Issue Date: March 16, 2003

In this article: How two Super Sundays stack up

SUPER SUNDAYS

Super Bowl vs. the Oscars

They are the ultimate American idols, home-grown contests that hold millions captive around TVs worldwide. Now more than ever, these pop culture exports remind a global audience -- and ourselves -- who we are.

By Mark Levine

Tampa Bay receiver Keyshawn Johnson, fresh off his Super Bowl win, and Steve Martin, host of next Sunday's Oscars, camp it up exclusively for USA WEEKEND.

They are the yin and yang of American public life, the moon and sun of our communal rituals. Together, more Americans watch them than attend church or vote in presidential elections. One is a festival of culmination, a final day of revelry before packing it in for the rest of the long, dark winter. The other is a rite of spring, featuring a parade of latter-day fertility gods and goddesses clad in outlandish designer garb.

They are, of course, the Super Bowl and the Oscars. Like it or not, they are America's preeminent means of announcing itself to the world; we can share our ideals with hundreds of millions of our friends (and enemies) around the planet.

In tandem, the two events unfold the larger-than-life story that we most want to believe about ourselves: that we love fame but reward diligence; that we are ferocious but fair; and that we worship fleeting beauty and enduring courage, glamour and self-effacement, in equal measure. If the Super Bowl and the Oscars did not already exist, surely we would have to create them.

Both are the domain of those with extraordinary physical attributes -- those who are stronger, or more beautiful, or more adept, or less averse to pain than we are. One emphasizes the spirit of collective effort, by gathering anonymous men in identical uniforms -- even their faces are largely concealed -- to sacrifice themselves for the shared ideals of the tribe. The other glorifies the exceptional individual, who is celebrated for the very beauty and talent that sets him or her apart from lesser members of the species. Virtually anywhere there is a television -- in Afghanistan, in Uruguay -- these grand pageants are watched.

The grip they have on our collective imagination is hardly accidental. It's deeply rooted in mythology. The Super Bowl tells the tale of a final battle. Although great men -- the Joe Montanas and the Emmitt Smiths -- shine under such circumstances, it is forever a contest between archetypal hordes, the Buccaneers and Raiders, the Cowboys and Steelers. Our attention may get diverted by peripheral narratives -- this year, there was the issue of loyalty (coach Jon Gruden's) and a clash of two generations (Keyshawn Johnson vs. Jerry Rice).

But the dominant theme of the Super Bowl is that justice is best meted out on the battlefield. Not surprisingly, the theatrics of the event have a way of being exploited for political purposes -- particularly during wartime. When President Nixon started a tradition of placing a congratulatory postgame phone call to the winning coach, U.S. involvement in Vietnam was dividing the country, much as the question of war against Iraq hung over this year's contest, lending a special poignancy to the countless shots of troops watching the game from remote stations.

No doubt, part of the Super Bowl's appeal is its ability to make us feel more united than we actually are. After all, football is at its core a war game -- a struggle in the trenches for turf between an offense and a defense -- and the spectacle arouses enthusiasm for battle and assures us that the task can be done efficiently and reasonably.

Above all, the Super Bowl offers us a model of the kind of moral clarity that can be elusive on the playing fields of our lives. Its scores are settled on neutral territory, and its teams are governed by inflexible rules. There is little room for favoritism or sentimentality or emotional nuance. Football knows right from wrong. The field is the great equalizer: Ivy League education and good looks will not save you when you are in the path of a steamrolling linebacker. The Super Bowl shows us a world we all can agree on -- one in which, far removed from the messiness of everyday life, strength and skill and practical intelligence prevail. Its champions earn their trip to Disneyland, because they prove themselves to be rulers of a magical kingdom.

The Oscars, on the other hand, restore us to the ferment of the social world. On Oscar night, we are voyeurs, luxuriating in desire, envy and scorn for those from whom we have been cordoned off. Oscar's realm of mythology allows charm, money, fame and influence to matter. Sex and youth count above all, which is why, to Oscar's disgrace, women over 40 (unless your name is Meryl Streep) are rarely on display. The identity of George Clooney's date is of great importance, and Julia Roberts' gown always will be a topic of conversation.

The results of the balloting may be certified by the folks at PricewaterhouseCoopers -- and who would distrust an accountant? -- but the voting itself is done in private, where the familiar traits of pettiness, jealousy, love and allegiance run amok. We practically expect an undeserving nominee or two to walk away with an Oscar, because the Academy Awards are played in the arena of human judgment and subjectivity, and there are no referees.

Like Greek gods, the stars of the show are magnifications of the best and worst in all of us. No matter that they arrive bedecked with jewels or with a supermodel on their arm or with a complexion whose glow is suspiciously youthful; at the Oscars they are stripped to their most vulnerable selves, utterly at the mercy of the unpredictable. Oscar is unapologetically capricious. Sometimes he punishes worldly success (Spielberg waited almost two decades to be called to the podium); sometimes he exalts it, absurdly, and treats it like art ("Titanic"). The Oscars give us unfiltered human spectacle, in which one is either called to the stage to meet with approval or forced to sit and contend with feelings of neglect and disappointment.

To call the Oscars an industry awards show is like calling the Super Bowl a weekend football game. True, statuettes are handed out, and plays are executed or botched. But the real distinction of these events is that they bring us together, give us something to talk about and get us caught up in a drama whose outcome is almost beside the point. (For many of us, a friendly workplace wager is needed to help us decide which team, or nominees, we favor.)

Although the Super Bowl and Oscars invariably are the most-watched shows of the year -- this year's game drew 88.6 million viewers, and about half that many will struggle to stay awake into the wee hours for next Sunday's Oscars -- in most cases, we don't watch because we're football fans or film buffs. Do you remember who played in last year's Super Bowl? Will you be able to name the best foreign film two weeks from now? We watch for the same reason we eat yams and marshmallows on Thanksgiving: for the consoling sensation of tradition and togetherness, as well as the shared experience of forging ahead into changing times.

When Doug Williams became the first black quarterback to lead his team in a Super Bowl -- the year was 1988, the team was Washington, and Williams was the MVP of the game -- we all broke a racial barrier together. Likewise last year, when Halle Berry and Denzel Washington were the first African Americans to walk off with top acting prizes on the same night, and it seemed possible that stardom, wealth and extravagant sex appeal -- oh, and talent, too -- were finally colorblind. How can we not care about Oscar and the Super Bowl? We live in America.

Super Bowl and Oscars: These twin phenomena, so much more than simply sports and celebrity, hold up a fun-house mirror to us. At one moment they show us the people we wish to be (judicious and strong, if somewhat unemotional), and at the next they show us the people we often are (fallible and impulsive, but deeply feeling). Both images are powerful, because both are us -- what advertisers would call the "core attributes" of the American brand. Our typical ambivalence about mixing idealism with consumerism is allowed, thankfully, to be put on hold for these two events. The commercialism is embraced because the Super Bowl and the Oscars are the most stunning and persuasive commercials for America that our culture produces. They are the Home Shopping Network of us, and by tuning in, we express our passion as avid consumers -- of ourselves.

Mark Levine writes about culture for The New York Times Magazine and is on the faculty of the University of Iowa Writers' Workshop.

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Cover and cover story photos by Robert Sebree for USA WEEKEND. Styling by Joline Towers. Steve Martin's wardrobe by Armani.