In recent years I’ve had my issues with Oscar. The caveats have ranged from the relentless campaigning, to the bone-crushing length of the show itself (sorry, I’m a big fan of sleep on a Sunday night). Somehow the Oscar telecast had lost its sense of occasion; true, I’ve also missed a time when movies weren’t so schematic (like the last great heyday, the mid-70s), a subjective assessment probably born out of a mourning for lost youth, but…
Last night’s Oscar marked a return to something akin to love, and for a change I didn’t mind the late hour. Throughout, the producers reminded us of the reason why the Academy Award has endured for all these years—it’s an honorific for an industry that pervades our lives immeasurably, at once a cultural repository for the past, present and future, and a continuing primer on how to simply be. New ways to dream, goes the line, apt for the advances in technology that give us a shinier ride every time we ante up $11.00, but from the looks of things, filmmakers are also focused on serving up new ways to think, to include, to accept—ideas worth exploring in cinema, and all art.
From Slumdog Millionaire to The Dark Knight, this year’s contenders show humanity struggling for new ways to be. My favorite winners were the men from Milk: Dustin Lance Black for his original screenplay and Sean Penn for his performance in the title role. In their acceptance speeches, themes of inclusion and justice emerged: I almost cried when Penn reminded us of the importance of equal rights for all Americans, a statement that should go without saying but something we obviously still need to hear. I hope the right people were listening.
Kudos to host Hugh Jackman (talented, generous and game, always a pleasure whether he’s hosting the Tonys or dancing up a storm in a tux) and the show’s producers, Bill Condon and Laurence Mark, its director Roger Goodman, and especially the show’s designer, the legit theater’s own David Rockwell. What a set, the perfect dressing for a spectacular night.