I went to an Oscar Party the other night, at a house in the hills. It was an ok time.
I got a Sunny D and vodka when the who-gives-a-fuck-awards were announced. I’m looking at you, “live action short” and “documentary short.”
I bumped into some snooty, independent film producer on my way back. He was pissed that I knocked his clove cigarette out of his hand. When the winner for “best short documentary” was announced, he sighed loudly and let everyone know that some other nominated short documentary got “screwed.”
I couldn’t help myself. These words fell out of my mouth, “Dude, really, no one cares. You watch small documentary films. You are cultured, we get it.” I let him know that short films and documentaries do not make money, and therefore are not real movies. God, I hate independent film producers.
He replied, “if you cared about film, you would take the time to see the short documentaries.”
“Sorry, I don’t attend student film festivals. If I want to see 5 films about the Iraq War, I’ll turn on the news,” was my rebuttal.
Then he called me a “phillistine,” and went so far as to call me “a sell out, who pressures studios to compromise the director’s artistic vision, so that a film may make more money.”
I said, “thank you.” Then, I flirted with his model girlfriend. She realized how much more money I made and she gave me her number. He had no reply for that.
As people downed more “Let There Be Bloody Marys,” I was forced to listen to endlessly as people called me “friendo,” or told me how they were going to “drink my milkshake.” I wanted to make another oscar movie reference by throwing bowling pins at them, but none were available.
Some good movies that no one saw, won a bunch of awards. It was a good excuse to get drunk.