Staff Reports
Ah, the Oscars—Hollywood’s annual pageant that once captured the rapt attention of Americans coast to coast, akin to the Super Bowl but with even more sparkly gowns and just a little less testosterone. But these days, the Oscars seem less like a celebration of cinematic storytelling and more like a pretentious parade of everything that makes Hollywood so relentlessly out of touch with the real world. One can’t help but chuckle at the grand irony of an industry obsessed with validation from fundamentally indifferent audiences. If the Academy were hosting a bash with actual partygoers, the RSVP list would be firmly stuck at a lonesome zero.
Take the latest nominees, for instance. A buffet of obscurity is laden with arcane films that, frankly, few have seen or likely will see—which might be a strategic move to keep us blissfully uninformed. The current focus appears to be on recognizing stories laden with despair, deviance, and dystopic dreams—cinematic escapism at its most curious. One nominee honors a plodding tale of an architect whose name was only noted in connection with an infamous act of vandalism from the 1970s. Evidently, this profound ode to architecture was deemed worthy of a nod, even if its actual audience could fit snugly in someone’s living room.
Then there’s the exploration into what Hollywood euphemistically refers to as “sex work.” Once known by a markedly less glamorous name, it’s now painted with the brush of empowerment. One has to admire such spin; it’s almost as creative as transforming a piece of spaghetti into a full-blown parody of the Mona Lisa. Meanwhile, a particular film about a transsexual drug lord seemingly achieved the cinematic equivalent of crickets at the box office. With an audience made up of merely a handful of brave souls, one wonders if any found a diamond in the rough or just walked away needing an aspirin.
Now, if you took a moment to think, “Perhaps this is just about celebrating innovative storytelling,” Hollywood would quickly correct you with something like, “Innovative, sure. But you just don’t get it.” Indeed, we likely do not. Because to get it, one would have to tumble down a rabbit hole of virtue signals and elaborate masquerades that can oftentimes feel about as genuine as a snowman in July. And yet, despite the audience’s collective shrug of indifference, the show delights in indulging itself in lavish self-congratulations—a stark contrast to the tumultuous personal lives often woven into its most celebrated stories.
What makes the Oscars truly endearing these days is the vibrant, albeit unintentional, comedy of human theater that unfolds outside the scripts and screens. Performative speeches and self-important diatribes on morality punctuate the ceremony, delivered with sincerity that’s slightly harder to swallow than a leftover fruitcake. All the while, producers and directors work tirelessly to outdo themselves in crafting tales that provoke, challenge or outright confuse. Alas, the American Midwest—known to harbor cooties according to some cultural elites—remains uninvited to this extravagant party; perhaps just as well given they’re unlikely to be impressed by its glitz or implications.
Hollywood pleads for love and attention wrapped in glitter and gold while spouting neoliberal platitudes and contemptuous witticisms about their perceived audience’s values. Perhaps someday, like so many things that have come and gone, it will recall that heartland heartbeat and rediscover stories that matter to more than just the select few. Until then, one is left to admire the spectacle—a smorgasbord of irony clad in couture.
