Michael Cieply: Oscar Sunday Is Okay, But Monday Is Much Better

Truth be told, I’m not crazy about Oscar night. The shoes pinch. Security’s a bother. All the red-carpet nattering unnerves me.

And watching at home isn’t much better. Who really wants to turn on the television at 5—oops, make that 4—o’clock on an almost spring Sunday afternoon? I’d rather barbecue some chicken.

But the morning after, one week from today, that’s another story. In fact, Oscar Monday is pretty much my favorite day in the whole movie year. Since I started covering Hollywood forty years ago, I have always loved that day. If it were up to me, it would be an official holiday. They could call it something fancy, the Feast of the Eternal Reboot, something like that.

Anyway, it’s always fun. For starters, you’ve got the second-guessing, and who doesn’t enjoy that? It’s better than cocoa and cookies on Christmas. Critics huff.  Reporters fish for comment. In the really good years, Academy governors can’t tell if their hang-over came from the champagne or from what they thought they saw Will Smith do to Chris Rock—did that really happen?—and what the heck are we supposed to do about it? (Draft a statement! Write a letter!! Wait, let’s form a committee!!!)

Then comes some hand-wringing over the ratings. Soft in the early numbers. Blame the host. But the numbers get better with updates, and better yet when all the stray digital viewers are finally rounded up. Maybe the host wasn’t so bad. Let’s rebook, and get a jump on next year.

There’s usually time for a little credit-grabbing. I once had three major players (or a dutiful rep thereof) call to make sure I knew that each one of them was actually the prime mover behind Driving Miss Daisy. A Best Picture award will do that to you.

And if you’re in the news business, you might risk some antics while covering for one or another colleague who got carried away on the post-awards party circuit. David Carr, the late, beloved, self-described recovering addict who carried the Carpetbagger blog for The New York Times, comes to mind. One year, David fell off the wagon somewhere between the Vanity Fair party and Monday’s early deadline. The bottom half of his copy read like Jack Nicholson’s in The Shining. Or worse. So with some lucky guesswork, a certain editor improvised the missing prose, in Carr’s inimitable, ineffable style no less. No one seemed to notice, least of all David. Such is journalism on Oscar Monday.

But for me, the best part—it usually sets in around noon—is the sudden realization that all those contenders who have crowded the carpet for the last six months are gone. Vanished. Poof. By Friday, you won’t remember half the winners, never mind the nominees.

Which is actually a good thing.

Oscar Monday, the Feast of the Eternal Reboot, brings with it a blank slate. Going forward, anything is possible. It’s like the myth of Osiris: The old gods die to make way for the new, who are mostly the same old gods in yet another cinematic adventure.

At first, it’s a little scary. Scratching through the thin and changeable early release schedule, it feels as if the grown-up movies are gone for good. Oh, no, there will never be another Oppenheimer. It’s all Comic-Con from here on out. Scorsese can’t possibly do it again. The festival prospects look obscure, negligible, less than thrilling when all you have to go on is a filmmaker, a cast and a log-line.

Yet within weeks, if not days, the movies come back to life. Maybe an early-year release, say a Dune: Part Two, gets traction. Or something out of Sundance actually sticks. Sprouts appear at SXSW. Before you know it, Cannes brings real prospects—Coppola’s Megalopolis? Steve McQueen’s Blitz?—and the new awards year is born, as fertile, and exhausting, as ever.