By: Preciska Spelmonich

As an Oscar virgin, so to speak, I had neither predilection nor any preconceptions of what the 83rd Annual Academy Awards would be like. As such, I believe that most of my observations are going to be trite, unprofessional, novice, and unimaginative. But nonetheless here goes.

The Red Carpet event represented best Hollywood’s taste for the superficial. With “Who are you wearing?” being thrown around incessantly, the Red Carpet’s only achievement is the demonstration of journalism’s decline. There is truly nothing good that can be said of such a celebration of sauntering swaggeringly down a gaudy carpet that could not possibly envelop all the egos tramping down its fabric. Perhaps the only good thing about the entire carpet event was Natalie Portman’s expression while being interviewed by Robin Roberts, in which she looked exasperated and tired of getting dressed up.

To the main event, James Franco and Anne Hathaway’s hosting capabilities are summarized precisely when Hathaway said, “The young and hip Oscars!” Their only role was to carry the vitality and energy throughout the show, in which case Kurt Douglas’ presentation of Best Supporting Actress did a better job in his slow, barely comprehensible drawl that inspired humor throughout his time on stage. Certainly the juxtaposition of age (young v. old) was played out more than light v. dark in Heart of Darkness. And while trying to reconcile the traditionalism in the Oscar ceremony with growing youth trends, the award show seemed to only promote its paradoxical nature.

Rather than “preserving the past, honoring the present, and helping shape the future”—as the Oscar’s claimed to be doing—the entire time I was reminded of how much more I enjoy these movies on the silver screen rather than seeing the self-indulgence that goes into awarding them. And what precipitated the anxiety and excitement of the actors/actresses (and other nominees) was how predictable and insipid the somewhat-scripted performances were. The best part, though, was during the commercials when I muted the television and read Haruki Murakami’s imaginative Kafka on the Shore before returning to the drab Oscars. Like the subtle theme of the winner of Best Documentary Feature, Inside Job, the Oscars left me feeling as if there was no end in sight.