Most of the memorable stuff from Sunday night’s Oscars telecast came in the second half when Ryan Gosling led maybe the best musical performance in the history of the show, John Mulaney aced his audition to be next year’s Oscars host, and Al Pacino woozily gave out the film’s final award. From the first hour, Da’Vine Joy Randolph’s tearful acceptance speech seems to have been the audience favorite, but let’s not forget the passionate words of Cord Jefferson, who won Best Adapted Screenplay for American Fiction, a film he also directed.
Jefferson found an unusual path to Oscar’s glory. He came up as a journalist with bylines at the New York Times, Huffington Post, and USA Today, where he wrote on race, pop culture, and more. He served as an editor at Gawker for several years, then made the jump to television as a writer for The Nightly Show with Larry Wilmore, and producer of Master of None, The Good Place, and The Watchmen. Most recently, he was a writer and producer of the critically acclaimed limited series Station Eleven. American Fiction was his first film of any kind, and it won him an Oscar. Not bad.
Moving from writing about culture to creating it, Jefferson found himself in a unique position to speak truth to power about the business of film. I’ll be honest: His speech won me over immediately. Most winners get to the podium, pull out a piece of paper, and run down a list of friends and collaborators to be thanked. It’s an understandable impulse, but it makes for less than exciting television, and Jefferson seemed to understand that. He started by simply thanking “everyone who worked on the film,” and then got to his actual point.
“This is a risk-averse industry,” he began, “but $200 million movies are also a risk. Instead of making one $200 million movie, try making twenty $10 million movies, or fifty $4 million movies.” The audience lit up at this suggestion, drowning him out with applause before he could even finish his sentence. It’s not a new sentiment, but it’s still an important one. Now more than ever, studio executives protect their jobs by approving big budgets for films based on proven intellectual properties. If it goes wrong, at least they’ll be able to justify the risk because, hey, it worked on the last one. When a film with a truly original vision flops, it’s harder to explain why they ever thought it would be a success.
Typically, a message like Jefferson’s wouldn’t ruffle any feathers at the Oscars. The Academy is at this point mostly responsible for keeping the mid-budget film for grownups alive. But it felt even more important at this year’s ceremony when two of the most financially successful films of the year—Oppenheimer and Barbie—were also the Academy’s favorites. “Blockbuster creep” has already taken its toll on the studio system, but what if it comes for our Oscars? Hollywood is a copycat industry, and while most viewers would be thrilled at the prospect of more established directors in the category of Nolan and Gerwig getting massive budgets to bring their passion projects to life, it might crowd out unproven filmmakers like Jefferson, and remove a rung from the ladder that they use to establish themselves in the first place. Though the occasional blockbuster transcends and proves its value as art and not just commerce, the Oscars are supposed to be more a safe harbor for non-blockbusters, drawing people to them and equaling the playing field a little.
Jefferson walked a tightrope in his speech, honoring the auteurs of today while urging the rest of Hollywood to back the next generation. “I felt so much joy making this movie, and I want other people to experience that joy,” he said. “The next Martin Scorsese is out there. The next Greta is out there—both Gretas [Lee and Gerwig]. They just want a shot, and we can give them one. Thank you to everyone who worked on this movie for trusting a 40-year-old Black guy who had never directed before.”
Jefferson’s delivery made the speech feel extemporaneous, but it couldn’t have been written any better. He blended personal experience with off-the-cuff ebullience—in the tradition of Cuba Gooding, Jr. or Ben Affleck and Matt Damon—ensuring that his pointed message to Hollywood didn’t come off as scolding or condescending. He didn’t thank his agent, his manager, his producers, his leading man, the author of the novel the film was based on, or even his publicist. He’ll save that for later. Instead, he used his platform to speak from a unique vantage point of being both of the industry and outside of it to give Hollywood a message they needed to hear. Let’s hope it didn’t get lost in Ken-sanity.
