With apologies for the discount psychoanalysis, Bill, projection isn't just for the movies. Especially given how you also joked in the speech about "an actor going through a bad divorce," it's pretty obvious that a certain Illinois-born screen legend could use a little boost of his own.

Your gloomy mood isn't confined merely to award shows, either—it's infecting your film choices. The last time you starred in a pure, live-action comedy was 1997, in The Man Who Knew Too Little. After that, a preference for independent filmmakers—and your determination to join the Serious Actors Club—resulted in a parade of Oscar-worthy dramatic roles. The nomination—and famous snub—came for Lost in Translation, but you added depth with every role from Rushmore to Broken Flowers.

All this darkness is weighing on you. In a GQ story last summer, you recalled how the great film critic Elvis Mitchell told you that making one depressing film after another was bound to—wait for it—depress you. Wise words.

Bill Murray, America's greatest wingman, you need cheering up, and we aim to send a little love your way. Okay. Awesome. You have proved how good of a dramatic actor you are. But a man doesn't get to be immortalized on film with Bugs Bunny and Michael Jordan because he makes indie films that speak to the existential angst of the art-house crowd. Like the Preston Sturges classic Sullivan's Travels, you seem to have been so concerned with doing "important" work, you've forgotten that making people laugh can be the most important work of all.

Restless perfectionism is a natural state for the great artist. Every once in a while, though, it's healthy to reflect on your accomplishments. Sure, Hollywood might never give you an Oscar. It's not because the Academy Awards undervalues comedy—even though they do. It has nothing to do with Garfield, either. (Yo. Get over Garfield, already. No one cares. If you really want to self-flagellate in public, we can compare Where the Buffalo Roam to Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.) The Academy won't give you that gold statue because they will never forgive you for the Oscar prediction segments on Saturday Night Live—the routine that savagely laid bare the thinking, and lack of it, that goes into who gets the awards.

Whatever. Big deal. Robert Mitchum—another deadpan master—never won an Oscar. But they gave one to Roberto Benigni? That tells you something ain't right in Lalaland.

Most Oscar voters, like most film critics, suffer from a congenital case of Gary Oldman Syndrome, aka; Meryl Streepitis. They break out in a cold sweat any time actors "disappear" into a role—by gaining or losing weight, or with accents, costumes, and makeup.

Your career is based on something infinitely more rare. You don't vanish into roles. You reveal yourself through them, bringing a truth about who you are to every performance. That takes acting chops, sure, but so much more. It also demands a human being that audiences want to know. It takes a billion megawatts of charisma—a personality so bright that audiences around the world can fall in love with it. The Murray persona is quite simply as beloved as any in the history of film. You (and much of Washington D.C.) may obsess over middling Cubs second-baseman Emil Verban, but your career numbers are more like Ernie Banks or Ryne Sandberg.