I watched the Academy Awards last night and missed the mark a little bit.

Seriously, Hollywood doesn’t get this. A roomful of spectators who have paid for an elaborate, booze-fueled, high-gloss evening experience, and then you dare to point out the kind of chintzy, inauthentic design that you most regret having driven yourself to do. Why? Because it’s kind of hard to even complain about a theater’s own bedraggled junk when you’re treated as an equal by the weird and half-drunk people who enjoy the experience just fine. Why should we be any different?

Looking at the yellow seats, the compact, plastic, fold-out chairs, the terrible glow in the darkness, the tinny, muffled sound — oh man, there’s just too much going on for any of it to work. I’m not so picky about the look of a building. Someone makes a decision that I don’t like, I feel a little sorry for that one, and that’s all there is to it. But Hollywood can learn a lesson from real theater, of which there is very little.

Can you see the title of this film? Can you even read it? Neither, as it turns out. But given the staggering optimism, the superficial believability, and the complete lack of plausible backup in the universe, she still felt the need to assure us it’s fake anyway.