The Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences has held almost 100 ceremonies, which means people have been screaming that they got it all wrong in various categories since the Calvin Coolidge administration. It’s a bit like in sports where people root for their favorites (i.e. somewhere, there’s a contingent of moviegoers indignant that Terry Bradshaw failed to take home a Best Supporting Actor Oscar for Hal Needham’s “Hooper”), only that people are arguing over intangible accomplishments rather than touchdowns and what have you.
Once you get used to the way the Oscars work (e.g. they really hate comedy), you realize there is a certain type of film that’s likely to be honored, and those certain types of films attract a certain type of actor — ergo, to a large extent, it’s futile to pull for favorites. Arnold Schwarzenegger was long one of the most popular actors on the planet, but he was portrayed by the media as a walking caricature of himself; only now, in his 70s, could he earn a Best Actor nomination for playing a muscleman in winter. (Consider this Hollywood’s reminder that it’s never too late to drag John Milius’ “Legend of Conan” out of mothballs.)
And yet, there are those actors who are routinely great in a traditional sense, Shakespearean-trained dynamos who light up the screen time and again. These people, you sense, are due Oscars. If they don’t get it their first, second or even third time out, rest assured they will get it. So, what happens when they reach the end of their run on this whirling orb and they’re light one competitive Oscar? You call them Peter O’Toole, and you apologize.