No one thanked God

by Regis Boff

No one thanked God for their Oscar last night. It was a relief. Those fifteen-yard punishments for praying during the Superbowl sort of got on my nerves. It was almost as though I was watching early man abandoning an invisible God for a new and solid one. One you could hold. One of gold.
The best actor award went to a young fellow who simply put his eyeglasses on crooked and contorted his face for half the movie. It was not close to acting; it was mimicry. No screenplay was immediately apparent or frankly missed.
The real best actor seemed to be happy being invited anywhere.
The best films all chronicled damaged people. “Selma,” by bigotry and a gun. “American Sniper,” by war. “Imitation Game,” by intolerance. “The Theory of Everything” and “Alice,” by disease. “Birdman” by the injustice of early but unrepeated success. Birdman won because Hollywood believes it suffers so for its art.
“The Grand Budapest Hotel” was about the decline of first-class accommodations.