The Oscars are Dead, They Just Don’t Know It Yet

They stumbled into the Dolby Theatre like weary soldiers returning from a war no one understood, clutching acceptance speeches like last rites, blinded by the klieg lights of an industry still desperately clawing for relevance. The 97th Academy Awards, that great American pageant of self-importance, once again rolled out its gilded corpse for public display. And, god help us, they called it entertainment.

Conan O'Brien—gangly, smirking, and somehow still vital—took the reins of this sickly beast and drove it like a mad carnival barker through three hours and forty-six minutes of sequined absurdity. The man deserves a medal for trying, but you can't polish a statue that has long since begun to rust. The monologue? Fine. The skits? Some landed, some didn’t, and others reeked of late-night desk filler. But the true horror of the evening wasn’t in the punchlines—it was in the desperate grasp for meaning.

The movies themselves, a motley mix of important films no one saw and entertaining films no one respected, were paraded before us like exotic animals in a Roman coliseum. Anora swept the night, its director Sean Baker hailed as a genius, its star Mikey Madison declared the Second Coming. But let’s not pretend this was some kind of revelatory moment—the Academy, in its insatiable quest to appear relevant, latched onto Anora like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. That it was actually a good film was secondary to the need for cultural optics.

Adrien Brody, ever the lanky outsider, snatched Best Actor for The Brutalist, standing on stage looking like a man who just realized he left his car running outside. The political statements were few, though Brody gave a vague “let’s fight for what’s right” war cry, and the Palestinian-Israeli filmmakers behind No Other Land delivered an impassioned anti-war plea that might have been the only genuinely human moment of the night. Otherwise, Hollywood played it safe—too battered by strikes, box office failures, and the ghost of Kamala Harris’s failed campaign to risk alienating Middle America any further.

Even the In Memoriam segment—a parade of the truly great and the barely remembered—became a headline. Morgan Freeman, ever the stoic oracle, gave an earnest farewell to Gene Hackman, whose unexpected passing loomed over the night like a ghost at a Gatsby party. The fact that no one seemed entirely sure how he died only added to the mystique.

And then there was the music. Wicked stars Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo belted out a duet, because of course they did, while the audience stood and clapped as if trying to convince themselves that any of this mattered. A bloated tribute to James Bond—complete with interpretive dance, because apparently that’s a thing now—had even the most loyal cinephiles shifting in their seats.

The night’s only genuine burst of joy? The surprise appearance of Mick Jagger, now a spry 81, grinning like a man who knows he will outlive us all. He cracked a few Bob Dylan jokes and sauntered off, leaving a trail of envious stares in his wake. Hollywood’s elite, so carefully preserved in Botox and PR-driven humility, could only dream of such effortless cool.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it? The Oscars are no longer the stuff of legends. They are a long, slow dirge for an industry that once defined American culture. The box office is cratering. Streaming is eating itself alive. The audience, those dwindling few who still care, are watching out of obligation rather than passion. This is a spectacle of inertia, an annual act of necromancy where we prop up the old gods and pretend they still have power.

By the time Kieran Culkin, charming and irreverent, accepted his Best Supporting Actor Oscar, the weariness had set in. Yes, he was great. Yes, Succession proved he could carry a scene like a seasoned pro. But asking him to host next year, as some suggested? A suicide mission. He has too much wit, too much self-awareness. The Academy can’t handle that. They need another safe pair of hands, another talking mannequin to read pre-approved jokes and shepherd us through another year of creative stagnation.

So here we are, crawling toward the 100th Oscars, a milestone that should feel momentous but will likely feel as leaden as the 97th. Hollywood will continue its slow, agonizing decay, clutching golden statues like relics of a bygone era. And we, the audience, will watch. Not because we care, but because, in some twisted way, we love a good train wreck.

Roll credits. Try again next year.