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Cancel the Oscars: Hollywood’s Chance for Real Sacrifice

The Oscar nominations are out, and the film industry is gearing up for its biggest night.

But outside the Dolby Theatre, Los Angeles is suffocating. California’s wildfires are raging worse than ever, with thousands displaced, homes destroyed, and billions in damage.

Yet Hollywood presses on with its glittering spectacle.

This year, the Academy has a chance to do something unprecedented: cancel the Oscars.

It would send a message that the industry values more than branding and self-congratulation. It would be a true act of sacrifice in a state desperately in need of real action.

The Oscars aren’t cheap. The ceremony costs tens of millions, much of it taxpayer-supported. That money should be diverted to wildfire relief, helping displaced families and rebuilding communities.

Instead of red carpets and gift bags, stars could use their platforms to highlight the crisis.

California’s fires have already burned over 3 million acres this year, with damages topping $15 billion. Thousands have no homes to return to.

Meanwhile, Hollywood’s awards season carries on, selling movies and streaming subscriptions as if the crisis were just another backdrop.

Canceling the ceremony wouldn’t solve climate change or extinguish flames, but it would mark a turning point.

For too long, Hollywood has relied on speeches and symbolic gestures to address global crises. This would show real leadership.

The Oscars have survived wars and pandemics. But maybe survival isn’t enough anymore.

It’s time for Hollywood to let go of its golden idols and focus on something bigger.

Cancel the show. That’s an ending worth celebrating.

He Wore Blue Velvet


Nightmares.

David Lynch turned them into art. Not the kind you admired from a safe distance, but the kind that pulled you in, shook you up, and left you questioning what you had just experienced.

My first Lynch encounter was in high school. I went to a midnight showing of Eraserhead with my best friend. I didn’t know who Lynch was, didn’t know what the film was about, and didn’t care. We were bored, and it sounded strange enough to be fun.

What I didn’t expect was to walk out of that theater feeling like I’d just woken from the worst dream of my life.

It was disturbingly genius. The strange baby, the relentless soundscape, the suffocating atmosphere—it all left a mark.

Lynch didn’t just tell stories. He made you feel them. That’s when I realized his films weren’t casual viewing.

You didn’t throw on a Lynch film the way you might a comedy or even a thriller. You had to be in the right mood. You had to be ready to let him take you wherever he wanted, no matter how dark, strange, or unsettling the journey.

Years later, I saw Blue Velvet. It wasn’t just Lynch’s best film—it was one of the best films I had ever seen.

It started simply: a severed ear found in a field. But nothing was simple in Lynch’s world. That ear was like the start of a bad drug trip, one you couldn’t escape.

The idyllic suburban façade crumbled fast, revealing a world of darkness and depravity. It was horrifying, but it was also mesmerizing. Lynch’s use of light and shadow, his juxtaposition of innocence and corruption, and that unforgettable performance by Dennis Hopper as Frank Booth—it all felt like a perfect storm of filmmaking.

What made Lynch unique was his refusal to explain. He didn’t hold your hand or give you easy answers.

His films were like puzzles missing just enough pieces to keep you guessing forever. In Blue Velvet, you never fully understood Frank or his madness, but you felt the terror he brought. In Eraserhead, the grotesque baby and the oppressive industrial wasteland defied logic, yet they burrowed into your psyche and lingered there.

Lynch didn’t just make movies. He crafted experiences. They were visceral, disorienting, and unforgettable.

Whether it was the hypnotic unease of Twin Peaks, the raw terror of Mulholland Drive, or the surreal poetry of The Elephant Man, his work pushed boundaries and shattered expectations.

He showed us that nightmares had their own beauty. And for that, we’ll always be uneasily grateful.