Witnessing the dashing of other people’s hopes is fascinating. Experiencing my own dashed hopes is, strangely, less so
Awards ceremonies are absurd and frivolous, and people say that as if it’s a bad thing. Some children stay up late on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus. The only night of the year I stayed awake as a kid was Oscars night, waiting to see just how annoyed Barbra Streisand would look when The Prince Of Tides lost to The Silence Of The Lambs in 1992’s Best Film category (answer: very). The losers’ determination to cling on to some shred of dignity by their tightly clenched teeth (“It was an honour just to be nominated!!!”); the winners’ giddy abandonment of all dignity when they get up on stage (“To all my fellow dreamers out there – sob – you can make it happen, too!”): you can’t write better melodrama.
And it’s not just the Oscars. Like a gambler who will bet on the weather if he can’t get into the casino, I love all awards ceremonies: the Booker, the Turner, the Brits. I like watching other people’s emotional dramas play out in a glamorous setting. Witnessing the dashing of other people’s hopes is fascinating. Experiencing my own dashed hopes is, strangely, less so.
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