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Last year's big winner, "Life Is Beautiful," was the exception that proved the rule; it broke Oscar's comedic moratorium by creating that unique genre, the Holocaust yukfest. Had Roberto Benigni never made the bold decision to perform his pratfalls within the Auschwitz gates, we would surely have missed the opportunity to observe his Oscar-night impersonation of a deranged puppy.

Like others before me, I sneered at the cheesy awards routine until I was nominated for one. Was I thrilled? I was Sally Field squared. Now, I confess, I wait for magazine nomination season (in Canada, spring). I wish I didn't care, and I admire those who genuinely don't. But, well, maybe it's a Canuck thing -- I'm more the Jim Carrey type.

(Think about this for a moment: First the ballots went missing, then the Oscar statuettes themselves. Police claim to have found the culprits, but surely the mastermind is still at large. At this very moment Carrey is probably ambushing Billy Crystal and stuffing him into the trunk of a black sedan. Sunday night in the Dorothy Chandler Dungeon, located somewhere beneath Carrey's garage, a private little Oscar ceremony will be held: "And the Oscar for best overdubbing in a foreign film goes to -- why, Jim Carrey again! That's 18 straight! Ha, ha, fantastic! Can I have some water and a biscuit now, Jim?")

The tacky appeal of the Oscars seems impervious to changing tastes, but not every glitzy ritual has retained its popularity. A quick glance around the auditorium at the 66th annual Miss Vancouver soiree leaves the impression that heavy security has screened out all but close friends and immediate family. Pageantry, it appears, has become box-office poison. But hey, to each his own.

In the midst of that sad, patchy little audience, I'm perched on seat's edge. Come on, No. 6! Baby needs a new pair of shoes!
salon.com | March 25, 2000

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