OSCAR

I started “predicting” the Academy Awards back in 1976. A smug barely fourteen-year-old kid thought he could have a go at the top six categories. I honestly don’t recall who I picked but I’m sure I didn’t have Beatrice Straight on my scorecard for Best Supporting Actress.

The following year, in advance of the Fiftieth Anniversary, I sent a well-organized suggestion for a special to be held over five evenings, with each decade encompassing an evening. I went so far as to type up (and highlight with colored markers) the main categories, just in case they needed a reminder. I received a polite response indicating that something of the ilk was being planned. The letter came on the official letterhead of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, complete with an embossed gold Oscar. I still have it, somewhere, and treasure it, as much for my brash audacity as for the courteousness of the response.

I’ve only missed watching the show once since then. Although there was 2016 when I recorded the show via DVR on my satellite service, the show ran long, and by the time I figured out what was happening, it was too late to watch “Spotlight” take the top prize in an upset.

For the past several years, I have given up predicting. It took away from my focus of watching the show, enjoying the gathered film professionals, and fantasizing. Yes, I have long since dreamt of winning an Oscar. When I went to the University of Miami to study film-making, the fantasy was stoked beyond all imagination. My acceptance speech has changed dramatically. But, as of the last 29 years, the reference to my wife has been a centerpiece.

I marvel at all the discussions that take place about the show, its relevance in an evolving technological world where the movie experience has changed completely. Comments regarding who won, who didn’t win, who didn’t get nominated, all sound as though they are significant adjuncts to life itself. In the same breath, those commentators will reference the lack of significance these awards have. It seems to me if that were the case, all of the hoopla about the winners would be meaningless.

I couldn’t agree more.

The awards and the private foundation that supports it were never meant to be anything other than a sales and marketing tool. From a simple banquet to an event broadcast on the radio, and finally capturing a worldwide audience, it is a very long commercial for the producers of the film industry to declare “See, we have a wonderful product.”

I heard Vanessa Redgrave’s comments upon accepting her Best Supporting Actress Award for “Julia” and snickered at Paddy Chayefsky’s retort. Anyone could feel the shrieks when Jack Nicholson announced “Crash” had won Best Picture over “Brokeback Mountain”, not to mention his eye gesture as well. We had years when no one of color was nominated in the acting categories and the ongoing discussions about women directors. We have applied all manner of social commentary to a show that is the presentation of awards by a private foundation where the only relevance is held within its own walls.

I tune out all the chatter and that’s only because I am still holding on to my dream. That’s what allows me to watch while my head swims in an almost delusional grandeur. But I’m almost 62, have only published a handful of books, and don’t have many connections to the film industry while living in Wichita, Kansas. Yet, James Ivory was 89 when he won the Best Adapted Screenplay award for “Call Me By Your Name” and Woody Allen was 76 when he won the Best Original Screenplay award for “Midnight in Paris.”

I still have time.