Awards predictions of a different kind

Just how ill-advised is the Academy Awards' decision to increase the Best Picture field from five nominees to ten? Not like she's exaggerating or anything, but Kimberly Gadette channels a post-apocalyptic warning that is, um, beyond belief.

To: Mr. Tom Sherak, President
Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences ("the Academy")

Re: The Impending Apocalypse

Dear Mr. Sherak,

I come from the future. Before you dismiss my words as the ramblings of one more unstable member of the hordes circling the perimeter of the Greater Film Industry of Southern California, one more jittery wannabe who's recounted her fictional resume so frequently that she wholeheartedly believes it ... hear me well, O Great White Sherak, before the day turns to eternal night and deeds can no longer be undone.

You have heard stories of the mysterious warrior from the year 2040, baring his impossibly white teeth and mercurial knife as he travels west, carrying The Book of Eli. He speaks of "the flash" of 30 years past. Perhaps you might also recall hearing of the orange-hued blast that briefly appeared outside ViggoMan's window? When he still bathed regularly, before he took to The Road? What was this fearsome flickering? The death of the sun? A nuclear fallout? No sir, it was the last burst of light from what was once known as the paparazzi.

But like the small-boned starlet with the Double-D chest ... I'm getting ahead of myself.

Mr. Sherak, my people have been trying to contact you for some time. We left your assistant numerous messages through the usual channels: tea leaves, footprints in the sand, crop circles ... but she never responded. She may have issues with post-apocalyptic strangers from the future, but that's no excuse for such rude behavior.

Undeterred, we came up with a few time-travel plans because the act of flying, whether hopping around countries or speeding through decades, is growing less reliable with every passing year. We nearly succeeded in 2018, when John Connor committed to sending you his best cyborg (the nice one). Then, hoo boy, along came Terminators 3 and 4 (Rise of the Machines and Terminator Salvation) ... and is it any wonder he called the whole thing off? He gave me a message to deliver to you and your industry friends but, taking the bigger picture into account, this is no time for any additional dust-ups. One desolate wasteland is enough.

We were thrilled when Mad Max volunteered, planning to trick out Doc Brown's DeLorean with some cool stuff from his garage. But when Max learned that the film community was still supervised by Spielbergs and Weinsteins, his face suddenly contorted as he mumbled about unexpected repairs that had to be done on his '73 Ford Coupe. I overheard him saying something about needing to replace his windshield wiper blades.

Our hopes were sparked anew when the heroic Mariner of Waterworld thought he might jump back through time by mounting one of those futuristic yet ancient fire-breathing dragons from Reign of Fire. But once the dragon got a good view of his passenger's webbed feet and gills, the reptilian beast misinterpreted the mount, thinking it was a love match and, as you might imagine, things got awkward. Ah, the Mariner, we miss him to this very day. And you thought The Postman was tragic.

And so, after much chewing of the fat with Eli (whose fat, I'd rather not say), the time-travel task was given to me. Ergo here I stand, delivering this letter in person because ... indulge me as I take an Oscar-worthy dramatic pause .... it was your foolhardy decision to increase the Best Picture nomination field from five to ten that ultimately brought down the world.

Eli requested that I pass on his words: "Given the Hebraic leanings of the Academy, nay the very foundation from whence all cinema stems, how could you and your brethren have ever allowed the blasphemous expansion from five nominees to ten? Might I remind you that the five candidates for each of the major categories represent the five books of the Torah itself? Wishing you Godspeed in correcting this grievous breach of faith." He then carried on about the Book of Revelation, some nasty plagues (sores, flooded swimming pools, earthquakes in L.A., but-what-else-is-new) and, **spoiler alert,* the end of days.

If you refuse to heed my words and amend your actions, understand that the following events will happen with a speed not unlike the disintegration of Pia Zadora's acting career:

Mired in a severe economic downturn, the studios can no longer fiscally support their inordinately long advertising campaigns for Best Picture, aka the "For Your Consideration" ads, splashing across the pages of the industry trades, ie Variety, The Hollywood Reporter. Nor can the studios dish out the additional dollars needed for other media venues, both online and print, as well as those unnecessarily expensive DVDs sent to every Academy member and his masseuse. Pushing five pictures down the throats of the Academy voters had always been bad enough, but ten is simply too much.

The fires of destruction are sown when studio underlings are axed in a cost-cutting effort to pay for the industry ads. In short order, talent agents' assistants reject their usual 80-hour work week for a few late morning appearances in which they pilfer their bosses' passwords, credit card numbers and blank company checks. Landlines go dead, iPhones jam (anyone got an "app" to fix an apocalypse?), Blackberries die on the vine. Beverly Hills restaurants suffer: valets steal cars, waiters refuse to recite the specials of the day since they're otherwise engaged in grabbing fistfuls of food directly off the customers' plates, and chefs throw fits (which in and of itself is nothing out of the ordinary).

The meltdown grows into a worldwide inferno, synergy being such that after the fall of the studios come the corporations, the networks, global infrastructure, Donald Trump, and the Asian stock markets. Since Bernie Madoff is the only one left who knows how to conjure coins out of thin air, he is appointed Secretary of the World Treasury – but it's too late.

In celeb news, Johnny Depp's "Sexiest Man Alive" award is rescinded in favor of a group of real Pirates of the Caribbean. Sure, they're toothless and pungent, but since they're the only guys who still have a substantial cache of cash, even Johnny's angling for an introduction.

The general population tries to hang tough. With the studios in ruins, they turn to the indie community ... but by its very nature of always going it alone, no indie voice can make itself heard above the others. The people then turn to the top of the documentary heap, namely Michael Moore. But given his Charlton Heston fetish, he foolishly tries to step into Heston's old role of Moses. The fact that he steps into said role with fungal, open-toed Birkenstocks and a toga that he's thrown together from a tattered Cuban healthcare banner doesn't help matters, nor the fact that he uses his megaphone to deride George Bush, unable to grasp the fact that W. is no longer the President. It is "Moore" than the crowds can take – and with one solemn nod, the group silently, purposefully stones him to death in the public square.

Oh, Mr. Sherak, such a ruination to have set upon civilization! This best ten-picture nonsense is a veritable Pandora's Box – and speaking of Pandora, not even James Cameron can help you. He's on that big blue planet now, counting his change. Don't be fooled by the white-haired guy collecting all those industry awards here on earth. It's just another clever avatar that Cameron set into motion oh, about fifteen years ago.

As for the rest of you who claim that award shows are meaningless ... perhaps you might want to reconsider?