Watching television is always my last resort. It’s not until
after I have pored over my latest Economist, polished off a pint of Ben &
Jerry’s or finished watching “Thomas Crown Affair” for the nth time that I even
consider entering that inescapable state of sloth.
Oscars night, however, is an entirely different story. With
the Brownie Batter ice cream put to rest, I forgo a week of world news, and I
wait another day or so to hone my art thievery skills with Pierce Brosnan. It
is an evening I actually choose to give the boob tube my undivided attention
and relish in all the glitzy meaninglessness.
And I’m not the only one: Over 40 million viewers tune in to
see the Academy Awards in the
every year, and well over 100 other countries are licensed to broadcast the
ceremony abroad. By many standards, the world is watching what many consider
the centerpiece of American cinema. (Forget for a moment that this year’s
ceremony boasted the lowest viewer pool in Oscar history.)
But behind Jon Stewart’s clever political zingers and the
attendees’ flowing dresses lies an institution steeped in scandalous history,
one that is rarely understood. Yes, even in spite of that tongue-in-cheek
“documentary” Academy President Sid Ganis presented during Sunday’s proceedings
— the organization responsible for allocating Oscars remains mysterious. Kudos
for trying, though.
So who really comprises and pulls the strings of this
elusive organization?
If you hadn’t guessed already, the process begins with the
members of the
Picture Arts
industry professionals formed in 1927. Membership is selective, and usually on
an invitation-only basis. Per the mission statement, all 6,000 members are
dedicated to preserving
developing new technology for filmmaking, but clearly the organization is best
known for its annual awards ceremony.
When nominating films for different awards, Academy members
first see movies for free at designated theaters or can attempt to make a dent
in the mountain of nominee DVDs they receive from different sources. After
viewing, they can proceed to nominate movies for Oscar consideration, provided
the award category is in the member’s particular field of expertise. In other
words, directors only vote for best director, cinematographers for best
cinematography and so on and so forth. With categories that don’t necessarily
require specialized knowledge, such as documentary or foreign language films,
committees composed of representatives from every branch of the Academy are
gathered to select the nominees.
For a film to be considered in the first place, it must meet
specific requirements. Films accepted for review must be longer than 40
minutes, have had a public premiere during the year in question, have been
filmed in a certain film format (35 mm 70 mm or digital) and have played in an
Angeles
movie theater for at least seven consecutive days.
After the nomination votes are in, accounting firm
PricewaterhouseCoopers is charged with tabulating it all, and has done so in
absolute secrecy for years. As soon as the votes are counted, the official
nominees are announced, and Academy members are given two weeks to pick who
they think is worthy of the Oscar. Unsurprisingly, during this anything-goes
timeframe, film studios do everything in their power to hook Academy members
with special screenings or any other enticement that may sway one’s vote.
When the time comes for polls to close, so to speak, the
second round of votes is counted and the names of the winners are sealed in
envelopes and kept secret until the ceremony. At one time, newspapers were
allowed to print the winners in their evening editions (under the assumption
that they’d be circulated after the winners were announced), until newspapers
began publishing the list earlier than the Academy preferred, and awards
attendees were snatching up copies on their way to the proceedings to find out
who won before they even reached their seats.
Outraged, Academy authorities mandated that all winners be
kept secret until the presenter opens the envelope and tells the world who will
be taking home the golden statue.
The Oscar statuette itself isn’t as secretive, however. The
Chicago-based R.S. Owens & Co. manufactures every Oscar; every one is
totally uniform in composition and size: plated in 24-karat gold, 8.5 pounds,
13.5 inches high and affixed to a black marble base. The golden figure you see
represents a sword-wielding knight standing on a film reel with five spokes —
each representing the original branches of the Academy.
The source of the name “Oscar” is hotly contested, but there
is only one story the Academy recognizes. Originally called the Academy Award
of Merit, the gilded statuette wasn’t known as the Oscar until two years after
MGM Art Director Cedric Gibbons first conceived it in 1928.
According to legend, an Academy librarian remarked that the
gold figure resembled her uncle Oscar, and with the help of a Sidney Skolsky
column that published the secretary’s comment, the name stuck, leading to the
Academy’s adoption of the moniker in 1939.
With this year’s Academy Awards over, one might think the
film industry is pulling up a chair and taking a few moments’ rest. But in this
ever-changing and highly competitive business, it only marks the beginning of a
new year of “Oscar bait,” a dismissive movie-buff term for films that are made
expressly in the hopes of achieving
highest accolade: ole Uncle Oscar.
