I'd like to thank the Academy

Let me start by saying I really like Sandra Bullock. I fell in love with her in While You Were Sleeping, our love was deepened through Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, and it was even tested and ultimately endured Hope Floats. She seems down-to-earth and funny and kind, humble and principled and artistic. I like her so much that I would probably be an inappropriate hugger were our paths to cross, feeling like I know her as I do. You feel me? I like her.

Gushing preamble aside, I am somewhat disappointed that she won the Oscar for Best Actress.

Though I should probably tell you that I didn't see The Blind Side.

I did, however, see Precious and I have seen the clips and commercials of a dye-jobbed Bullock twanging sentimental cliches at a sad-eyed African-American boy and I just don't believe that whatever she did in the remaining 1 hour and 28 minutes of The Blind Side could have possibly measured up to what Gabourey Sidibe did in Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire. (I'll see The Blind Side soon and let you know for sure...)

Dan and I went to our little Music Hall movie theater on Saturday night to see Precious, a movie which I felt in equal measure deeply terrified and utterly compelled to see. The movie poster alone---the intense sadness and obvious torment on Gabourey Sidibe's face; her protruding, pursed frown---pained me. Aware as I was of the movie's themes of sexual and physical abuse, I worried that it would be one of those movies that puts me in a dark place from which it takes days to recover. (Documentary film The Greatest Silence: Rape in the Congo had just this effect.) I've always known that it's important to see such movies, but I'm only now realizing that the dark days afterword are important too as they are a part of my process (the process of processing, you see?) and they eventually dissipate. That said, Precious didn't put me in that place. Believe it or not, it's a story of hope and I encourage everyone to see it. Be warned, however, that it may likely be the most raw depiction of such abuse that you will have ever seen. (Whether the depiction of hope is realistic, I am hoping it is so.)

There is no wavering, however, on the fact that Gabourey Sidibe's acting is one of the most Oscar-worthy performances I have ever seen. I simply cannot understand how a 24-year-old woman (at filming) who had no experience other than slight roles in college plays---and who seems so bubbly and positive in interviews; a startling contrast to the wounded child she plays in the movie---managed such a feat. I suppose it's a case of when you got it, you got it, but, my God, that level of it is unparalleled.

Well, except for Meryl's it. You'll notice that I'm even championing Gabourey over Meryl---that's really saying something. (Though Meryl's Julie Child also seemed more Oscar-worthy than the 30 seconds I've seen of Bullock's performance...and, yes, I admit is completely ridiculous to make an assertion that someone is unworthy of an accolade without having viewed his/her complete work but...eh.) Last year I felt a similar disappointment when Kate Winslet---another actress whom I love---won over Meryl's performance in Doubt. That time I had seen both movies (Winslet won for The Reader) and I am still unsettled by the decision.

However, having said all this, I did enjoy Sandra Bullocks acceptance speech. I watched the Barbara Walters Oscar Special---I know---and heard Sandy (she has me call her Sandy) say how she didn't want to cry because her late mother used to scoff at those people who cried when they went up to accept awards. But while Bullock was witty and strong for most of it, she broke down when talking about her beloved mom, the woman who told her that "to be an artist you had to practice everyday." The funny, the vulnerable, the mom; it was a such a good speech that I've already dropped my grudge about the Oscar thing.

Needless to say, I'm one of those people who dig awards shows, particularly the Oscars. I pick my favorite dress of the night. (Sarah Jessica Parker, though I didn't love the hair.) I revel in the particular brand of discomfort that comes from seeing people in the crowning moment of their career get cut off mid-sentence by an overly-dramatic orchestral arrangement. (Did you see the crazy red-head lady cut off the director of Music by Prudence when it won for Best Documentary Short? Youtube it immediately.) And I faux-mourn the genius of such actresses as Britney Murphy during the In Memoriam portion of the evening. (Glad to see MJ get some credit there though; for my money The Wiz is is of the same cinematic ilk as Schindler's List.)

Dan and I make an event out of Oscar night every year. Last year we even sat through a day-long Oscar event at AMC Theaters which showcased all five Best Picture nominees. This year, not so much. We did get 2010 winner The Hurt Locker through Netflix and it's a solidly great movie. It tells the story of a three-man bomb disposal unit in Iraq and my only complaint was that I wanted the the story to go on and on. I wanted to know what happened next and then after that and then two years from then. I hardly think they'll be making a Hurt Locker II but I'd watch it.

I know the gross excess of something like the Oscars flies in the face of everything a film like The Hurt Locker is trying to show us about the wars that are happening this very minute, but movies are also about escapism and dreams and that's what the Oscars represent to me.

Hearing words like those of Best Original Score winner Michael Giacchino, who won for Up, is exactly why I still watch the Oscars.

"...I know there are kids out there that don't have that support system so if you're out there and you're listening, listen to me: If you want to be creative, get out there and do it. It's not a waste of time. Do it..."

I watch the Oscars and that part of me that believes that I'll one day be on that stage accepting such an award comes alive. I absolutely remember being at a high school keg party---horny teenagers with red cups everywhere---and tuning out all that was going on around me so that I could zoom in on a TV that was across the room to watch the Primetime Emmys. (ER was big that year.) (I was going to save that story for my acceptance speech---it would have a better, gushier version---but I'm rethinking it now.)

Letting the big dreams have the stage, even for just a night, invigorates and restores me. It allows for inspiration. And that's not a waste of time, either.