There’s a Very Good Reason to Cut Those Speeches Short

For years, the practice of limiting award recipients to a few seconds to hastily thank everyone they have ever met seemed unnecessarily brutal, subjecting stars to a ruthless game of “Beat the Clock.� Why not excise the dance numbers, it was often suggested, and let these genuine, emotional, human moments fully play themselves out?

In the last few weeks, however, attending a few non-televised Hollywood award shows has provided a clear reminder as to why producers must impose time restrictions on acceptance speeches, unless they want the Oscars--already a laborious 3 1/2 hours most years--to run until some time past Easter.

Because the plain truth is most people, brimming with enthusiasm and good intentions when presented such a forum, have absolutely no sense of when to shut up.

Indeed, anyone who subscribes to the idea that brevity is the soul of wit never tried sitting through a Hollywood awards show, especially those events not confined by the rigors and demands of television. At such ceremonies there is occasional wit, to be sure, but invariably precious little brevity.

This simple fact has been drummed home at galas ranging from the Caucus for Producers, Writers & Directors’ annual dinner in January to the Writers Guild of America Awards a few weeks ago. And based on history, let us express our sympathies to those bound for today’s annual Publicists Guild of America showcase, which traditionally starts around noon on the Friday before the Academy Awards and ends moments before the Oscar music begins--or at least, that’s the way it always felt in the past.

Consider the Writers Guild awards, presented March 4. Preceded by a dinner that started at 6 p.m., the ceremony began a little after 7. More than three hours later, people were still waiting (or more accurately, those people who hadn’t fled already, which included at least half my table) for the big film awards to be handed out.

It’s worth noting that long-windedness at these affairs is by no means confined to any one group but tends to be an equal-opportunity trait.

Yes, people behind the cameras who normally aren’t in the limelight can go on and on when given the opportunity. The same is often true, somewhat sadly, of older actors and producers who, due to Hollywood’s wanton ageism, haven’t been asked to speak anywhere in awhile and thus have a hard time giving up the stage when they reclaim it.

Even actors at the height of their popularity, however, are prone to babbling endlessly when presented with tangible evidence, to paraphrase Sally Field’s oft-lampooned exclamation, that people out there like them, they really like them.

This should come as no surprise. Although outwardly glamorous, acting is a thoroughly ego-deflating profession much of the time, breeding neurotic and insecure people with ample reason to be both. Few earn a living at their craft, and those who do live in constant fear that the party is about to come to a crashing halt, which isn’t paranoia when the average acting career seldom matches the longevity of an NBA point guard with bad knees.

As a consequence, the moment of validation associated with hearing one’s name after the words “And the winner is� produces an outpouring of relief--followed, in short order, by dread that the performer in question has now been typecast and will never be offered another truly interesting part again, except the inevitable sequel. (I say all this, by the way, as someone who has never won much of anything and assumes, to paraphrase Groucho Marx, any organization that would honor me is suspect on those grounds alone.)

So winners let fly with gratitude, not just for that night’s honor, but every good thing that has ever happened to them in their entire lives. They thank agents, co-stars, people they worked with 20 years ago, studio executives and, if they remember, parents and spouses.

Although this joyous litany is no doubt thrilling for all those mentioned, most of the names mean nothing to the average person at home trying to figure out the aerodynamic genius responsible for holding up an actress’ dress or whether a favorite actor has begun coloring his hair. Left unfettered, these thank-a-thons would continue until most of America starts wondering if there is anything worth watching on AMC or FX.

Doubters need only look back to 1987, when Fox decided to let Emmy speeches run unchecked, largely because the network was brand new and didn’t care if the awards ran until Tuesday. The show came close, clocking in at just over four hours. By contrast, every Emmy telecast in recent years (with the exception of NBC’s expanded 50th anniversary ceremony in 1998) has been rigidly held to three hours, even if it means junking clips for best-series nominees to finish on time.

Acceptance speeches themselves, of course, represent their own kind of sport, a “reality� show more fraught with peril than anything Fox could dream up. Working without a script, you never know what gems will be unleashed or how someone will react. Will she cry? Will he be incomprehensible? Will she keep ranting about the environment until the band starts quietly playing?

The unfortunate part about imposing stern time limits is you occasionally run across someone you could listen to reminisce for hours--a veteran star or producer regaling the audience with memories of CBS patriarch William Paley or MGM’s Louis B. Mayer. Yet given the risk of having less interesting recipients prattle on--naming a half-dozen agents, three managers and 16 producers--it seems only prudent to curb everyone and hope for the best.

In a celebrity culture where red-carpet arrivals spend half their time fielding the pointed fashion question “Who are you wearing?,� perhaps it’s no surprise acceptance speeches reflect their own form of excess. Or maybe it’s just the time of year that causes people handed a trophy to make like the Energizer Bunny and just keep going and going.

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Bracing for the Big One

* A backlash is developing against Hollywood’s fashion machine. E1

* Fashion and Hollywood meet in a week of well-dressed parties. E2