and occasional flashes of brilliance (David Niven and the streaker anybody?) Our faithfulness to the ritual is such that we used to have a big party on Oscar night—but that was a long time ago, in a neighborhood far, far away. As a sentimental remnant of those good old days, we still spend the evening feasting on sushi and overseeing a small pool where friends make their predictions of the winners, with enormous bragging rights at stake.
Still – you knew there was going to be a still, didn’t you? – let’s take a moment to put some of this in context. First of all, we now have something called “awards season.” And just as the rent is too damn high, there are too many damn awards shows. Way too many. It has become undignified – the word is carefully chosen – how much time each year wealthy, famous, beautiful, accomplished people spend showering each other with accolades in front of televised audiences. This problem extends to a large, abetting, almost famous media community, who fill screens and copy by talking too much about awards and stars—at times trading flattery for access.
To be clear, there is nothing wrong with recognizing excellence and achievement. We especially like festivals, which show a bunch of movies and commonly conclude with a small, idiosyncratic jury singling out some participants for praise. Often this can call attention to artists and films that might otherwise get less notice. Announcements of prizes from critic’s circles also hold a certain interest (those folks see a ton of movies as a vocation, and think a lot about them). And nominations – at least when they are determined by peers-within-specialization – those are a real honor. Yes, the nomination is the award—we really mean that. Which is why winners with class always acknowledge their fellow nominees.
Most awards shows, then, should be quietly retired. But not the Academy Awards. They are of interest. Not because they choose “the best”—really, that is a ridiculous concept. “Best actor”? What do you even mean by that? (Roger Ebert once said the only way to judge “best actor” is to have five performers play the same role—and even then it could be iffy.) George C. Scott famously renounced both his Academy Award nomination for The Hustler and his win for Patton, and, like anybody who is too cool for school, he did not show up to collect his statuette—perhaps he was too busy playing bridge with legendary conscientious objectors Woody Allen, Katherine Hepburn, and John Gielgud (who “detested” such “invidious comparisons”). Scott derided the event as “a two-hour meat parade, a public display with contrived suspense for economic reasons.” Which is wrong—it’s more like three hours.
But he was right to understand that the annual ceremony is a promotional convention showcasing a commercial product, like an auto show, or the quadrennial festivities of our political parties. Yet, therein lies one of the two things that make the Academy Awards essential. They don’t tell us what is “the best,” but they do illustrate how the industry envisions its own image, and, even more tantalizing, at certain moments can tell us something about the broader culture. When The Best Years of Our Lives swept the Awards in 1947, it reflected a palpable social-cultural anxiety about the uncertainties of returning to “normal life” after World War II. (Just as Parasite, in our minority view, is more Zeitgeist-y than great.) Similarly, when Midnight Cowboy won best picture – something that would have been previously unthinkable – it made clear that things had changed in America. (And when Rocky took home that title seven years later, over Network and Taxi Driver, it suggested things were changing back.)
Second, it is also enormous fun – if utterly ridiculous – to root for your favorites. This year, for example, we were particularly impressed with and deeply moved by the performances of Joe Pesci in The Irishman and Antonio Banderas in Pain and Glory. They are highly unlikely to win—but if either did, we’d be delighted. That is a very strange thing. What does it matter? Studios run aggressive campaigns to win awards, engaging in battles that can be sharp elbowed and mean spirited, because winning the big prize can boost profits and burnish egos. But we don’t have a financial stake in either film, and Pesci and Banderas are rank strangers to us. Yet that feeling of delight when a preferred nominee wins can be powerful—perhaps that’s the magic of the movies. I didn’t cheer when my favorite beverage was named “wine of the year” a few months back. But in 2018 I told all my friends to pay close attention to the “best documentary feature” segment of the show (I suspected some might take the occasion to freshen their drinks), because, I explained, Agnes Varda was definitely going to win, and when she walked down that aisle, she would be the very embodiment of sixty-five glorious years of film history. She would then give a great speech, and I was prepared to cry. As it turned out, she didn’t win, and I recall being disappointed, even crestfallen.
Varda left us last year, at age ninety. What became of the dozens of prestigious awards she did win over the course of her illustrious career, I have no idea. But her films are still with us.
George C. Scott is not interested in Academy Awards