este não é um blog sobre cinema

me and oscar

Oscar Night impends, and come Sunday we can all refresh our skills in comparing the noncomparable: this time, in the Best Picture category, outdoor self-surgery versus admission policies at the Porcellian Club; involuntary toe-webbing versus gay parentage; backwoods methamphetamine cookery versus warmer feelings about the Windsor monarchy; and so on. Judging “the Best” of anything is slightly ridiculous in any sphere, and since the number of losers always outweighs the ecstatic solo winner, announcement of the Oscars or the Nobels or First Beaver at Camp Pineaway inexorably produces more hard feelings than glory when all is done. The Academy’s decision to adulterate the Best Picture category by naming ten candidates, as against the perennial five, only adds to the awkwardness, but never mind: the long evening will be about the same again, and a blast.

roger angell / the new yorker

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