Yesterday, while talking with one of my sane friends whose thoughts drift to film awards perhaps one day a year, the conversation turned to the BAFTAs, which announce the nominations for their 2009 film awards tomorrow.
“The BAFTAs, they’re like the Oscars for British films, right?” she asked.
“Not quite,” I replied. “They’re open to all films.”
“But the British films always win, right?”
“No, not always.” I stared into my pint. “Well, a lot of the time, yeah.”
“Why not just make them for British films, then?”
“Because they want to be like the Oscars.”
“So why do they keep rewarding the Brits?”
The conversation could have circled this way for some time, but fortunately, it was time for another round – and by the time I returned from the bar, the topic had shifted to Pat Robertson.
My friend’s innocent but pertinent questions only grazed the surface of the peculiar identity crisis suffered by the BAFTA Awards, a longstanding institution, kindly regarded by many, that only joined the pack of Oscar precursors nine years ago. Since they did so, it’s become increasingly difficult to ascertain who they are, what they stand for in awards season.
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