Okay, so I am not trying to make something overly insightful of the writer’s strike and the awards ceremonies, ’cause truthfully, it really doesn’t matter to me. (I feel like I need to say that upfront because I am about to post another comment about it and that usually suggests personal and impassioned interest.)
But here’s the thing. The Golden Globes ceremony was axed because of the writer’s strike but the Oscars will go on as planned no matter what happens between the writers and the people who pay them. I read it in today’s paper. The show will go on, strike or no strike.
It’s because the Oscars are big. Money-big. The writers will bow to tradition and call a one-night truce. They will lay down their signs, abandon the picket line and allow the Academy Awards ceremony to be brought to the masses in all its pomp, excess and, as at least one Edgling would say, cleavage.
Roll out the red carpet.
The next day, the writers will pick up their signs and be back at it. The one-day truce will dissolve and the war of wills shall resume.
This may sound really off the wall, but this whole scenario reminds me a tad of the famed Christmas Eve in the World War I trenches when soldiers on both sides of the battlefield began to sing Silent Night together, and then proceeded to lay down their weapons and wish each other well.
“Merry Christmas. I’m not going to kill you tonight. But I might tomorrow.”
Is there really such a thing as a temporary truce? If you can find the courage and resolve to be fair, wise, and prudent at the time of your choosing, why can’t you choose it every day? The war could’ve ended on that Christmas Eve if everyone had chosen to do the fair, wise and prudent thing on Dec. 25.
The comparison is not strong enough to stand at full view of course. In the trenches, both British and German soldiers laid down their agendas in the interest of peace. In the current situation, it appears only the writers are willing to sing Christmas carols.
It just seems kind of preposterous, lying down the picketing posters on Oscar Sunday only to pick them back up again on Ordinary Monday. As if neither day matters very much. The strike either matters or it doesn’t. You can’t eat fruitcake and drink schnapps with the guy on the other side of the battlefield on Tuesday and then point a gun at him on Wednesday.
I fear I’m stumbling around in a cafeteria of foggy thoughts. Time for bed. Sweet weekend dreams, everyone. . .