Of All-Stars and Oscars

I love NBA basketball, and I love cinema. I watch both voraciously. I used to* watch both voraciously. Slowly but surely, the more the gap widens between today and my days as a college student, the less "events" which were so monumental back then matter. Make no mistake, watching NBA playoff games and new (or old, for that matter) movies was an event. Nothing else was as critical, as urgent. The way things stand today, the last full movie I watched was in November (the one before that was in June), and since two weeks ago, I have stopped watching sports. That sounds drastic, but it's true. I can hardly think of a bigger time-suck than sports. Like millions, I love Roger Federer. The San Antonio Spurs are my team. It is pure joy being a witness to greatness. If a person or team you like wins, it makes you feel good about yourself. But the truth is, regardless of whether I give them my time and attention, Federer and Tim Duncan will be millionaires. If I don't, there's no guarantee I will become one, but at least I'm giving myself a chance. However, the more crucial point is, no matter how many times I watch Federer serve or Duncan make an off-the-glass field goal, I won't be able to pull off either of those moves unless I actually practice them. Kobe Bryant didn't become Kobe Bryant by simply watching Michael Jordan.

Movies, on the other hand, can be learned by watching. Of course, one cannot claim to be a filmmaker without making a film. But the reason watching movies is less a waste of time is because unlike a drop shot or a "bank" shot, which are tangible actions, cinema is more about the intangibles: angles, light, words, mood, themes, performances. And intangibles are easier to pick up in theory than tangibles. If one harbors ambitions of becoming a filmmaker, they have to keep watching movies to constantly keep themselves up-to-date with the medium. If one harbors ambitions of becoming a professional sportsperson, they have to keep watching their sport of choice...until they're, for example, 15. After that, if they aren't already playing, watching is a waste of time.

Quentin Tarantino is one example that comes to mind when I think of someone who became a filmmaker by "simply" watching--devouring, absorbing--movies. Of course, that he was able to amalgamate his myriad influences to create his own brand of cinema is a testament to his uncanny genius. Look at his filmography. Every single production is unique. You cannot say a certain Tarantino movie is like so-and-so movie. The titles of his movies itself are proof enough of his one-of-a-kindness.

Which brings me to the Oscars. I used to watch the awards ceremony religiously. As far as American cinema is concerned--and, probably, world cinema--it is the award to win. I always thought they were the most trustworthy and legitimate awards, given only to the best. Not the most popular, not the most famous, not the most financially successful, but purely and strictly the best. But as I matured as an individual and looked back at lists of nominees and the names of individuals and films that didn't win during certain years, I became curiously detached from my holier-than-thou view of the Oscars. Martin Scorsese not winning Best Director for Raging Bull? I'm a Robert Redford fan, and Ordinary People was a solid debut for him. But from purely a directorial standpoint, it's a no-contest. 

It's more difficult when the "best" director or actor is not so obvious. The Silence Of The Lambs is one of my favorite movies. I have watched it numerous times. It is a masterpiece. To adapt a book so faithfully and retain the story's intangibles--the macabre nature, the gruesome nuances, the uninterrupted sense of dread--is filmmaking at its best (pun unintended). But what are the criteria used to determine Jonathan Demme did a better job of directing that movie than Oliver Stone did with JFK? Along with Schinder's List, JFK is possibly the greatest movie I have seen. Let's ignore the debatable historical accuracy of it and look at it purely as a film, a work of art. I have watched JFK more than five times, and it is probably the most compulsively watchable film I have seen. I cannot take my eyes off it. And, mind you, it is 200 minutes long. 

Let's consider Best Picture winners. The Departed is one of my favorite films. It is awesome! But how is it better, as a film, than, for instance, Babel? Or, to put it another way, in what respect is Babel a lesser film than The Departed? It is confounding. Last one: Sean Penn in Mystic River. Riveting, gripping, fierce, etc. All valid. He was a force in that film. But how was Bill Murray in Lost In Translation or Johnny Depp in Pirates Of The Caribbean: The Curse Of The Black Pearl any lesser? 

Similarly, I was a regular consumer of the NBA All-Star game. It was great. All the league's superstars on two teams, pitted against each other. When else were you able to relish the sight of Duncan, Kevin Garnett, and Shaquille O'Neal teaming up to defend against the relentless forays of Allen Iverson, Vince Carter, and Jason Kidd toward the basket? It was tremendously exciting. But, for me, the experience began diluting when Shaq, at the peak of his dominance, had to come off the bench because the fans voted Yao Ming as a Western Conference starter. Say what? Charles Barkley, blunt as ever, put it best: "This only proves the fans don't know anything." Since then, the game, and the preceding shenanigans constituting All-Star Weekend, has become progressively dramaless and insipid. 

The trouble is the lack of consistency in selecting the All-Star players. Should the teams comprise stars, regardless of their team's record, or players that are playing like stars that season when one looks at their team's record? In the 2013 game, for instance, Kobe and Dwight Howard are two of the five Western Conference starters because they are superstars, not because their team is winning. On the other hand, players like Tyson Chandler and Paul George were picked because their contribution to their team's success has been immense, not because they are stars. Granted, Kobe and Howard were picked by fans who want to see the biggest names, and Chandler and George by NBA coaches who want to reward players affecting their team's success. But there's another twist: Kyrie Irving was picked by the coaches to reward his stellar play on a losing team. So what is the criteria really?

I am an advocate of Jeff Van Gundy's proposal: only players on teams with winning records should be eligible. The fundamental issue with selecting All-Star players in basketball is one is forced to select individuals in a game that is not about individuals. So the primary question is should the NBA All-Star game reflect the spirit of team, unity, cohesion, or celebrate individual accomplishments to appease commercial interests even though it is against the core theme of what the sport of basketball represents and demands: teamwork?

I haven't given up entirely on NBA basketball and the movies. I still follow various NBA- and cinema-related accounts on Twitter to stay abreast of the latest happenings as much as possible. And I certainly haven't given up on cinema as a whole; movies are transcendent works of art, and there is much to relish in any given effort. All-Star games--and sports, in general--and Oscar ceremonies, however, need to become much more consistent in the former's case, and much less important in the latter's. Sports may be about competition, but cinema has to be about collaboration.