I expect that a lot of people care about who won the Oscars last night. I didn't, not much. I was surprised to see "True Grit" shut out as it was, and, from what I am told, "Winter's Bone" was likewise excellent, and likewise went unrewarded. But the winners were good enough, and Colin Firth's acceptance award was legitimately charming.

But the Oscars are an excuse for a party, and I was invited to the 18-year-old Aegis Foundation shindig, which is sanctioned by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Science. It was held at the Ivy Hotel, with a red carpet and hors d'oeuvres, and was perfectly fine, as these things go. Ticket sales and a silent auction went to benefit The Smile Network, which provides free surgeries for cleft palates in third-world countries, and The Link, a social services program for youths, and these organizations are doing the work of angels.

The advantage of an Oscar party is that you don't simply get to enjoy the tacky outfits worn by Oscar attendees, but you also get to enjoy the even crazier outfits worn by party attendees. I don't mean to sound like some midwestern Richard Blackwell, whose worst-dressed list I consider perfectly reprehensible. No, I like it when people dress badly, or with panache. It's generally that or they choose to be boring. I'll take something outrageous over a black tuxedo any day. And so I went around the party, cheerfully snapping pictures of outfits that screamed for attention. There weren't as many as I might like, but there were enough. I have assembled them into a slideshow below.

I don't know what to say about the awards themselves. Host James Franco seemed vaguely spacey throughout, but, then, the whole show seemed spacey. I can't blame the awards ceremony for being a bit frazzled — it snowed in Los Angeles this past weekend, and that must be as confusing to them as it would be to us if an earthquake happened here.

Franco and cohost Anne Hathaway were a blatant attempt to pander to a younger, hipper audience — so blatant that the hosts themselves openly acknowledged the fact. But, since their dialogue was mostly scripted for them, it came off as awkward. At one point Franco mentioned how many degrees of Kevin Bacon he is from somebody. This joke dates back to 1994, but Franco goes on to advise people who might not get it to look it up online. Oh, how fresh! How a go go!

But the Academy endlessly betrays its terminal condition of being out of touch. I won't go into their film selections, but if people in the Academy really wanted to show how with it they are, they would have thrown a few technical nods at "Machete." Robert Rodriguez's grindhouse tale of streetfighting immigrants should at least have gotten an award for sound designs, as it is not easy to keep producing the sounds of a machete cleaving flesh and keep it fresh.

But where the Academy really failed was with its "In Memorium" section, which, as usual, is better defined by whom it excluded than by whom it included. They made room to include a publicist — Ronni Chasen, who was gunned down a few months ago, and was well-loved, so it wasn't surprising to see her remembered. But they left out a number of established film professionals, including French New Wave director Eric Rohmer, who was nominated for an Academy Award in 1969, and actress Maria Schneider, who costarred in the classic "Last Tango in Paris," and Minnesota native Peter Graves, who was in too many films to enumerate. And they left out musical star Betty Garrett, which is especially insulting, as they blacklisted her and her husband.

If they wanted to show off their newfound hipster credentials, they might have included filmmaker David F. Friedman, who was responsible for an entire genre of films called the "Nudie cutie," and Tura Satana, who starred in the absolute masterpiece of Friedman's occasional filmmaking partner, Russ Meyer. That film was called "Faster Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" and Satana is as extraordinary in it as her name suggests she might be, playing a leather-clad go-go girl with a love for race cars and snapping spines. They might also have remembered Malcolm McLaren, whose music graces at least 17 film soundtracks and produced one unforgettable film, "The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle," about the band he founded, The Sex Pistols.

I don't expect the Academy to actually go out of its way and mention people who contributed significantly to film, but outside the studio system. But there was one name that almost immediately trended last night, and whose oversight I think was unforgivable. That was former child actor Corey Haim, who was perfectly appealing in his early films — especially 1986's "Lucas," — and a perfect disaster for the last years of his life, and who died of a drug overdose in March at the age of 38.

I met Haim once, years ago. In the early '90s, I worked in a video store just south of the UCLA campus that was frequented by film and television actors. Like many video stores, we had a "recommended" shelf. Unlike most video stores, we tended to treat it pretty unseriously, recommending films that struck as as funny — the all-midget musical western "The Terror of Tiny Town" was a staple on that shelf. As was a film Haim had made, called "Me, Myself, and I." The film was the sort of thing actors sometimes made to market directly to their fans, consisting of Haim speaking about himself directly to the camera, talking about his life and his ambitions. And, for some reason, there was a strong anti-drug massage in the film, but it seemed wedged in and unconvincing, as though Haim had been ordered to make this film as part of his sentence for a drug bust. The whole of it was self-indulgent and clueless and, for somebody with any self-awareness, would have been pretty embarrassing.

Haim must have had that self-awareness. He came into the store once, saw the film, and marched up to the counter with it, asking if he could purchase it. He could, he did, and never returned. I presume he destroyed the videotape. I thought the story was funny for a long time, until he started doing reality television shows a few years ago and it became clear how much of his life was defined by shame. And there were hints of all sorts of abuse in his past, especially intimations of sexual abuse. It was clear that this young man had been run ragged by his experiences in Hollywood, and then abandoned by it. And it's one thing when that happens to an adult. After all, adults can make their own decisions, and their experiences in Hollywood are their own. But with a child, it's not too much to ask that filmmakers take care of the kids in their charge. Giving them a lot of money, exposing them to toxic levels of fame, and leaving them without supervision in a world that is rife with predators is criminally negligent. It happened with Haim and, if the careers of Britney Spears and Lidsey Lohan are any indication, it's still happening.

And Haim could still turn in a great performance. I saw one of his last films, the berserk "Crank: High Voltage," and he was genuinely hilarious in it. But I suspect most in the Academy didn't see it, and I suppose they saw his story as an awful one, but not necessarily one that needs to be remembered. But they are part of the industry that helped ruin that young man, and it would have been nice to give him a parting glance. It's bad for kids out there. I recall seeing another child actor, Gary Coleman, stopping strangers in the streets of Westwood to just spill out his tale of woe, gathering an impromptu audience for his tales of his failed career and financial problems. It was a disturbing spectacle, and a pointed reminder of just how bad the film industry can be for children.

Come to think of it, Coleman died this past year too, and went unmentioned.