Nevermind the inherently cliched nature of the topic: think-pieces dedicated to the fogey masquerade known as award ceremonies are themselves part of the problem. So, I’ll be brief.
The 69th annual Primetime Emmy Awards aired last Sunday, yet again managing to stimulate the kind of controversy typically reserved for religion or eugenics. The first and loudest row erupted over the appearance of Sean Spicer, former White House Press Secretary and eternal mascot for everything you hate about the current administration. The bit: Spicer playfully acknowledged how much of a fat-faced liar he was while the vacuous gremlins in attendance cooed uncontrollably in the background. Setting aside the partisan hypocrisy as far as the Spicer outrage is concerned, I’ll throw a few stones at the larger picture (with the hope that I’ll kill a few birds in the process).
From recent controversies like Issa Rae rooting for her fellow African-American nominees to win, to last year's disquieting lack of black contenders in the Best Actor category at the Oscars, to the Andy Serkis mocap kerfuffle to Moonlight etc., whether we’re discussing the Oscars, the Emmys the Grammys or whatever, seeking validation from the dusty collection of delicate geriatrics appointed to the impossible task of determining which art is the “best” undermines the entire point of artistic expression. These institutions were founded with a very particular coterie of cheese dicks in mind, so I refuse to accept any of their simpering endorsements. They’re valueless. I don’t need the Academy to comprehend the cultural importance of Moonlight, and neither should you.
Although Andy Serkis’s innovative work in the burgeoning motion capture field owes itself to many technicians and artists, a Best Actor nomination does nothing to vindicate his singular, often moving performances. For any self-respecting artist, I imagine awards that deem you the "best" anything are hard to feel genuinely good about. Can it ever truly feel earned? There is no real way to discern something so intrinsically subjective.
It can only ever feel superficial. Which, in and of itself, would be harmless, except we place a lot of political weight to these things. We’re too quick to conflate the victories of The Handmaid's Tale or Wonder Woman with real, tangible social victories. Not that the kind of critical and commercial success garnered by either one of those properties is meaningless, but let's not kid ourselves. Something tells me that the 4.8 million women who endure domestic abuse each year year in this country might have more pressing concerns than Nicole Kidman taking home a gilded participation trophy. Maybe I'm wrong... oh look, Jennifer Lawrnece fell down a flight of stairs then shat herself -- she really is one of us!
The whole affair seems glaringly more antiquated every year. It’s supposed to be an unbiased meritocracy that now exists in a time helplessly married to propaganda and sensationalism. I make a point as often as I can, in my life as well as in print, to never speak on behalf of the other members of my race, and I won’t now even though I’m tempted. I will say, though, this particular "black guy" can give two fucks about a "golden good boy bust.” .
