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When I was a kid, the Oscars were my Super Bowl. I was obsessed with movies — not a movie buff, per se, but a movie fanatic. It didn’t matter the quality of the film: I just wanted to watch everything. Naturally, the Oscars were, to me, not just a celebration of the year’s most important films. I adored the whole package: the pageantry, the clips, the montages, even the overblown musical numbers. (Look, if you were a ten-year-old boy who considered the Oscars to be an equivalent to, if not more important than, the Super Bowl, you were also likely the kind of kid who enjoyed those Debbie Allen-choreographed performances.)

These days, though? It all feels like a chore.

I can pinpoint the year when the Oscars stopped being fun for me, and it coincides with when my taste in film became more refined. In 1997, Titanic, that behemoth of a blockbuster, picked up the top prize. I liked Titanic at the time; I remember being impressed with the special effects, even if I was bored by the story. My favorite movie that year? L.A. Confidential, which is still one of my favorite movies. Sure, I was not like the other fourteen-year-olds I knew, even if I didn’t go see the modern noir multiple times the way they did the marine disaster epic. (I didn’t see it in the theaters at all, because it was R-rated and my parents wouldn’t take me.) I remember being disappointed that my top pick didn’t win, although not surprised. Titanic, after all, had those game-changing effects, the unavoidable theme song, and it was a blockbuster.

The next year, however? Shakespeare in Love won. Man, I hated Shakespeare in Love. (I favored Elizabeth and Saving Private Ryan.) And that’s when I started to notice something about the Oscars: the movies I thought were the best of the year were rarely getting the coveted Oscar for Best Picture.

Not that it matters, of course, but when personal taste is involved, emotions run high. I remember feeling very steamed for two days over that dumb romantic comedy about William Shakespeare. And for what? Luckily, there was no social media then on which I could air my frustration, and my classmates paid no attention. Therefore, my Oscars-inspired rage was short-lived… at least until the following year when Magnolia didn’t even get nominated for Best Picture, and Aimee Mann’s “Save Me” lost to some schmaltzy Phil Collins song from Tarzan.

In college, when I had a better access to movies that didn’t get wide releases, I learned that there were amazing movies that were all but shut-out of the Oscar race entirely — movies that I thought were much more important and interesting than what would end up winning those four years: A Beautiful Mind, Chicago, The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, and Million Dollar Baby. (I admit I like the last of those four movies, but although, hello? Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? Not even nominated for Best Picture.)

And then there was the Internet, which, sure, has brought us a lot of great things. But also? It allows us to be total jerks to each other about literally everything. (Feel free to comment below about how I’m a total moron!) For every good-intentioned comment about the great ills of the world, there are plenty of responses that misread and misinterpret the thing to which those responses are directed. The Internet’s lack of tone and results in most of us (myself included!) jumping to conclusions and becoming prone to making bad faith assumptions about the creator of whatever kind of content we’re consuming. And yes, this is bigger than the concept of an awards show, but just for the sake of this argument here, let’s consider the stupidity that is arguing over the importance of popular awards that do not, in fact, accurately quantify artistic merit but rather represent the personal tastes of those relative few selected to vote on which of eight movies is the best of the year.

I’m already dreading Monday morning so much that I wish I could skip this Sunday’s Oscars completely. If last week’s public discussions debating whether or not two drastically different musicians, Beck and Beyoncé, deserved to win a Grammy for Album of the Year, it’s that these sorts of awards only allow our conversations about popular art to devolve into meanness and misplaced outrage.

There are plenty of issues at play here, of course: movies that get nominated for Oscars tend to achieve more success, meaning those who produce, direct, and star in them receive more notice and, in turn, more work. That’s why Selma‘s glaring omission from nearly all of the categories in which its eligible for nominations (other than Best Picture and Best Original Song) is so repugnant: it suggests, quite rightly, the Academy — which is overwhelmingly white — does not favor films made by, starring, and about non-white people. (One can cynically say that last year’s win for 12 Years a Slave fulfilled some sort of non-white quota for the Oscars, as if we only really need one movie about the historical black experience every few years.) In a time when buying a ticket to a movie like Selma is a political act, it’s very disheartening to see those assumptions come true — even if Selma‘s near shut-out can be partially blamed by the fact that Paramount didn’t sent out screeners for the film.

Having said all of that, I still haven’t gotten over Ava DuVernay‘s snub this year. She deserved the nomination and it’s an unfortunate mistake.

But the major point is that we put too much importance on awards like the Oscars, both in the sense that they’re indicative of greatness and commercial viability. There are more truly great films in cinematic history that did not win — or weren’t even nominated — for any Oscars. That should be the takeaway right there, shouldn’t it? And while we’re at it, trying to be positive and open-minded and achieving our best selves, it’s worth remembering that our personal tastes aren’t our identities. After all, just because I hated Shakespeare in Love doesn’t mean I hate you — and I forgive you for hating Magnolia.

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Photos: Everett Collection