#11: I, too, would (someday) like to thank the academy
"Family, art; it'll tear you in two." - The Fabelmans, apparently.
Well, I watched The Oscars. I said I wouldn’t, wasn’t planning to, haven’t watched a single other award show this season, forgot they were today! But I was driving through Beverly Hills this morning and I noticed the signature right-lane road closures and red paparazzi-herding ropes that say: these fancy hotels are preparing for serious parties. Then my mom texted “Happy Oscar Sunday!” and the internet was full of fancy dresses, and before I knew it the TV was on.
I wasn’t expecting it to be a thing. I thought I’d pop in for a few minutes and then “return” to an essay I hadn’t actually started about time management and procrastination. But one Ozempic joke in I was hooked, pouring a glass of champagne and assembling a cheese board like this was the plan for my Sunday all along.
Since I have only seen two (2) of the nominated movies, the show itself kind of became the protagonist, with the Hung Up Substack chat and outfit Twitter stepping in as supporting actors.
And when you have no skin in the game on the actual *awards* front, you find yourself watching a different story. Rather than a competition between the most critically acclaimed/least watched movies of the year, it becomes a story of itty-bitty feuds between famous people…
Of the two-step-forward, one-(or more!)-steps-back nature of diversity and inclusion efforts…
Of artists fighting for their right to tell stories and make meaning against the threatening backdrop of a changing entertainment landscape (see: the Verizon “PLUS” bundle ad maliciously inserting itself into every commercial break, reminding us of the failed promises of streaming, the slow but steady chipping away at Hollywood’s unions, health insurances, and pensions…), the uncertain future of TV and movies looming large over the whole affair.
And, very important: of big, *big* dreams, finally coming true.
I had a great time.
I also cried during both Ke Huy Quan and Michelle Yeoh’s acceptance speeches, thinking about my own big dreams, and where exactly I put them…?
Since leaving the entertainment industry in 2017ish (exact date of departure uncertain because trauma fucks with your memory!), immersing myself in the film industry at all can bring up icky feelings. Like Hollywood itself, award shows are incredibly seductive. They highlight all of the glamour and rewards of working in entertainment, and show none of the labor violations, 16+ hour days, or industry-wide hazing practices that also go into making movies and TV. Instead, we see dresses and tuxes and polite thank you’s. Shout-outs to moms, children, teachers, agents, managers, people who believed in the people whose dreams are coming true. (While therapists all over LA low key clear their throats at their TV screens…)
We see the best, most quotable lines from every movie, cut together so well you could almost forget they are all way too long, and hardly anyone in America watched them. Then Lenny Kravitz serenades us while we see a slideshow of the dead people who made enough of an impact with their art to leave a legacy, to be publicly remembered (unless of course, a dead person you loved did not make the final cut, in which case you may scan the QR code on your screen for the extended version of the 2023 “In Memoriam!”). And Rihanna and Lady Gaga perform at the same concert! The spectacle is so grand and shiny; how could you not get swept up in the fantasy?
The acceptance speeches move me. Daniel Kwan saying his mother wanted to be an artist but never could. Daniel Kwan also telling his kids (and Asian kids everywhere) that he will love them no matter what, that an Oscar is not the standard. Daniel Scheinert thanking his parents for letting him dress up in drag as a kid. Michelle Yeoh telling women never to let anyone tell us we’re past our prime. Alexei Navalny’s wife saying “Stay strong, my love,” to her husband in solitary fucking confinement in Russia, while she accepts an academy award on his behalf.
These poignant, important, small moments move me so much that I let myself dream a little. I imagine collaborating with people to make art in a safe and respectful environment. I imagine the sense of belonging and ownership that can come with working creatively on something that matters, something that’s bigger than you. I imagine dressing up in gorgeous, once-in-a-lifetime clothing and glam to be recognized for my hard work and beauty. I imagine being accused of taking Ozempic and I feel a pull and think: “My dreams! What of my big, big dreams?”
Working in Hollywood wasn’t like that. Working in Hollywood was a lot of thankless work and unpaid hours. It was a diet of frozen pizza and a body that was too young to ache so much. It was being told there was “too much estrogen in the writers’ room” to promote me. It was being asked to find a dying man I’d never met a literal lung transplant in a different country, and then being treated like a failure when that man I’d never met died. It was having a stapler thrown at my head, accompanied by the (rhetorical) question: “I thought you went to Stanford?!” (I did.)
Through it all though, the clarity with which I chased success, creative legacy, a name that people would know because of my work, was blinding. Awards shows like The Oscars epitomized the recognition and external validation I pursued so relentlessly. I had such a clear picture of my future (albeit very little grasp on my present); held those big dreams of mine so tightly I squeezed the life right out of them. Lenny and the rabbit. Grace and the Oscar (well, Grace and the EGOT, if we’re being honest).
When I finally came to and realized I was deeply unhappy at work, I had already spent years looking ahead, fantasizing about the ultimate finish line, hoping I wouldn’t be too wrinkled and old to be properly ogled and assaulted by cameras when it was finally my turn to walk the red carpet. A veritable fever dream of superficial success and individual recognition.
By contrast, I became a therapist because, as jobs go, it seemed flexible and compartmentalized, like it wouldn’t become my whole world. Writing (“Hollywood”) had swallowed me whole, and when it spat me out, I was a bit of a shell of myself, a newly shaken piggy bank with no coins left inside, bereft of purpose or direction.
By contrast, I became a therapist, and I finally learned to do what Michelle Yeoh did in her graceful, gorgeous acceptance speech tonight: to take a deep breath, to thank my family, to be present. I deleted all my writing off the Internet, went to an easy graduate school, began to rebuild. I deposited pennies into my confidence bank and found my warmth again. No longer in an industry that was so oriented towards audience, appearance, and the external, I began to look inward. I finally learned to hear myself think.
It is somewhat ironic to have felt so seduced by The Oscars on the exact same week I will complete the 3,000-hour requirement to apply for my MFT license. To come to a huge milestone on this monstrous journey and immediately wonder “was this therapy thing just, like… an intermission?” And while I’m tempted to chalk that wondering up to sentimentality, nostalgia, and the undeniable seductive pull of Nicole Kidman in a hot dress, I also felt a shift in the show itself.
One of the biggest lies that award shows can perpetuate is the fantasy of individual success. Sure, you can thank your cast and crew, but it’s you up there, in the pretty dress, holding the statue, making the whole place shimmer. Tonight (bad, movie-hating, Jimmy Kimmel jokes aside) there was a strong felt sense of community in the air, and repeated nods to the inherent interdependence of filmmaking that has been (imo) absent from award shows past.
Jamie Lee Curtis saying: “We won an Oscar,” and her continued commitment to being Michelle Yeoh’s most aggressive hype-woman. John Travolta crying and proclaiming himself “Hopelessly Devoted” to Olivia Newton-John as he announced the In Memoriam. Michael B Jordan and Jonathan Majors shouting out Angela Bassett, who (I didn’t see it but, according to Internet authorities) should have beat out JLC for that best supporting actress award. Daniel Scheinert thanking all the public school teachers who changed his life. These were moments that acknowledged the collective, that made the “I” into “we.” And if you learn one thing on a movie set, it’s that all success is collective. One person gets to hold the gold statue and make the speech, but they have never, not once, made it onto that stage without help.
So I suppose it’s no surprise that this shared cultural moment — that I watched live and with a(n Internet) community of my own — made me so sentimental for a life I have long since un-chosen. It checked a lot of sentimental and superficial boxes, sure, but it also invited me to share in something, to participate, just by watching. This, after all, is the goal of movies and TV: to share stories. What a lovely little surprise, to feel so welcome in this one.
Thanks for reading! Back in your inboxes in a couple weeks.
PS: I have 3 free, 3-month subscriptions of (the best email newsletter ever) Hung Up to give away if anyone would like to join my favorite TV-watching community on the Internet, just in time for the final season of Succession!!! Comment on this post if you want one of them :)
PPS: Does anyone know where to get Ozempic on the dark web because Los Angeles is, apparently, quite sold out.
I am crying. Thank you for writing this. Oy, feels.
Congratulations on reaching the 3,000 hour mark! An amazing accomplishment no matter where the road takes you from here