Last night I gave up on the Oscar telecast and went to bed early to read. Why was an old novel plucked from the public domain more intriguing than I program I once insisted I be let out of the hospital early to see? I’ve turned that question over in my mind for years, and, judging from the bloated telecasts we’ve been seeing, so have the telecast’s creators.
All anyone has to do is look at last night’s program.
After years of hard and mostly thankless toiling, a person’s dream comes true. Last night that person was Spoiler Alert from the film Spoiler Alert. Overcome with emotion, she was helped to the stage where she trembled and fought tears as she tried desperately to find the words for this life experience. Unlike childbirth, weddings, funerals, job promotions and huge sales on designer name brand fashions, winning an Oscar is a truly
rare experience. It doesn’t happen to many people. The winning actress was still overcome with emotion and trying to express deep gratitude when the band played on. Christian Bale had to help her from the stage as she trembled and stepped gingerly away from the biggest moment in her career and perhaps her life.
There were a few more wins with aborted speeches scattered between movie montages, out of place skits, tired jokes and stilted banter. Then Cirque du Soleil was given a huge chunk of time for their schtick where people jumped over each other and twirled around on wires.
That right there is the problem.
We in the audience tune in for the Real. What is she wearing? Who is his date? What is it like to have every dream you ever dreamed turn sparklingly real at the opening of an envelope? That’s the best reality show in the world.
And they cut it off to show vaudeville shtick we could rent at Redbox.