There’s a feeling I always get at the end of a long Oscar night when the movie that won isn’t a terrible choice, but it’s the safe, blah, Mor predictable choice, the one that conforms to the dullest conventional wisdom about the kinds of movies Oscar voters prefer, because in the core of their being they’re out to reinforce a don’t-rock-the-boat vision of what a movie should be.
The feeling gathers, imperceptibly, over the course of the evening, and by the time the best picture winner is announced the feeling has a name: mild depression.
Here are a handful of the winners that have inspired it: “Chariots of Fire,” “Out of Africa,” “Dances with Wolves,” “The English Patient,” “The Artist.”“Crash” winning out over “Brokeback Mountain” was a train-wreck category all its own.
But that points to a crucial issue about the best picture winners
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