THE REWARDS OF THE AWARDS : Those Bloopers-Shows-in-Progress Are Full of Little Revelations

I love awards shows. In fact, I’m not just ready for Monday night’s Oscars, I’m ready for an Awards Channel.

For sheer drama and suspense, nothing beats an awards extravaganza. We in the audience never know who might charm us with a bit of outrageous honesty, who will bore us out of our skulls, who will use acceptance speeches to postion themselves for upcoming deals, who’ll show us the most of their anatomies, who will thank God, who might cry, who will talk to their awards (Remember Barbra Streisand’s “Hello, gorgeous”?), who’s going to get existential on us or who will genuinely break through and touch our jaded little hearts.

I must confess I’m enamored of awards broadcasts for some of the silliest reasons. I like to hear what actors and actresses say when they’re in charge of the scripts. And what a fashion show we get when the stars dress themselves! Most of them do just fine and some, like Meryl Streep, have even mastered the ability of looking stunning but not self-conscious about it. (They ought to give her an award for Best Glow.)

Then, of course, there are always The Statements. At last year’s Academy Awards, Prince came dressed as a cross between Mata Hari and Mother Teresa. So far in ‘86, he looks more like Rudy Vallee. And how about David Lee Roth’s bare-midriff, Hawaiian-print tux at last year’s MTV Awards?

My favorite anti-fashion plate of the moment is Whoopi Goldberg, a newcomer to the awards circuit who’s apparently allergic to evening gowns. At this year’s Golden Globes and Grammy festivities she dressed as if her idea of a big night on the town is going break dancing.

Nonetheless, I’m rooting for Whoopi to be named emcee for the ’87 Oscars. Not only does she have a personality to match her name and a smile that is entertaining on its own accord, her mouth is as fast as Jim McMahon’s arm. She enlivened the recent People’s Choice Awards, for instance, by issuing one of the smoothest, coast-to-coast come-ons in television history. After Don Johnson, in Los Angeles, informed the viewers that five years ago he wouldn’t even have been able to find the ceremony much less win an award, Whoopi followed (in New York, a few awards later) with: “Don Johnson, honey, next time you can’t find your way, I’ll show you where to go.”

At last month’s Grammys, Whoopi picked up a prize and got so excited that she uttered one of the expletives not allowed on television. She caught herself, though, and came back with, “Sorry, I forgot where I was.” Minutes later, she was on stage as a presenter with Billy Crystal--whom she had just beaten for Best Comedy Recording--and the two of them did crazed send-ups of each other. He wore a Whoopi dreadlock wig and she countered with “marvelous” jokes. But as much as the the humor, I liked what they were broadcasting between the lines: that no award, or lack of it, could dampen their friendship.

Awards programs are full of little revelations like that, even when they more closely resemble bloopers-shows-in-progress. And when these marathons get ponderous, as they almost always do, they still provide odd bits of truth-in-packaging information presented virtually nowhere else. Consider an Alfred I. DuPont Columbia University Broadcast Journalism Awards program of a few years ago, the one that let it be known precisely how old and weather-beaten Mike Wallace can look under less-than-tender lighting and camera angles.

Likewise, I’ll always remember the year I watched the Oscars on a giant television with a group of irreverent friends. If you really want to dish the stars, to see through slickly produced veneers, big screen TVs provide a simple, if sick, way to do it. Every blemish, every laugh line, and, in the case of singers, every filling is visible when heads are magnified to 45 inches. However, as my friends and I sadly learned, some myths are better left undisturbed. We missed enjoying one of the best performances of the year because we were watching an obese singer’s head blown up as big as an 8-year-old’s body.

But I still want an Awards Channel. Along with giving us the best and the worst of human nature, awards shows clue us in to the prevailing values of prize-giving organizations. They teach us both the gracious and the offensive ways to accept acknowledgment--or failure, as the case may be. And they remind us, when we agree with their judgments, to celebrate the good work being done today.

The possibilities for an Awards Channel are endless. Perhaps the business press could be persuaded to produce the Megabucks Awards, handing out citations for such things as Best New Products or Most Improved Services. And wouldn’t you love to see whether they name Carl Icahn or T. Boone Pickens Jr. Corporate Raider of the Year?

The League of Cities might present another annual show, dispensing honors to cities with the least number of potholes or best-balanced budgets. Should the programming run thin, the station could always show the Best of Oscar, Grammy, Emmy and Tony. I’d settle for a just a retrospective of appearances by Jack Nicholson or Bette Midler.

As I see it, awards shows are learning experiences for all concerned, especially the audience. We get to see who has soul and who’s lost it. We get to scrutinize both the style and substance of those we admire and, hopefully, to appreciate the difference. As Waylon Jennings reminds us, “It ain’t how you look, it’s what you got under your hood.”