Awed by Unbearable Lightness of the Award-Ceremony Season

Now that we’re knee-deep into the awards-ceremony season, I’d like to tell the stars what I see in the stars: I see public humiliation in your future.

I am referring to you, the stars of television, movies, records and all allied rights pertaining to the work, including without limitation remake, videocassette, videodisc and commercial tie-ups. As the lawyers say, “You need language.”

I mean, here it is your shot at the megabigtime, and you stand up there before millions of potential consumers mumbling about your moms and dads and your manager Swifty Bernstein. How dare those high-paid agents and personal managers and exercise trainers let you get up there to make a fool of yourself? They wouldn’t think of allowing you to dress like a moron. Unless you’re Cher.

The fate of some performers is sealed at these events. Think of poor Sally Field heading toward a tombstone marked: “To Know Me Was to Like Me.” Or Sacheen Littlefeather forever schlepping around that portfolio distinguished only by: “Stood in for Brando at Academy Awards.”

I know about these things because I am a hard-core awards ceremony watcher. I haven’t missed an event--not the Tonys, the Oscars, the Grammys or the Bozos. The Bozos are given out for such lesser-known achievements as Best Performance by a White Singer in a Category Once Created for Blacks. I can’t explain why I watch these shows because they are almost always dreadful. My daughter reminds me that each year, as the Academy Awards ceremony ends, I say, “That was the worst one yet.”

Awards shows generally leave you with the impression that without scripts, directors and coaches, your average great star is a complete bust. It’s like the emperor’s new clothes--the star is naked except for an $8,000 gown.

The one bright light is that the public will be devoted forever to anyone who manages to liven these things up. Robin Williams may not actually be that funny, but his award-show blitzes are among the greatest moments in television.

Recently, when I watched the American Music Awards, I was struck by the young stars’ thank-yous. The standard speech seemed to be, “I’d like to thank God, my manager Buddy Goldfinger and Barry Goldwink of S&M; Records.”

Someone needs to counsel these people about the separation between God and capitalism.

I understand that stars, in their arrogance, assume it’s important to appear modest and surprised at these events. We have all marveled at the award-winning displays of awe a favored contender can show at such moments. Take the multiple winner, who begins with “I can’t believe it.” In his next appearance, we get the ever-popular “This is just the icing on the cake.” By the third award, the speech is a curt “I’m really grateful; now get my car.”

Personally, I have always enjoyed the political speeches that people make at these events because it enlivens the drama in what is usually a deadening display of industry inarticulateness. If you can’t be funny, you can at least believe in something.

“I’d like to thank the board for honoring me with this award, but as long as there is one person lying in the gutter in front of my limo, I can’t really party. . . .”

The other thing I always appreciate is complete sincerity. I keep waiting for the performer who has the guts to tell it like it is.

“I’d like to thank my mom and dad for making me the neurotic, driven person I am. I’d like to thank my ex-spouses for getting out before I had to share any of this glory with them. I’d like to thank my current spouse for putting up with me, but I never really get the devotion I deserve. I’d like to thank my manager, but I think he is a money-grubbing dog. I’d like to thank my agent, but it was my work and not his mouth that got me the gig. I’d like to thank God, but I’ll wait and see how much this is ultimately worth.”

Now, that would surely be the Best Performance by an Egomaniac in a Humble Role.