I say it year after year, but I think I'm finally done with the Oscars. I know, it'll never really happen. Not only because I write about movies professionally and the Academy Awards are a necessary part of this job but also for the same reason that I'll never quit messing with that scab on my arm or slowing down to stare at highway accidents. I may be a film cynic, but I'm also a film masochist, and some of why I keep watching the Oscars is just part of my addiction to the pain of being a cinephile in the 21st century.
Of course, it's also part of the tradition. Like all of you, I grew up an Oscar zealot. I tuned in annually as if it were a yearly religious event, like midnight mass at Christmas or something. And I can't pull on the perspective cloak or go back in time to determine if the ceremony has truly gotten worse or if I'm simply less tolerant of decisions made by both the Academy and the telecast's producers in my old age. But I will say this much: to me, at this moment in my life, I do believe the marginalization of the deceased who didn't receive a lengthy tribute as did John Hughes is far more despicable than Rob Lowe grinding with Snow White 21 years ago.