Watching the Oscars is like watching a fat old man masturbate while cooing over his reflection.
Watching the Oscars, for all intents and purposes, is actually watching a fat old man masturbate while cooing over his reflection. Just subsitute "fat old man" with "the American film industry". Actually, you needn't even bother with the substitution. I suspect that throughout Beverly Hills is a passel of quivering, liver-spotted, senile voluptuaries who scream like copulating hogs for more Swarovski-encrusted bribes from each film's award appeal committee.
Let's knock this into your thick fucking skulls.
The Academy Awards is a semen-encrusted pimp slapping his favourite bitch on the arse after a free privilege-fuck.
The Academy Awards is dog that eats its own faeces, vomits it up, eats it again, and then licks your face.
The Academy Awards is an obese, filthy, gurgling mental deficient recording his own braying on a Fisher Price cassette deck. He then sits on you, laughing, and plays the tinny screech into your ear.
For fuck's sake: Titanic won. Titanic. That three hour gauntlet of hackneyed sanctification of the working classes that took such special delight in their screaming deaths and associated merchandising. The movie that had a shrieking fucking Celine Dion song relentlessly promoting it on the radio (that other stooge of the entertainment industry) for over a year.
If you consider the attentions of the Academy a reliable indicator of a film's quality, you are a dupe. A patsy. A gull.
Enjoy the glamour.