Wasn’t I supposed to write something about the Oscars?

Yeah, I think so. Whoops. That’s what you do when you tend to like movies and stuff.

Except, wait. The Oscars totally sucked this year, not quite as much as last year but enough to merit me not actually feeling bad about writing about it until now, nearly three weeks later. What a waste of three hours.

Shit, I remember when I used to love watching the Oscars. It was all dreamy and exciting and the dresses were pretty and the suits were sharp and the movies were magical and the stars glowed, or at least they did to me. Not that all of those things aren’t true now. There are still gorgeous threads and great films and massive talents out there, it’s just that the stupid spectacle of the Oscars is completely irrelevant now. Some of the films nominated aren’t even worth anything to society; while The Artist was actually the most deserving Best Picture winner in awhile (save for The Hurt Locker, too), no one will be talking about War Horse in 50 years. It’s a complete crapshoot, and by crapshoot, I mean that if you’re Meryl Streep or a period piece, you will be nominated and you will clean up.

You’re probably expecting me to go off on some rant now about how Meryl Streep has won too much and about how Bridesmaids should have won more. Sike! Meryl Streep has only won 3 out of 17 times. That’s actually a horrible percentage, considering how fucking great she is. I think she deserves many more Oscars than she owns, but I don’t think The Iron Lady was necessarily her masterpiece. I’m sure it was good, but I didn’t see it; between it, J. Edgar, and My Week With Marilyn, this was definitely the year of the un-enticing biopic. I didn’t see The Help either, but it looked like it should have been Viola Davis’ moment.

Onto Bridesmaids. Yeah, I guess I was rooting for Annie Mumolo and Kristen Wiig to win for Best Original Screenplay, and yeah, I thought it was lame that Woody Allen didn’t even show up to claim his prize. But the fact that Other Groundlings, a.k.a. Jim Rash and Nat Faxon, won for Best Adapted Screenplay is pretty spectacular, too. Funny people are creepin’ in on Oscar, and it might be the only shot we have at making this thing relevant again. Because Billy Crystal certainly was not funny.

He’s so old. And plasticy. And hammy. I want to like him, and I did at one point, but he’s so far past his comedy expiration date that it’s just sad now. Jon Stewart would have made this whole situation way less painful, and the entire world knows it. Between the Oscars host and the Super Bowl halftime show, it appears that network television has absolutely no actual interest in its viewers.

So why do I watch? I don’t even know anymore. I suppose there are still little moments of victory, like when Christopher Plummer won for Beginnings, or when Will Ferrell and Zach Galifianakis played cymbals in white tuxedos, or when Melissa McCarthy resurrected the leg scene from Bridesmaids, or when Jean Dudjardin became the Most Attractive French Person Ever when he won, or when Whitney Houston’s face came up in the In Memoriam compilation and I teared up. The movies are still magic, it’s just that celebrity isn’t anymore. The Oscars celebrate celebrity more than art. As long as we can separate the two, and accept the aging awards show for what it isn’t, we can still have fun at the movies. Just try to forget about how lame all the other stuff is.