Oscar Predictions: The Six Stages of Victory

Some of you out there in bloggerland might care to know that besides timely rants and clever observations about current events, I also enjoy going to the movies. This perfectly benign activity is accompanied by my annoying ability to tell you all the other films the director made and what else the more obscure supporting actors appeared in, which is especially exasperating to my wife given I still can’t remember which disposable items go in the recycle bins, even though she has posted written instructions and has reminded me countless numbers of times, but anyway…

You might think this movie geektitude and the fact that I try to see most of the films nominated might indicate insight into the winners of the Academy Awards this week. The simple answer is—not really, no. Although, I do try.

Each year in February I engage in the rather enjoyable ritual of getting in touch with my two best friends from law school, Mike and Jeff, to make Oscar predictions. Over the last ten years, we haven't bet anything you might actually win, but that’s never been the point. The point is to beat your friends, and victory must come in stages.

Stage One: The first quest for glory comes in the ability to predict not who will actually win which awards, but to forecast mastery over the others in the only-three-lawyers-would-act-like-this category of, “Superior knowledge on a general scale that makes the other two participants weep at my greatness.” Once verbal barbs regarding the prowess of one’s own mental abilities has been made by each old friend, usually via volleys of emails or left voice mails, it’s time to recall past contests.

Stage Two: Championing ones intelligence is almost immediately followed by ridiculing each other for past mistakes and incompetence. This is especially difficult for Jeff and me, because, unfortunately, Mike wins year after year. This is Mike’s favorite stage. He likes it even more than the actual win in the middle of the night of the telecast. During this stage, he writes a four page email about how he wins year after year and goes on an on about how he is great and how we “lick” and how we should “put on our red noses” and “floppy shoes,” “kiss Clara Belle,” and “cram into our red wagon with our big top friends.”

Stage Three: Jeff and I mount retorts. I usually resort to predicting victory in each new year by citing my track record of always coming in second place. I recall honorable finishes that were clearly undermined through some sort of malfeasance, bribing, or lawyer trick employed by Mike. Jeff, to his credit, does not sink to this desperate level. He usually says that he has the inside track on “Best Animated Short,” and will win someday.

Stage Four: We make our picks. Mike and I exchange predictions via phone. He uncannily picks Las Vegas favorites, although he denies doing so. I pick from the heart. Yes, I am the one who picks the ones I want to win. As for the obscure categories, we employ various schemes. I usually go with the one with the shortest name. Mike likes to find out if the Holocaust was the subject matter, and then he picks that choice. Somebody tracks down Jeff, who is always last with his picks, and completely oblivious to this year’s nominations. Jeff likes to put whomever he’s talking to on speakerphone. That way his hands are free to eat a sandwich or drink a 72-ounce 7-11 Slurpee.

Stage Five: Oscar Night. The moment Best Supporting Actor is announced, I take the lead while the other two, who went with the favorite, sulk. That also means its time for a phone call. The thrill of Oscar Night is the play-by-play. Mike is in New York, Jeff in Colorado, and I’m in Oregon, and our phones become the instruments of our trash talk. Mike takes a share of the lead when the live action short about the Holocaust wins, and Jeff stops phoning when Mike figures out that Jeff has been mathematically eliminated. Mike moves into first place alone when Randy Newman loses again—his mantra of never voting against Disney in the song category is infuriating. Mike furthers his lead when his “safe bet” takes home the actor or actress award. Now, only I can overtake Mike, and only if I run the table on a fairly tricky Director contest and my long shot wins Best Picture. Best Director is read and I am back in the game. It’s all down to Best Picture….

Stage Six: It’s 1 a.m. on the East Coast, and Mike nimbly punches redial one more time.
I begrudgingly answer.
“What,” I feebly say.
“Lick.”
Visit my website at this link: David Frick