The awards season for the movie biz has come to an end, not with a bang but a whimper. It’s a sad fact that the Academy Awards are an annual embarrassment and this years was a new low — questionable nominations, tedious production and viewership down 16 percent.

BAFTA puts on an elegant show with a handsome crowd in a stately theatre. A witty host, Stephen Fry, limits himself to a few opening one-liners, then gets out of the way. Awards, speeches, goodnight everybody.

The Independent Spirit Awards in a tent on a beach are loose and fun. The opening sketch sends up some of the year’s entries. The presenters and recipients occasionally act like humans, not scripted automatons. What’s not to like?

SAG at least understands the point of its show — to celebrate actors and acting. But what is the point of the bloated 210 minute Academy Awards telecast? Not to mention the Red Carpet pre-show with inane TV chat from gushing fan-girl reporters and the after shows with more inane chat and snarky remarks about fashion by a panel of grotesquely unfashionable gargoyles.

In theory the Oscar telecast is a three and a half hour commercial for motion pictures, but you wouldn’t know it from the show. Rather than celebrate movies, the show seems to be celebrating vaudeville or old style variety shows like Ed Sullivan. This one had everything except a plate-spinning juggler.

The host was the over-exposed Neil Patrick Harris who is as far from Hollywood as you can get. Emmys or Tonys, fine, but how does he remind viewers of the larger than life magic of movies? Not by singing, dancing, performing audience participation japes, a burlesque skit in his underwear and a Penn and Teller illusion.

Then there were the giant production numbers of five forgettable nominated songs by people largely unconnected to the movie in question. Lady Gaga, almost as hard to avoid as N.P. Harris, showed up to sing a medley from the 50-year-old “The Sound of Music” since Julie Andrews has lost her singing voice. Again, there was no connection to the movies being recognized and no one appeared who was associated with screen musicals since they are no longer made, unless animated.

Even when it came time to hand out the awards the show largely refused to show the merchandise. In the annual obituary roll-call, instead of showing clips of deceased stars they were represented by faux watercolor sketches of the sort that might be propped up for a funeral. Is this the “Academy of Retouched Still Photographs?” They’re called “Motion Pictures” for a reason. They move. Yet examples of movie art were rarely offered. The visual effects awards were introduced not by magical examples of the nominees skill but by more still photos. Could the Dolby Theater not afford a projector to actually show some movie clips?

Then there was the actual giving of the awards. Here are people who are being recognized, often for a lifetime of achievement, but they are played off the stage in mid-speech if they exceed 30 heartfelt seconds. Yet the broadcast thinks nothing of spending long minutes watching them walk from distant seats, pausing along the way for hugs and kisses, climbing stairs, fumbling to grasp the concept of the microphone before finally speaking. Rotary luncheons are better stage managed.

Couldn’t they assemble the five nominees in each category on stage before the envelope, please? Like Miss America finalists? Give them the statuette and an additional 15 seconds. Cut the song and dance, show some film clips and get on with it. Particularly since the results are always predictable.

This year, J.K. Simmons was a shoe-in for a barn burning role in “Whiplash.” Patricia Arquette was given an award for her courage in aging twelve tears and getting middle-aged on camera. An acting tour de force. And the leading actor wins were inevitable since they both played people with tragic aliments — ALS and Alzheimer’s. Acting sick is the Academy’s idea of the summit of the thespian’s art. Jerk a few tears, cash the check, collect the trophy.

But the real problem the Academy faces is that the only pictures they can find to nominate are the ones that used to dominate the Spirit Awards, little indie movies that few people see. Most of the big studio pictures now are embarrassing “blow ‘em up” video games or comic books for adolescent males. Of the eight films nominated for best picture, only one was a box office blockbuster — American Sniper and it won nothing. And by the way, when you nominate eight of anything, the winner can get 12.6 percent of the votes and triumph.

Compare nominees from thirty tears ago — “Amadeus,” “The Killing Fields,” “A Passage to India,” “Places in the Heart,” “A Soldier’s Story.” Forty years ago, “Godfather II,” “Chinatown,” “The Conversation,” “Lenny,” “The Towering Inferno.” Fifty years ago, “My Fair Lady,” “Becket,” “Dr. Strangelove,” “Mary Poppins,” “Zorba the Greek.” Only a single dud in the list (Inferno) and all of them entertainment for a wide audience of sentient beings.

Norma Desmond was right, the pictures have gotten small. Not only that, the audience is being treated as if it’s stupid, the Academy telecast is unwatchable, and much of the best talent has fled to cable TV. HBO, Showtime, and Netflix are making dramas more worthy of awards and grown-ups than the studios. Sic Transit Gloria Cinema.