Adrien Brody kisses Halle Berry after winning Best Actor at the 75th Academy Awards in 2003. Agence France-Presse/Getty Images

I have a friend who's a spectacular movie nut—sees everything; writes witty film reviews; belongs to a cinema society; knows fancy directors—and watches the Academy Awards by herself, alone. This is not a sad-sack/cat hoarder situation—she's the most social person I know.

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She just doesn't want to be messed with on Oscar night. Everybody who knows her knows of this policy; she has sharply maintained an Oscar Night shutdown for many years. Visitors are not allowed. No exceptions. Her lovely husband is permitted to exist, silently—he may hover in the living room but no talking loudly or phone calls or really any kind of disturbance (he may quietly provide food and beverages).

For my friend, the Oscars are sacred, a Super Bowl Sunday, and she wants to hear and linger upon every spoken word, and can't stand the thought of a smart-aleck interrupting the broadcast. About a decade and a half ago, she hosted an Oscar Night Party and there was a cake and guests had an Oscar pool and screamed every time somebody won. My friend hated every second of this party and never did it again. So now it's just her and the TV and her anxiety. If something crazy happens, she might—might—respond to a text message sent during a commercial break. But that's about it, until about midnight.

I don't feel that kind of passion for the Oscars. I mean, I can totally go there on the solitary television viewing experience; I'd rather spend the night in the trunk of an Oldsmobile than watch "Mad Men" with a crowd, and I really don't need accompaniment for World Series Game 7s, Tour de France mountain stages or Wimbledon five-setters.

But Oscar night holds no tension to me. I see, on average, somewhere between zero and two of the Best Picture candidates in any given year, and there are plenty of nominees I am deeply oblivious to (though this Robert De Niro character looks familiar). And yet, I always watch, like tens of millions of others, because, like the Super Bowl, the Oscars are a cultural ritual. You got to do it! But I believe I fall into the sweet spot of viewers who semi-watch with low expectations. Our attention peaks early for the opening monologue, hangs in through those Supporting Actor and Actress presentations, and then drifts in and out of consciousness until the heavy hardware arrives somewhere around the time local TV is supposed to be doing the weather. It takes forever. The Oscars are sort of like the college basketball season. Everyone gets excited at the beginning and the end, but man, that slog in the middle is a chore.

The Oscars have tried a zillion things to enliven the broadcast over the years—well-intentioned hosts arrive and disappear like Oakland Raiders head coaches, the list of televised awards gets snipped; quirky stunts are added to enliven the black tie drudgery. Not long ago the category of Best Picture was expanded to a whopping ten movies (every selected film also qualifies for the NHL playoffs.) There are fashion misfires and tributes to legends and occasionally some emotional payoffs, but the Oscars can't escape feeling predictable and dutiful, especially since a calendar stuffed with awards shows has already established a reliable pattern of winners. There's some suspense, but surprises are few. It's pretty much the same routine, over and over, year after year, with different jokes and haircuts.

Look: It's not as if sports fans are incapable of going crazy for well-produced tedium. This weekend also brings the NFL combine, a spectacle of running and jumping and fitness evaluation that pretty much proves that football fans would watch NFL personnel sit at a table and eat a bowl of peas. It's also true that sports has been trying to cultivate Oscar night glamour of its own—the ESPYs, the sprucing-up of end-of-season awards presentations, etc. But these starry nights are pretty stiff (and the fashion, besides Russell Westbrook, is awkward at best.) That's okay. Sports doesn't need a night of red carpet validation. A ceremony is no match for a game.

Write to Jason Gay at