It was not two weeks ago that I got up on my soapbox and said that we shouldn’t judge. Oh, what a hypocrite I am today.
I suppose, as is the case with many rules, there is an exception to this one. I was right; we shouldn’t judge… each other. (Sure, celebrities are people too. And Jennifer Garner shouldn’t be subjected to the castigating daggers of Perez Hilton and other blights on humanity every time she wants to take her little girls to the playground. (Luckily for her she has stunning bone structure.)) But the exception clause to the “don’t judge” rule most certainly applies to that once-a-year judge-fest that we like to call The Oscars.
Like the willowy celebs themselves, my position stands on two legs.
First, the whole event is about judgment. Scores of people voted on which movie, actor, actress, director, sound editor, best boy grip, and craft services vendor was THE BEST. So it’s not like they’ve gathered together for a group hug and Honorable Mention trophies. There are winners and losers on Oscar night. The participants are prepared for this.
Secondly, they’re prepared for this. There are days when celebrities try to masquerade as normal people, and this is not one of them. This isn’t grabbing lunch with a girlfriend or coffee after yoga class. This isn’t picking kids up from school, clothes up from the drycleaner, or the dog up from the groomer. Not to put too fine a point on it, but this is the single biggest red carpet event in the world. Basically what I’m saying here is: these people know exactly what they’re walking into.
They know full well that Joan Rivers, Steven Cojocaru, Giuliana Rancic, and the incomparable (I kid!) Billy Bush will harpoon their every sartorial misstep over glasses of bubbly the next day (while secretly toasting a society that cares enough about this stuff to permit their making a living by doing what amounts to a cross between prom-night gossip and Monday-morning quarterbacking). The celebs know this is coming. They’re ready. They’re armored in Vera Wang, Harry Winston, and Christian Louboutin. They’ve brought their A game. (Unless, of course, they’re Bjork.)
And this is why on Oscar night I quite shamelessly take the low road. Like my sister, I take superficial pleasure in Oscar night. I comment on whose attempt at reinterpreting “flapper chic” works, and whose doesn’t; whose cleavage is perfect and whose is gratuitous; who achieves something altogether otherworldly, and who looks like a hot mess. I make note of which acceptance speeches are witty or touching, and which are self-serving and filled with drivel. And most importantly, I place about 378 phone calls to my sister so that we can emulate the banter we shared as teenagers, huddled up with popcorn in the den of our childhood home.
I will concede that Oscar night doesn’t necessarily bring out the best in me. Quite frankly, my time could be better spent. I could read thought-provoking literature or engage in challenging conversation. But as Aidan so aptly pointed out earlier this week, we need some time in the shallow end of the pool. We need the freedom to cast aside our fractured thoughts and pondering questions. We need the silly and the playful as an antidote to the serious and the solemn.
For me the Oscars are one such antidote, and I’m waiting eagerly for their red carpet arrival this weekend.
Like these guys, one so much larger and the other so much smaller than I, and yet we all fit together perfectly.
Like this rainbow, which glistened in the sky after buckets of rain fell on us one evening last week.
Like these ever-shedding dogs, whose kisses are sloppy, whose smiles are genuine, and whose love is unconditional.
And like this tiny blond curl, which bends up over the edge of his perky red cap and makes me melt just a little bit.
