Being awarded the Pudding Pot is slightly more complimentary than having your face on a Slurpie cup and woefully less stunning than a second Oscar. But Tom Hanks was all grace and charm as he donned a grape-bedecked bra and accepted his prize as the Pudding's Man of the Year.

It is difficult to understand why Hanks would waste an evening on burlesque student theater unless someone somewhere had pictures they were threatening to sell People magazine. Way back when, in the dark days of 1967, how did the Pudding manage to get the first Man of the Year to come and validate their show?

The Pudding receives fabulous PR dividends on the tradition of Man of the Year. Does Hanks get an equal return out of the evening? He dances for us on a toy piano while some Pudding producer steals the show. He's too much of a mensch to hit his Oscar competition with a handful of darts, preferring instead to nail a rendition of "that King George guy." He wears a dress. He watches undergraduate men dress up like women and sing. How is this possibly appealing to Tom Hanks?

Perhaps wooing a tuxedo-clad room brimming with the tipsy bourgeoisie can be seen as a welcome change from life in Southern California. Hanks performed admirably, giving a speech that any studio writer would be proud to have penned. Wearing a natty red wig and the Pudding's stock pink stilettos, he gave us everything we came for. The speech that some people paid up to $75 a ticket for.

He clutched his award with pride. "Y'know, I'd like to be sincere and all, but then I'd look like an even bigger idiot. And I already look like that King George guy." Beneath the hype and the dress, Hanks is a good guy who knows how to make people feel at ease, even plebeian reporters. He knew his place in the scheme of the evening.

During his intermission pressconference, Hanks was a delightful mix of thoughtfulness and winning verve. He sang the Underdog theme song, and earnestly fielded probing questions. He responded to the accusation that "Forrest Gump" is a muted, conservative diatribe with mock indignation. Unlike Streisand, Hanks said that the artist is a citizen in most countries he knows of, but their only responsibility is to vote by secret ballot like every other citizen. He repeated again and again "I am not an activist." Some opinionated reporters would kiss him for that.

Hanks' career is emblematic of the Man of the Year award--it doesn't mean much, but it pretends to something substantial. He has risen above forgettable films such as "The Man With One Red Shoe" and "Bonfire of the Vanities" to carve a name for himself. There is no Tom Hanks action figure, but he is a recognized personality. He has made successful feelgood movies in an industry driven by profit-turning action flicks. His sympathetic performance in a formulaic dying-man role gleaned him an Oscar for "Philadelphia."

Hanks has taken the paltry offerings of Hollywood and used them to serve a successful career. This is the real accomplishment behind his Pudding Pot Award. It is a sign of having infiltrated the cultural consciousness enough to gain a nod from the so-called cultural elite.

Hanks kept the evening in perfect perspective. When asked if the Pot would reside anywhere near his Oscar, he replied it would be kept between his daughter's horse ribbons and swimming trophies. Asked why he subjected himself to the Pudding's harassment, Hanks could not find an answer. "Y'know, that's a damn good question."

In responding to the evening's performance, Hanks told reporters that he "looked up there and saw the future financiers and leaders of the western world." After just one act he concluded, "I would say that most of them have great careers ahead of them as financiers and future world leaders." Maybe he has a point. Maybe these Harvardians should not be so star-struck and should concentrate on being more productive rather than attending glorified lovefests.

Incongruities abounded at the Man of the Year ceremony. Harvard may be elite, but the Pudding is more so--at least Harvard has an open punch. The base theatricals and the drinking club have been separated for years, but that didn't stop the glitterati from arriving enmasse to show their support for men in chick's clothing.

Like many other Harvard endeavors, the Pudding show was fun and rightly displayed the talent of the people involved. But their bawdy performance is subsidized by a rumored $250,000 budget which seemed unaccounted for in the final product. The Pudding offered an occasionally vicious roast while Tom Hanks adeptly side-stepped any awkwardness with boyish aplomb.

At a university where 80 percent of s t u d e n t s receive some form of financial aid, it was offensive to listen to audience members say they didn't really know how much the tickets cost for their one evening of glamour, they just handed over a blank check.

Hanks distanced himself from the Pudding's sophmoric excess. He told reporters that past Men of the Year, Stephen Spielberg and Kevin Costner, had encouraged him to seize the opportunity to watch undergraduates in tuxedos vomit from champagne. Meg Ryan told him, "It's a hoot!" At the end of the night, there was indeed puke on the stairs, so the evening was a success.

Tom Hanks ended up with some fancy crockery; the entitled enjoyed their fete, and everyone was happy. The sum of good in the world was not affected, but that was never the point. Thanks to the Hasty Pudding, "Forrest Gump" had his face on the Sam Adams' label for an evening. There are still no Tom Hanks action figures, but at least there is still one nice guy left in Hollywood. He really is a doll.