Thank You, Love You, Fuck You

The Oscars happened last night. Stars in expensive clothes, handlers keeping them away from anything unscripted, a few comedians telling jokes that landed nowhere. Everyone clapped anyway. You show up at the Oscars knowing how it works—you applaud on cue, you wipe your eyes at the memorial, you pretend the statuette means something.

The awards went to whoever. Some film, some director, some actress. By the end I couldn’t tell you who won most of the categories. The whole thing has this numbing quality, like watching someone win a prize they’ve known about for weeks pretend to be surprised. Everyone in that room saw the same predictions in the trades before the show even started. The spectacle is just theater—the acting, the speeches about gratitude, the tears that you can tell were rehearsed.

The In Memoriam segment got rushed this year. Too many people died to fit them all into the montage. Just a quick scroll through faces, names disappearing before you could really see them. There’s something stark about it—work in this industry long enough to be famous, die, and maybe get five seconds in a montage at the Oscars. This year they didn’t even have time for that.

I know why I watch it anyway. The performance still gets to me somehow, even though I know exactly how empty it all is. The Oscars never surprise anyone. Nothing changes from year to year. But I’ll be back next year, probably feeling the same way, knowing it’s fake and falling for it anyway.