Dear David,
I’m sad that you are depressed in advance of the big event, and I feel responsible. Perhaps you are unused to the debilitating cynicism it takes to survive here. 9/11 only cramped it for a month, and now I fear it has
infected you. Perhaps our Oscars are our revenge for your (not personal, but critics in general) 10-best lists, for dismissing our product all year. For diminishing our best—constrained by the marketplace—offerings. But you love movies, and I know it, and hopefully Laura Ziskin, the evening’s producer, will allow for sufficient histrionics to re-ignite your enthusiasm. Maybe someone will be rude. Sadly, unlike the Globes, they don’t serve liquor—there is usually a wine bar somewhere in the Siberian outposts, but people are afraid to search for it, or they will lose their hard-fought seats.
I adored Kate Winslet’s performance, as you know, and find her incandescent. She will never be a loser, her reign is only begun. Marisa was also great. This is traditionally the first award, and then we sit
motionless for hours. I am serving Hawaiian BBQ. Pu-pu platter, as it were. With any luck, tonight will be full of pu-pu surprises, and not just the clothes or the platter. Take heart, too, that I am always the big loser in my family poll. But then again, I vote with my heart and the head always wins. Till then …
