On freshening up – Anthony Lane in The New Yorker:
‘A hit! A palpable hit! For years, people have wondered what to do with the Academy Awards. How do you freshen them up—make them topical, urgent, and crisp? How do you bring back the television audience, which has sunk to such drastic levels that the only guaranteed viewers are the immediate family members of the nominees, plus their more intelligent pets? Last year’s solution was to hold the ceremony at a railway station, which gave the unfortunate impression that the guests could hardly wait to pack their bags, toot their whistles, and chug out of town. That didn’t work. This year, the shindig returned to the Dolby Theatre, and to standard fare: rolling speeches, standing ovations, pleas for universal tolerance, and dresses that would have looked lovely if the designers hadn’t run out of material long before they were finished. So, where was the shock of the new? What was different about 2022, apart from the fact that Timothée Chalamet had forgotten to wear a shirt? Just as we were starting to worry, and asking if the big moment would ever come, Will Smith went and beat us to the punch.
As Will Smith left his seat, strolled up to the stage, and slapped Chris Rock, my first thought was: nice topspin. Minimum back lift, it’s true, and not enough follow-through to give the shot proper heft, but, hey, it won the point. If Smith is going to make a habit of aggressive indignation, he’ll need to spend some serious time on the practice courts and really work on those forehand slaps. Mind you, it could be argued that he’s twenty years too late. In 2002, he was nominated as Best Actor for playing Muhammad Ali; imagine what kind of shape he and his biceps were in, after all those hours in the ring. Any Oscar presenter fool enough to risk a dig at the Smith family would have been laid out cold.
My second thought, as the slap hit home, was: Why did nobody think of this before? It’s such a brisk, economical method for waking the TV audience from our slumber and preventing us from fetching another tub of Phish Food and switching over to an old episode of “Columbo.” When Steve Martin made a gag about the swan dress worn by Björk at the Oscars of 2001, she could have flown to the podium and pecked him to the ground with her angry beak. And why stop at the presenters? Nominees for the acting prizes are traditionally required to smile at one another through sharpened teeth, but it would be so much more enjoyable—and more morally honest—if their carnivorous competition could be laid bare for all to see. Take 1951, and the best Best Actress contest in the history of the awards: Bette Davis versus Eleanor Parker, Anne Baxter, Judy Holliday (the eventual winner), and, in the veterans’ corner, Gloria Swanson. I can almost hear the words of that evening’s host, Fred Astaire, graciously inviting the contenders onstage for the announcement: “Now, you know the rules: no blades, no biting, and stay away from the eyes. Otherwise, ladies, the floor is yours, so let’s get ready to rumble! It’s swing time!”’
Read the article here.
Perhaps this is the way to go. It could make even literature sexy again, if sexy is the word. The Nobel Prize, the Booker Prize, et cetera, they can use some attention. Apparently, a slap in the face is all what is needed.
No knifes indeed, and stay away from the eyes. No lasting damage, please. Just an old fashioned knuckle sandwich to tell the audience, hey, we are here and we matter.
And above all, it doesn’t cost a penny.