Hermione Eyre: The night I dared not let my Oscars pass out of my sight

Why do we care about the Oscars? Why indeed. Just take a look at the news this week. Devastation here. Extortion there. A toppling Chancellor, a tippling Mayor. And a brand new serial killer. It couldn't get more depressing if someone was ripping me off every month in my gas bill.

Then, out of the gloomy butt-end of February, rises a golden, smooth-sculpted, camp little man with a huge sword between his legs. Oscar! The universal symbol for peace and prestige, immaculate lipstick and control-top pants. The literal gold standard of artistic achievement, the luvvie's Olympic baton. Oscar, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love way the whole franchise takes itself so, so seriously. It's not the Oscars, it's The Academy Awards, appended by that furiously paranoid little (TM). And don't get me started on the security. Last year I went to LA to cover the Oscars and discovered the most thrillingly hyperbolic set of safety procedures imaginable. Getting into the Kodak Theatre was like trying to crack Alcatraz. I had to go through three ticket checks before I got clearance to go to the clearance room.

Then they issued me with a pass and a document entitled: Protecting Your Pass. "Attention – read in full before putting on badge. This badge carries with it significant responsibilities. In the wrong hands it could allow an individual with hostile intent to do immeasurable damage."

Clearly, America is right to defend her greatest cultural export ceremony to the hilt, but does anyone stop to remember that the whole affair is just a rag-and-bone show that has got way out of hand? No. Way. Ho. Say.

I love the way Americans feel about it. At the Hotel Chateau Marmont on the morning of the Oscars last year I overheard a man in dark glasses telling a waiter: "I woke up and I thought: 'It's tonight!' It feels just like Christmas morning." Indeed, Christmas morning with bright blue skies and alfafa beans for breakfast. Bang at the heart of the movie industry's calendar, the Oscars is like a pagan festival, run by the Swiss. The crazy attention to detail and formality are coupled with a deep-seated, blind, tribal devotion to the cult of Oscar. If you think of America as the modern equivalent of the Roman Empire (which isn't really so outlandish – they consume fewer stuffed dormice, sure, but practise the same voracious cultural imperialism, both export and import), then the Oscars starts to resemble one of those mysterious but important festivals that were at the heart of Roman life – Lupercal, perhaps, without the whipping.

I (sort of) love the decadence. OK, no, it makes me a little queasy, but it is still to be wondered at. Like Rome at the heart of its empire, America consumes far more than its share of the world's resources. And Jeez, does it deploy them stylishly on Oscar night. Last year I didn't have a ticket for the ceremony, so I slummed it at Elton John's Aids Foundation Oscar Viewing Party. The marquee air was as warm as blood and the food served on golden platters, on golden mirrored tabletops. LCD screens beamed the awards ceremony from every wall. Sure, the ostentatious consumption was justified by the philanthropic aim of the party, but still, the privilege was world-standard. I remember having a conversation with an 18-year-old boy called Brandon. "Are you in entertainment?" I asked him. "I am," he said. "But I'm trying to get out. My real love is customising luxury cars." The next day I went sightseeing and found myself in the Getty Villa, a perfect replication of buildings from Pompeii. Sometimes LA's imperial pride is more than implicit.

I love the slightly stiff formality of the Oscar ceremony, the way it goes on forever, like the prize day at an exceptionally glamorous school. And I love the way it shows us the stars at their best and most beautiful. America cherishes the traditions it has, and Oscar dignity is one of them. The Oscars makes the Brits look like a roaring bearpit, especially this year's sick parade of wasted talent.

This year, it was touch and go whether the show would go on. But in the end, writers won the new-media rights they had been pursuing, even if only in limited form. The Awards provided a useful bargaining tool for the writers, however, because it has not devalued its own cache. Long live the little male gold standard.

h.eyre@independent.co.uk

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