At the mention of his name, and with a look of profound relief and that usual squirrel-spark in his eyes, Martin Scorsese nods to himself, rises from his chair and makes his way to the stage. Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, Francis Ford Coppola and that tall brunette, whose presence speaks of sold souls, waits to hand Martin his Oscar. Hugs are exchanged. Martin admires the little gold fellow. He steps to the mike, and begins.
Thank you, thank you everybody. Academy members, Steven, Francis, George, boy, this is an honor, thank you so much. I have so many people to thank, I barely know where to begin.
I guess I’ll begin by offering my gratitude to Paul Greengrass, Alfonso Cuaron, Pedro Almodovar, Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, Guillermo del Toro, and any other director this year who made powerful and original films, much better than my own. It feels strange being up here, looking down at these directors, remembering when I was beaten by films like Rocky and Ordinary People and Dances With Wolves, a trio of perhaps the most embarrassing Oscar wins in its admittedly weak history. I know what it feels like, boys, to think about the little masterpiece you made and watch that big-budget, heavily-marketed, lugubrious film pass you by. Or the award for the guy who gets it just because he’s paid his dues.
See, I paid my dues. I know The Departed is far from my best, ignores so many of the things that made my other films great, and is such a bald-faced attempt at winning the little gold man that it’s nearly embarrassing. But it worked. Now I can move on and make the movies you want me to make.
See, for the longest time I did exactly what I wanted to do, and look at my success–money, popularity, films that are not only acclaimed by critics but the public as well. Good god, you’d be surprised how many people will see me on the streets and go, “You lookin’ at me?” or “You think I’m funny? Funny how? Funny like a clown?” or even that guy at the deli who calls himself Rupert Pupkin, claims that he even had his name changed legally. Well that’s great. It’s wonderful. People know me, they love me. But my best work–just like the best work of the directors I just thanked–didn’t get me one of these.
Now you may ask yourself: why the heck do I care if I get an Oscar, when so many great directors never won the gold? Good question. In fact, a friend of mine–he’s a sommelier at this great little restaurant in wine country–pointed out how similar my career was to Hitchcock’s. Critical and popular. Thrillers that meant more, so much more. Old Hitch’s immortal, just as I will be regardless of whether I ever win one of these. Well, my friend’s right. I don’t know what to say except that these little gold statues are an addiction, I think. I don’t know.
A girl no longer in my employ also pointed out that, for a man who directed the life of the Dalai Lama, I sure seem to have jettisoned my Buddhist belief in rejecting attachment. Again, I have to say she’s right.
The Oscars are a funny thing, aren’t they? I mean, so many people watch them, and tomorrow the sales for The Departed are going to skyrocket. And that’s great. If you’re going to make it in Hollywood, really you have to sell your soul at least a little bit, and if you want one of these, you have to sell your soul a lot. The statue is a way of showing, to a world of people who might want to live a good and decent life, the sacrifices we make when we want to give you Taxi Driver or GoodFellas. I mean, I try to have it both ways, making those little PBS movies about Dylan and the Blues, but really I can’t. I had to hurt or kill a very important part of myself to win an Academy Award, and I did it because… well, I’m still not sure. Right now I’m just giddy to be up here, spilling my guts.
The thing that scares me is this: that same woman who wondered about my Buddhist beliefs also wondered, once I’ve given myself over to making the kind of movies that will win me an Oscar, if I can ever go back. If I can ever be edgy again. Pure. Or if I’m stuck casting guys like DiCaprio and Nicholson, instead of talented, hungry newcomers. If I’ll be able to make the cinema charged with electricity, the way guys like Cuaron and Lynch and Tarantino still do. Guys who don’t give a shit about Oscars.
The answer is that I don’t know.
Well, at least I’ve got my Oscar. That’s out of the way. Francis, you’ve got yours. Stephen, you’ve got yours. Hmm. But I remember, Francis, looking at the your Godfather statuettes, behind that thick glass at your vineyard. I was surprised: yours were almost black. They tarnish so easily, don’t they?
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