Although the producers of the Academy Awards ceremony like to boast that a billion people watch their broadcast, I take comfort in knowing that another 5 billion do not. Out of respect for this majority, I have held back in the past from discussing the Oscar nominations, apart from an occasional reminder about how the awards were launched. (Louis B. Mayer and his fellow studio heads formed the academy as a sweetheart union, in a bid to keep Hollywood a company town. Then, to dress up their bogus union, they gave it a bogus mission of improving the “artistic quality” of motion pictures, a goal that was to be achieved by the studios’ handing each other awards.) Artistic quality has since then come and gone, sometimes remarked upon by the academy voters but very often not–a truth that is surely recognized even by the recalcitrant, self-anesthetized billion. Most people today admit they watch the Oscars only to marvel at the tackiness of the women’s outfits and chortle at Bruce Vilanch’s script–or perhaps it’s the other way around. No matter–“best” hardly figures into the experience, even for moviegoers too lazy to search out the better.
So why do I now break silence, to comment on the recent nominations? One reason, of course, is the announcement that an honorary Oscar will be given to Elia Kazan, for the achievements of his entire lifetime. (You didn’t think I’d keep quiet about that, did you?) But the main reason has to do with the widening chasm between the function of the broadcast and the character of the nominees. Although the Oscar show is the single biggest promotion the American studios mount for themselves, the nominators this year have cast the gloomiest disrepute on Hollywood since Braveheart was named best picture and Mel Gibson best director. What’s remarkable, to me, is that the industry should have performed this act of self-abasement after a relatively strong year for studio releases, when a measure of self-congratulation might have been more appropriate.
The refusal of the Oscar voters to recognize home-grown merit is perhaps most striking in the best actress category, in which three of the nominees are foreign performers appearing in foreign films: Cate Blanchett in Elizabeth, Fernanda Montenegro in Central Station and Emily Watson in Hilary and Jackie. I do not, of course, object to foreign talent’s being recognized; on occasion, this column does its own modest bit toward promoting filmmakers whose names include strings of consonants. Nor do I mean at this time to question the worthiness of the nominees–although Blanchett did give the impression in Elizabeth of being moved around like a Muppet. I merely wish to point out that a brashly trumpeting Hollywood might have noticed a few American actresses other than Gwyneth Paltrow in Shakespeare in Love (well, at least she looked good) and Meryl Streep in One True Thing.
Maybe this is the moment to reveal that I, too, belong to an award-giving organization, the New York Film Critics Circle, which this year, to my intense pride, named Cameron Diaz best actress for her performance in There’s Something About Mary. Not that she was my first choice. I would have preferred to see an award go to Ally Sheedy for High Art or Renee Zellweger for A Price Above Rubies. But if you grant equal status to dramatic and comic performances (the latter being as difficult as the former, with the added challenge of having to seem wholly effortless)–and if you admit that There’s Something About Mary might have seemed spiteful without her stain-resistant grace–then why shouldn’t Diaz get an award? She looked good; she fully inhabited the character while somehow rising above her; and she was unambiguously, unabashedly American.