Oscar

In case you are Amish or something and you hadn’t heard yet, tonight was the Academy Awards, that great propagan-tastic circus in which famous people cry and pat each other on the back so they can make more money. It’s wonderful. But I was at work, so I missed it.

One could be forgiven for believing that this entire city exists primarily for this single event. Sure there are lots of warm-ups and rehearsals in the form of the Golden Globes and the guild awards and the bajillions of others hoping to milk as much attention as possible, but all these other events collide off each other in what amounts to little more than Oscar testing ground, and everything gains a frenetic energy moving through February to the point that you cannot check the weather or go for coffee without hearing predictions and being updated on the controversies and the preparations.

Those preparations were an interesting part of my week, as the event is housed next door to the Metro station I take to work. As the week progressed the mass of trailers and tents and security and blocked roads grew relentlessly. Even for someone who has no part, and desires no part, in this industry, it was exciting to watch.

On my way home on the Gold Line, I met a lady named Belle, clearly well into her seventies, who bore the colorful personality and apparel indicating lots of stories and a full life to share. She stepped on the train singing a song, of her own invention from what I could tell, and smiling at everyone she walked past. After a couple stops she leaned toward me and asked if I knew who won Best Picture. I didn’t yet, but a suited man in front of us announced that it was The Hurt Locker. From behind, a teenaged girl told us it won Best Director as well. I couldn’t help but smile.

“I’m so glad that monster movie didn’t win,” Belle said, with the most amazing enunciation.

“I think Avatar was more about aliens than monsters,” I offered.

“Hush. I’m not talking about the blue people, I’m talking about that monster who directed it.” And we all kind of nodded, knowing exactly what she meant. There is something thrilling about watching small budgets and unassuming personalities win over mammoth budgets and towering egos.

Side note: I am super excited for The Hurt Locker, and especially for Kathryn Bigelow. If you are unfamiliar with her, you should start at Blue Steel, with Jamie Lee Curtis as sort of a female response to Dirty Harry, then move on to the tubular excellence of Point Break, maybe continuing on to K-19, which, though not quite a masterpiece, has well-developed conflict and a few moments of stunning subtlety, and finally arriving at her latest, which is unquestionably a masterpiece and so profoundly displays everything she has learned and developed as a filmmaker. Side note on a side note: my thanks to Jillian Smith, who I’m pretty sure will not be reading this, for turning me on to Bigelow with Blue Steel.

After Oscar opinions had been shared and the others returned to the personal space mandated by public transportation, Belle leaned over and whispered “Wake me up at Union Station.” Considering her former energy and volume, I thought she was joking, or maybe referencing a song from way before my time, but next time I looked she was asleep, chin on chest, head rolling slightly with the train.

At Union Station I gave her a gentle nudge, and she stood immediately. When she noticed that I was getting off, she asked if I was switching to the Red Line too, then extended her purse for me to carry, weighing in at about half a ton. With a full smile and a bouncy stride she led the way through Union Station and down the stairs, just in time for the train to Hollywood.

A few stops later, four girls stepped onto the bus wearing dresses which, all combined, may have been almost enough fabric to swaddle an infant. They stood close together, frequently pulling their dresses up or down or whatever direction they thought might divert the leering gazes surrounding them. “Let me know if you girls need help looking for your clothes,” Belle said, eyebrows raised disapprovingly. Then she turned to the older man by the door, who had been unashamedly staring since the girls walked in. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” she hissed. “They’re children.” With that, she lowered her chin and fell asleep.

At Hollywood and Vine, the crowd in the station literally froze as the four girls rode the escalator, wrestling with their dresses in the sudden and diverse gusts of wind found in every subway station. Something about this scene made me feel sick, and if I was more awake now I might try exploring the contrasts offered by Belle, Kathryn Bigelow, and the four girls.

But I’m tired, so I’ll close by saying that the night was beautifully wrapped up by my bike ride home, with the air cool, the crowds on the sidewalk, and the limousines out in full force celebrating this quintessential night of Hollywood’s obsession with itself, which is thrilling and sickening and entirely entertaining. And then by saying that, as much as I try to distance myself from this place with my words, I cannot stop being intrigued by this culture, and I know I will always look back on my time here with a special kind of fondness.

Then I’ll close for real by attempting to justify my passing use of the word “tubular.” I mean, you’ve got Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze skydive-wrestling and surf-battling and robbing banks in president masks, presided over by the ever-snarling Gary Busey…what more can you ask for?

Goodnight. Remember love.