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Now, we take it for granted in a good-natured way that some sections of the business are more interested in making money than in living up to vague theories of value (whether exercised by the Academy, the editorial board of Cahiers du Cinema, the East Duluth Film and Luncheon Club or me).

So, there will be a best picture, whatever gets made. Even if everyone in the industry endeavored to do their worst work (and there have been years when you could credit that conspiracy), one of the miserable lengths of celluloid is going to win best picture, like in 1952.

It is not my purpose to offend anyone but, truly, "The Greatest Show on Earth" is an ordeal if you have to see it now. Yes, it won in 1952, just as it had done well at the box office. And obviously Mr. DeMille had achieved a degree of importance and self-importance demanding recognition.

You could take the broader view and say the Academy honored "The Greatest Show" because it responded to such a wholehearted tribute to the myth and exuberance of show business. That is a nice argument -- but if you accept it, why didn't the Academy settle on "Singin' in the Rain," made in the same year, and still a delight?

The more cogent answer is that many voters were wrong -- and it is about time that this filmgoing public, and the nation at large, recognized the capacious ability to be wrong that is waiting in us all. In my extensive research for this article I have found no more compelling explanation for all manner of Academy decisions than "They were wrong -- so get on with it!"

Which is not to say that the manner of wrongness is less than fascinating. For example, in 1955, apparently, some craze swept through Hollywood -- like a hula hoop -- that said, "Gee, if only we made movies about utterly ordinary people with empty lives, too dull to be in movies." Every stupid idea has its moment, and this one was called "Marty." No, it didn't last.

John Cassavetes exhausted himself over decades with the same credo, with far more heart and invention, but was hardly troubled by the Academy. And so "Marty" got best picture, while "Rebel Without a Cause," a pretty good artistic rendering of ordinary high school (granted the kids were 24) was passed over. This didn't matter much: "Rebel" got its attention -- it is far more seen now than "Marty."

But in that same year, "The Night of the Hunter" was not just overlooked, it was shunned. It did so badly Charles Laughton gave up the idea of directing -- and Robert Mitchum had clinching evidence that acting was a waste of time. Today, it looks as if "The Night of the Hunter" (or it looks like it to me and the Duluth people) was better than any of the best pictures of the 1950s. You see, being wrong does mean that, sooner or later, you have to try to put things right.

No, I'm not suggesting that the Academy should deliberately nominate drastic failures. Their courage leads in other directions: deploring the concentration camps 50 years later ("Schindler's List"), honoring the culture of the Native American once he is suitably moribund ("Dances With Wolves"), knowing that 16th-century show business was terrific and daring and fun ("Shakespeare in Love"). Courage this year might even reach as far as "Good Night, and Good Luck," a movie that dared to defy every antismoking orthodoxy in the new America.

I promised you at the outset that being serious, or solemn, doesn't go very far in feeling good about our best pictures. Still, a few broad rules are evident. The film has to do pretty well (even if at "English Patient" levels), with bonus points for doing better than anyone expected. But enormous, vulgar success can seem crass: so "The Lord of the Rings" had to wait for its third episode before an inescapable best picture Oscar went its way.

A picture nowadays can sneer at ordinary America -- I am thinking of "American Beauty." This is a breakthrough: Once upon a time the sneer was out. But today, when so few of us go to the movies that the practice is nearly elitist, sneering is almost obligatory.

Unalloyed sentiment is appealing again, too -- life is hard (if prosperous) for the Hollywood type, and so "tonic" movies (those that make us feel better) are welcome -- "As Good as It Gets," "Gladiator" (politics will redeem family honor -- that kind of nonsense), "Titanic" (the ship sinks, but love floats) or "Braveheart" (losers have virtue on their side, especially if exterminated).

In a generally liberal community that seldom has to test its liberalism in dangerous ways, Academy time is a season for gestures toward decency, importance, gravity and responsibility (so long as they have made a reasonable amount of money). "Syriana" might seem all the graver an indictment of our greed and corruption just because its storyline is impossible to fathom.

All I'm trying to say is that best pictures are no comfort or guarantee, and often nothing you want to see again a year later. But they help us feel good at the moment, and, as you will have detected already, the political life of America is very much dedicated to how you feel tonight. In which case, I wouldn't be surprised, come February, to see betting action on "Munich," "Good Night, and Good Luck," "Capote," "Walk the Line" and "Syriana."

Is there a lesson? Well, sort of -- try this: The world is going to hell, but show business still has its heart in the right place, and the heart is made for love. Never forget: The best picture is frequently one that would make Mr. Mayer feel good (and superior). Whereas, the best American films (try "A History of Violence" or "Match Point" this year) are often those that spread doubt and uncertainty.