I have never, ever tired of the Oscars. Even when the show crawls past midnight, I never turn the TV off.
Even as a kid, when I had no clue who the nominees for Best Supporting Actor were, I’d root for the guy, who when the camera panned his face, seemed humbled by the nomination.
Even when my father bitched that the only movies to ever win Oscars were boring ones he’d never seen, I’d righteously back the Academy’s choices. Even as a 12-year-old.
Even when I went to school the next morning gibbering on about animated short films no one in my rural high school gave two shits about, I never scoffed at the Oscars.
I was insanely jealous of the actresses. Their dresses. Their bodies. Their skin. Their grace. Their effusive speeches. I wanted their talent. Their dates. Their doe eyes and bee-stung lips. I was fascinated by the way they tiptoed to the podium and clutched their golden barbells like freedom fighters in silk Valentino, forging forward in battle.
I realize the awards themselves are mostly overblown. In the scheme of sobering world affairs, actors congratulating actors seems almost bombastic. Yet I’m swept away by the industry’s enthusiasm, even when Roberto Benigni clownishly accepts a Best Actor award and I can only understand two words of his speech.