This year for the first time in recent memory, I decided to skip the Oscars. For some time now I’ve been put off by the combination of garish, overpriced spectacle and awards for movies I haven’t seen and probably never will. We recorded the ceremony so we could fast-forward to the Parade o’ Dead People, and we ended up watching a small spot here and there on the way to the parade, but otherwise the whole show was a welcome absence.
Indeed, if the whole thing was as bad as the Parade, I’m sure it would have been unendurable agony. For the last couple of years, they’ve had famous folks sing sad songs during the clips from the careers of those who’ve passed on. I’m fine with that in theory, but in practice it causes problems. For some reason the directors of the broadcasts start with shots of the performers as the clips begin to roll. If I want to look at James Taylor, I’ll just wait until the next time PBS starts begging for money. Until then, I want to see the clips, not the singer. This year the error was particularly egregious, as we got a long shot of Taylor while the Patrick Swayze footage ran. Though I’m not the biggest Swayze fan in the universe, I still would have preferred at that point to have the screen turned over to those being honored rather than long, dark, empty shots of the awards venue.
Also, this year the clips were extremely short. I realize that a lot of famous people died during the last 365 or so, thus loving tributes to all of them wouldn’t have been possible. But at least some of these people genuinely deserved more than two of three seconds. If they needed more time in the broadcast, perhaps they could have trimmed a minute or two off the Best Makeup award intro, during which Ben Stiller came out in Avatar greasepaint and babbled on at length in Avatar-ese before observing that Avatar wasn’t even one of the nominees in the category.
Rather than squander an evening on the Oscars, we tried watching the Independent Spirit Awards instead. Oddly enough, they were even worse. Though of course it was nowhere near as garish a spectacle as the “big show,” at least the categories at the Oscars didn’t come with prominently identified corporate sponsors. It also featured a gaggle of big stars, the folks who like to slum in indie movies in order to reinforce – or in some cases desperately try to establish – their reputations as serious artists. That few of them were taking the tent event seriously was clearly demonstrated by the high levels of intoxication among many of the celebrants.
I found myself particularly disappointed in host Eddie Izzard, who was the reason I bothered to watch the damn thing to begin with. The man is one of the most brilliant people currently working in show business, but none of his usual wit was on display. Instead he led off by remarking that God doesn’t exist and then mumbled his way through a few more minutes of incoherent nonsense before finally yielding the stage to the first set of presenters. Nor did his sobriety or performance improve as the evening progressed.
As with the show’s cable venue, the Independent Film Channel, the whole thing made me wonder exactly what the word “independent” was supposed to mean. I’m prepared to ignore the awards sponsored by car companies and breweries. Money has to come from somewhere, and unlike the Oscars the major studios aren’t reaping the benefits or footing the bill. But if this crowd is any indication, the world of independent film production is just as cliquish and insular as mainstream Hollywood. “Independent” seems to be less a state of mind or economic classification and more of an aesthetic. Most movies on IFC are some combination of grainy, dark and dull, apparently the only qualifications required to be considered “indy.”
As such they’re just as out of touch with reality as Hollywood is. I can’t say that the revolution in 21st century film-making will not be televised. But by the look of things it won’t be running on IFC or picking up any Spirit awards.
No comments:
Post a Comment