Dressed for Excess
I’ll admit it: Each year I join the uncoiffed masses in the gawkfest that has become the Oscars.
Or, to be more honest, the two-hour pre-Oscars red carpet ceremony. Those who promenade the looooongest and most sacred ruby-hued berber runner in the world breathe a more rarified smog that the rest of us.
But I for one am not jealous. Personally, I’d hate to be scrutinized by 20 million TV viewers who are less interested in what I wrote than what I wore.
Unfortunately, most screenwriters are better read than seen. Diablo Cody’s diaphanous Wilma Flintstone Valentino muumuu is a perfect example as to why this is the case. As wryly humorous as she can be, I like her better on the page than on my TV screen.
Granted, most writers don’t have the luxury–or the salary–to hire a stylist to help them dress for the event, not to mention a personal trainer to buff them up between the time the nominations are announced and the big night. Still, since this may be your only time to get on camera in something other than jeans–and to be handed your Oscar by Harrison Ford–I vote for going all out.
Which, in my case, would mean a starvation diet for, say, two years prior.
Well, at least there is someone lower in the Best Dressed pecking order than writers. That would be documentarians.
But they get points for the best Oscar speeches. As a species, they are modest, driven by their art or their cause, and it shows in the way in which they speak from their hearts, as opposed to some canned, pre-rehearsed down-to-the-two-minute-mark spiel written for them by some writer pal.
So, yes, words ARE important. Even more important than the gowns.