There is a common complaint among film buffs that cinema, dominated by superhero fantasies and blockbuster franchises, isn’t what it used to be. They look back misty-eyed to the 1940s heyday of the studio system or to the 1970s rise of the counterculture auteurs as celluloid golden ages that are destined never to be repeated.
It is, then, a rebuke to the naysayers that the 97th Academy Awards boasts a full array of compelling genres: steamy melodrama, political conspiracy thriller, science-fiction action and disaster epic.
The only problem is that these descriptions refer not to the competing films but to the ceremony itself, which promises to rival the memorable controversies previously enacted by a profession whose deepest fear is losing the attention of the public.
The Native American activist Sacheen Littlefeather’s 1973 speech after collecting Marlon Brando’s Oscar for The Godfather, and Will Smith’s slapping of host Chris Rock three years ago are enshrined in history as triumphs of disorder over stage management. The signs are that the event on Sunday at the Dolby Theatre in Hollywood may produce scene-stealing of a similar lasting nature.
There’s enough going on in the best actress category alone to suggest that it would be a major disappointment if the competition passed without embarrassing incident.
Consider Karla Sofía Gascón, who was well placed to exploit the sentimental and novelty votes as the first out trans woman to be nominated in the category for her role in Emilia Pérez.
That was until old social media comments emerged in which she derided the prominence of ethnic minority actors at the 2021 Oscars. She was duly dropped from the film’s promotion, leaving her about as likely to make the podium as Smith is to be placed in charge of security.
Not that her fellow nominee Fernanda Torres will be packing her winner’s speech with any more confidence. The star of I’m Still Here had to issue a self-excoriating mea culpa when a 17-year-old clip from a Brazilian comedy show in which she wore blackface just happened to surface during the awards season.
And before Mikey Madison, star of Anora, rushes the stage to bag the vacant award, it should be recalled that she was the subject of another rumpus after admitting that she didn’t use an intimacy coach in her sex scenes with co-star Mark Eydelshteyn.
Throw in the stink around the best film nominee The Brutalist for its use of AI on best actor nominee Adrien Brody’s Hungarian accent, and that many feel that a celebration of overpaid actors is not what Los Angeles should be hosting in the wake of its devastating fires, and there are the necessary preconditions for a long night of toe-curling viewing.
All of which adds up to an ideal way to mark this juncture in our history. For Hollywood’s highest calling is its role as the world’s dream factory.
If the films it produces fail to capture the imagination, then it should at least provide by way of distraction from a collapsing world order an evening of exquisite discomfort.
When military spending goes up and global aid goes down, it’s time to focus on the important things in life: ancient tweets, bad comedy clips and the bedside choreography of a promising young actress.
Yes, there are wars and tariffs and existential threats aplenty. But this is an occasion to dispense with earthly worries and to cherish the performances of the lavishly entitled dressed up in freebie designer costumes and emoting virtuous sensitivity to the watching world. Hooray for Hollywood!
