DONALD CLARKEon the miserable business of the Oscars"
IS THERE ANY other event that is, in these territories, so much discussed and so little watched as the Academy Awards?
Nutcases such as Screen Writer cause whole forests to be eaten up as they speculate on the nominees, dresses and potential sources of embarrassment. Then, come the night, 95 per cent of the population go to bed before the ghastly business has even started. Imagine if virtually every football fan only ever watched the World Cup final as edited highlights.
The hardcore movie fans and professional pundits screw themselves into the couch for another episode of their favourite soap opera: The Continuing Triumph of Hope Over Experience. The jokes are rarely that funny. Sometimes, as was the case with last year's Hathaway'n'Franco fiasco, they are so poor that nearby houseplants die and the saliva turns septic in your mouth.
Having perused the lunatic nominations, you already know there is no chance of the best film winning. Somehow or other, that Nepalese drama about the widowed yak herder has been overlooked for some lachrymose epic in which Tom Hanks teaches a disabled boy to play basketball. Once again, geniuses such as David Cronenberg stay home while Stephen Daldry continues to ride an inexplicable wave of acclaim.
Shall we mention, yet again, that neither Alfred Hitchcock nor Stanley Kubrick ever won an Oscar for best director? Oh, let’s. It’s not as if we don’t enjoy complaining about this stuff.
In the past, you could, at least, have some fun with your Oscar sweepstake. Pricewaterhouse, the firm that oversees the voting, is famously tight-lipped. In recent years, however, two factors have contrived to extract any lingering tension from the ceremony.
The rise of digital media means that any interested punter can become a distinguished Oscarologist in minutes. A thousand “experts” are tweeting. Another thousand “informed insiders” write confident blogs.
Awards season, once a few scattered events occupying space between the Oscars and the Golden Globes, now begins at some point in October. By the time the big ceremony comes along, film fans will be as certain of most results as they are of their own shoe size.
So why the hell will Screen Writer be watching on Sunday? The trivial answer is that he is required, in jolly quick time, to deliver a collection of facetious remarks for a certain newspaper. But let’s be honest. I’d watch this twaddle anyway. The Oscars are, for we enthusiasts, like family Christmases: it’s a miserable business, but it adds structure to the year.
Besides, not everything has been decided. Barring some sort of calamity, The Artistwill win best picture. Christopher Plummer and Octavia Spencer, nominated in the best supporting races, should begin clearing space on their mantelpieces. But the best actor and best actress competitions are not entirely sewn up. Meryl Streep could regain ground and catch up with Viola Davis. It's fairly even pegging between George Clooney and Jean Dujardin.
Oh, no, I’ve just got myself all excited again. Hope over experience.
