Celebrities, I beg you: don't turn the Oscars into an elite political circus

Let’s pray it’s just about the frocks. Because we love the Oscars for the frocks, don’t we? From Gwyneth’s diaphanous t-shirt to Bjork’s swan via Cher’s spider web. And that’s just a sample of past triumphs.

I hope it will be light and frothy and frocky but I have a nasty feeling it won’t be, because, when a billion people are watching, and the wrong person is centre stage at the White House, it sometimes occurs to fancy Hollywood people that a bit of political discourse is just what is needed at the podium.

You know what, folks? It’s not. Please please, Ryan, Meryl, Denzel and whoever else gets up there, please just keep the speech to thanking your chiropractor or whatever. Don’t launch off into notions of fairness and equality, tough times and democracy. Because whatever the Academy is, and it is many important things, it is not about some sort of liberal consensus offering a real, considered and valid opposition to Donald Trump. It just isn’t. The culture it continues to promote, (and Oscars night is nothing if not a promotional exercise), is overwhelmingly male, pale and stale (even if this year’s nominations haul is more inclusive than last year’s).

Furthermore, I start getting a bit jumpy when people whose lives are cosseted and fussed over more than anyone else on the planet all start becoming champions of the oppressed. This year, the Baftas reached new heights of ludicrousness, thanks to the line of celebs leaping up on stage to prove their political colours, wittering on about division, “breaking down borders” and the “redemptive power of creativity”, whatever that means. Only Mark Rylance, who spoke about his craft and Ken Loach, whose films actually do challenge the status quo, managed to escape with their integrity.

If you are riding in on the wave of La La Land, which is a film that essentially champions two people giving up a mutual destiny in favour of pursuing their own destiny, you can’t really stand there and present a bleeding heart scenario about community.

The triumph of Trump, who was surrounded by very few celebrity endorsers, over Clinton, who had a lot of them, was in many ways a national move of exasperation against those who have all the luck, by those who have precious little of it. And the Oscars is nothing so much as a parade of the lucky ones.

When it arrives en masse on Oscar night, the Hollywood elite can appear not inspirational, but alienating. As they barrel down the red carpet, fenced off from ordinary people and under the glare of a million flashlights, they look like another species. These are perfect people who will never have to find a parking space, never have to buy their own clothes, do their own hair, sport their own jewellery or worry about healthcare. They might hold up placards saying “Refugees Welcome”, but in such a red-carpeted island, this worthy sentiment might seem like lip service by an insulated industry in which individuals take home goody bags reportedly worth $160,000.

Oscar night is, of course, an unusual event, but it is an advert for the miraculously special bubble in which Hollywood operates. I’ve reported at the Oscars. I’ve been part of the press pack, asking questions like “who are you wearing?” That’s all fine. Leave the placards at home, darlings, and just keep it to the sequins.