It’s an honor just to be nominated. Alas, one is not always granted the option for such graciousness. When actors are left out of the running for an Academy Award, they have to make do with being the subject of public uproar, of cries for justice from people whose previous tantrum was over a discontinued potato chip. The Oscar snub has become its own conversational domain, a prominent outgrowth of the Oscars themselves.
During snubbing season, there are endless posts, pieces, reels and threads devoted to this chew-toy of a topic, all arguing about which art and artists should have been recognized by the academy. One could go so far as to suggest that our fixation on Oscar snubs is healthy. In a culture that can’t concentrate, that routinely forgets the names of films and actors, we have trained ourselves to notice what isn’t there. Once a year, we perk up, survey the party and ask: Hey, has anyone seen Janet?
Because I have been given the floor, I will get my own licks in: Jesse Plemons was a revelation in “Bugonia,” like otherworldly (ironic, considering the premise of “Bugonia”), and when Leonardo DiCaprio called Chase Infiniti “the heart and soul” of “One Battle After Another,” it felt like fact, not bias. Personally, I was surprised when neither of those actors made the cut. It would’ve been nice if they had, but they didn’t. And now? Now I must go on living my life.
Some of us are not so sanguine. Perhaps this is because passionate engagement with snubbing offers an unchallenging sort of righteousness. Especially when delivered via social media. For many fans, becoming agitated over the Oscars is a simple way of telegraphing sophistication and memory. You know who doesn’t mind a subtitle and remembers what came out in September? Your very online college friend. You know whose other takes regarding the multiple wars, civil rights violations and humanitarian disasters raging across this planet seem a bit iffy? Your very online college friend.
So maybe let’s enjoy what’s left of this season of anodyne outrage, this inconsequential possessiveness over millionaires whom we do not know. It’s an extension of fandom to be nonplused that one’s favorite actor or film was left off a list. If people take these things personally, it’s because a film has done its job.
That said, there’s nothing that puts film fans on message quite like the actors and directors themselves. Normally, I am not one for recommending the emulation of celebrities, but the people involved in awards shows seem to have a more nuanced view of snubs than those watching at home. Granted, these are professional performers, cornered into playing nice. They have to comport themselves under an umbrella of politics and perspective, to deftly support their co-workers when only some members of their team received recognition for the same project. Audiences have the luxury of getting “still mad” about snubs, years later. (Don’t get me started on “Yentl,” not again!) Realistically, all of Hollywood can’t possibly have right-sized this occasion. Otherwise, we wouldn’t get those tearful acceptance speeches. But boy, can they sell diplomacy in the meantime.
Except for when they choose not to. Which is its own kind of seasonal joy. After the exclusion of both Margot Robbie and Greta Gerwig from the 2024 Oscar race, Ryan Gosling made his feelings plain: “There is no Ken without Barbie.” This year, there was a delightful relatability to Kirsten Dunst’s reaction to her husband’s (Mr. Plemons’s) snub for best actor because it mirrored how the non-guild members of society tend to react to snubs. She re-posted a picture created by the comedian Stavros Halkias of himself with a superimposed hand holding a gun and the words: “me to everyone who didn’t nominate Jessie Plemmons [sic] for best actor tho.”
The fact that her husband’s name is misspelled makes it all the funnier for Ms. Dunst to share, all the more dismissive of the enterprise. As a member of the academy, she knows how this works (the elaborate campaigns, the ranked-choice system) enough to know it was not unstoppable. The moviegoing public will often use the word “overlooked” when discussing snubs. But it’s not accurate. No one escaped anyone’s attention. Choices were made. Some of them hurt. It’s human not to morph into a stoic about it.
Since 2022, the number of Oscar nominees for best picture has been fixed at 10 (five for all other major categories). Justice is not possible for all. Audiences can disagree with the choices or lose their office Oscar pools, but the bouncer is telling the truth: There really is a private party on the other side of this door. Part of the appeal of this conversation among cinephiles is the speculation about what this must be like for celebrities, those on the business end of a snub. Are they kind of fine with it? How quickly do they tell themselves it’s silly to care? Are they pacing around their kitchen islands? Can someone see if there’s still a pack of cigarettes in the desk drawer?
This is not schadenfreude on the part of audiences; it’s relatability. We all know what this is like. When you receive approval, your peers are a bunch of geniuses. When you don’t, they are out to lunch. What’s always been surreal is seeing this emotional parade televised. Like all seasons, this one must come to an end, and the actual Oscars are upon us. The actor George C. Scott famously called the ceremony itself “a two-hour meat parade, a public display with contrived suspense for economic reasons” (two hours, good one!) and refused an award in 1971.
And yet, we at home continue to crave more of what snubbing season has offered, more moments of humanity, not just humility. That is, if we decide to tune in at all. I, myself, probably won’t watch the Oscars this year. I wasn’t even nominated, for Christ’s sake.
Sloane Crosley is the author of seven books, most recently the memoir “Grief Is for People” and the novel “Cult Classic,” which she is adapting for film.
Source photograph by Global Images Ukraine/Getty Images
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