I love the Oscars. I love the predictions, the ballots and the “May I have the envelope, please?” I love seeing who brought his mother—Clint Eastwood—and who brought his terribly young, terribly attractive date—Ian McKellen. For one night only, I love Joan Rivers. Every year, I am in front of the television when the countdown begins and the only one still excited when the Best Picture is named four hours later.
The montages are what I love most, though, when Jon Stewart is done making jokes about dicks and about Dick, and he, or Billy or Whoopi or Ellen, soberly retreats from the podium as the lights dim. The piece might honor those who have passed away in the previous year, or the recipient of the night’s Honorary Award, or simply some grand theme in moviemaking, like last year’s clips from epic films.
Few would accuse the Academy of hurrying to let go of the past. Its reputation as an institution based in tradition has been carefully cultivated; the list of invited, voting members is kept secret and the gold-plated statuette has remained unchanged. The outlandish, relatively young hosts appear in stark contrast to the almost invariably old, white, male presidents of the Academy. Seemingly, only the most serious of films receive consideration, and only a handful of Best Picture nominees have been in a language other than English (Life is Beautiful, for instance).
While I have my concerns about the Academy’s conservatism, there remains a commitment that I respect to honor what has been and to preserve history. Watching these annual montages, we are caught in a time warp, as our entertainment is mixed with nostalgia for a golden age of film that perhaps exists only in our imagination. Humphrey Bogart kisses Lauren Bacall in a dark corner. Marilyn’s white halter dress blows up, and our eyes dart between a flash of leg and a bright smile. The camera caught these moments long ago, and the Oscars give us the opportunity to replay them.
The studios lobby to have their films nominated and chosen for Oscars for the short-term fame and profit, but also for long-term glory. Best Picture choices—Casablanca, The Godfather, The Silence of the Lambs—tend to linger in the Western consciousness as cultural icons.
I wonder, though, if the Academy’s noble purpose is ultimately a losing battle. Many of the actors featured in the “In Memoriam” piece each year were long ago taken for dead by the general public, their faces remembered only in black and white—or not at all. Two-time Best Actor winner Fredric March is only a vaguely familiar face. John Ford won Best Director four times, more than anyone else, but he and his films now seem overshadowed by bigger names. The Academy awarded several silent films at the Oscars’ inception, even as the release of the first talkie the year before, The Jazz Singer, effectively made them obsolete.
Today the Academy continues to honor its roots. Obscure actresses from those early silent films still appear side-by-side with the superstars of the last decades. The elderly faces of Hollywood command respect. Whether or not we know their names, or even the names of their movies, these people shaped the stories we tell about ourselves today. We can see Clark Gable’s cad reborn in Hugh Grant. The latent racism of white liberals addressed in 1967’s Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner? is just as evident in 2006’s Crash.
Fewer people watched the Oscars last year than almost ever before. Perhaps they feel disconnected from the world of the millionaires, from the ceremony and the snobbery. But I will be watching, if only for the montages.
