I didn’t watch the Oscar broadcast last night. I haven’t watched it in years, as the broadcast has gotten longer and longer and the speeches more self-congratulatory and tedious. I’m not alone in this — the Nielsen ratings for the Oscar awards ceremony have been falling for a number of years.
So, when I saw this morning that the Oscars, through Warren Beatty and Faye Dunaway, screwed up the announcement of the best picture in legendary, unforgettable fashion, I wondered: could this have been done to try to increase the ratings for the show?
After all, people like the possibility of surprises. Many Nascar fans go to races in hopes of an exciting crash or two, and lots of hockey fans yearn for a throw down the gloves fight. Reality TV shows are all about unexpected twists and turns that leave viewers talking. If the Oscars is just going to be a bunch of tuxedo-clad and ball gown-wearing stiffs reading cards from an envelope, it’s pretty staid stuff. But if there’s a chance that the announced winner turns out not to be the real winner, and there’s a big, confusing scrum onstage while things get sorted out, maybe people will start tuning in again.
It’s hard to imagine how the announcement of the winner for best picture could be so botched. I feel sorry for the people involved in making La La Land, who initially thought they had won, and I feel sorry that the people involved in making Moonlight, which I thought was a fine film, had their moment of triumph tainted by a foul-up. But maybe this colossal screw-up will make Hollywood a little less smug. That wouldn’t be a bad thing.
We’ve got a wedding in the family coming up later this year. Although the blessed event itself is still months in the future, the time for carefully analyzing and evaluating what dresses should be worn to the wedding and the rehearsal dinner apparently is . . . now!
I had no idea that quite so many websites featured dresses for the family members who are attending weddings. Dresses of every imaginable length, cut, and hemline. Dresses with jackets and without. Dresses that feature something mysteriously called a “bodice.” Sleeveless dresses, dresses with poofy shoulders, and dresses with curious slashes, like they’ve been attacked by Freddy Krueger. Dresses in every conceivable color of the rainbow, from azure to lilac, from saffron to magenta, from sea foam to garnet, with every subtle gradation and shade in between.
Never has fashion been the subject of such passion.
For the husband, there is no avoiding it. When I get home I’m going to be asked to choose between dress styles with subtle differences discernible only to Parisian designers. I’m going to be asked whether I prefer the periwinkle or the lavender, the teal or the aquamarine. And, because every dress website that Kish has accessed has deposited a girl scout squadron’s worth of cookies on our home computer, every pop up ad on every sports website that I check these days features solemn women modeling dresses.
After some weeks of this, I suddenly became concerned. “Honey, should I be worried about what I’m going to wear to the wedding?” I asked. Kish laughed heartily. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “No one pays attention to what a man is wearing.”
Too bad, because I was thinking of something in cornflower.