“AND THE AWARD GOES TO…”
As we are in the throws of Award season 2015, no one is happier than I NOT to be a part of it, stand aside a red carpet with a microphone in hand, screaming above the masses to be heard only to ask the manditory: what are you wearing? But I did it for years. And this year I am happy to not be a part of it because I have no real predictions about the winners--the competition is too great. And as a reporter or expert, I am supposed to have my favorites. This year, though, it seems the critics are all talking about the snubs more than they are the nominations. And that can be equally annoying. You see after all these years I have what I call red carpet apathy...somthing I share at times with my alter-ego main character Mica Daly in NOT TOO COCKSURE. To know what both Mica and I go through during award season, the following is a passage from my first book REALLY!?! on all things Oscar.
“AND THE AWARD GOES TO…”
Thirteen inches of rock hard manhood! So smooth, so erect, enough to make the hungriest size queen swoon. And Hollywood is a town where size matters. Because there isn’t one man in the eight-figure per picture price range who, when he drops his pants, doesn’t hear; “It’s the biggest I’ve ever seen.”
He is arguably the most eligible bachelor in Hollywood. His androgynous good looks make him the perfect companion. Wanted desperately, even by those who won’t admit it publicly—both women and men. It has been said, when you bring him home, from that night on your life is forever changed. He is the ultimate golden boy. And he goes by the name Oscar.
For the record, Oscar is just a nickname, synonymous and interchangeable, trademarked and copy-written, but a nickname just the same. There is even dispute on the origin of the name. For as prominent an institution as the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences—those who give out the coveted statuette—an institution with an actual library filled with reams of trivia about itself; you’d think someone, somewhere, could tell you the origin of a nickname. Common lore states it was Bette Davis who coined the term “Oscar”. She took a good look at the gold plated statuette and declared it looked remarkably similar to …well, a guy named Oscar. The story makes good copy so I am sticking to it.
And yes there is something sensual if not downright sexual about the guy. I know, for I have stroked the sinewy stiffy. For winning an Oscar translates into money—an increase in star salaries and a boon for the film’s box office and video sales. Money equals power and power is the ultimate aphrodisiac. Moreover, in at least one incidence I know of, the Oscar has been an actual sex toy. As told to me over too many cocktails by a former dominatrix madam, one certain award winning male liked to play ‘hide the Oscar’—with himself that is—under her whip snapping tutelage. Suffice it to say I can no longer look him in the eye with a ‘straight’ face and promise to reveal his name if the poop shoot plaything ever turns up on E-Bay!
It is hard to imagine being a part of the Oscars, any part, even in the periphery. And the periphery is as close as I have come. I can say I have been to the Oscars, but not in that ‘I-stepped-on-Gwyneth’s-dress-while-talking-to-Meryl-as-we-walked-along-the-red-carpet’ or ‘I’ve-had-to-climb-over-Barbra-in order-to get-out-of-my-row-and-to-the-bathroom-before-the-commercial-break-was-over’ sort of way. No, I’ve been to the Oscars to shill for the Academy, standing on the periphery as member of the media. And it is through the media the Academy markets and packages the last Sunday in March as the epicenter of Hollywood glamour and prestige. It is quite simply, “Hollywood’s biggest night!” Clever that, for an award given by Hollywood insiders to other Hollywood insiders on a night which started out as little more than a back slapping evening of dinner and cocktails back in the 1920’s.
A worldwide audience of a billion people? Says who? You count them, I won’t. But they have been counted, by those who do that sort of thing. You can break it down by television viewer ratings and, as imperfect a system as that is, the numbers just don’t add up. Those who watch in the United States make up the biggest audience and they rank in just the tens of millions. It is a long way to go to make up a billion people, especially when you factor in time zones and that most of the world is sleeping during the big moment. Still, the Academy says it’s a billion people watching. And if they want to believe in their own publicity, than whom am I to burst that bubble? A billion…a couple of hundred million…who cares? Because those who do watch are fanatical about it. So just being part of the event, even in the periphery, is the fulfillment of a wet dream for many millions the world over.
You can’t imagine what it is like to be part of that day, mainly because it is not just one day. It’s a four-month odyssey of cajoling and promising, of ass kissing and politicking, of anticipation and preparation. You do not simply show up at the Oscars. As a member of the media, getting there requires a performance worthy of an Oscar in and of itself. And as the nominees will tell you, nothing prepares you for that day. The difference is the nominees may do it once or twice, if they’re lucky, over a lifetime. We, the media, are there year in and year out. And just because you know what’s coming doesn’t make it any easier.
The job of the media is simple: to make the Academy Awards appear to the world and it’s disputed billion devotees to be the greatest and most opulent celebration in Hollywood. “Smiles, everyone, smiles!” Okay, the mandate is clear. So why do they make it so difficult for anyone to follow through? Because they can! The Academy, the source from which all good things flow, is gatekeeper, benevolent despot and worst enemy. And the serious puckering begins sometime around the end of December, a full four months prior to the actual event. For it is in December when the media must request their credentials.
Credentials are quite simply the keys to kingdom. No key, no entry. And don’t think one key unlocks it all. Red carpet arrivals, back stage media rooms (separate for print, television and still photographers) and the Governor’s ball each have their separate credentials. Securing all three is as close as you can get as a media outlet to “All Access”—the grand daddy of all credentials, held by publicists, Academy staff and production team members. To secure any and all credentials takes a certain amount of intellectual gamesmanship. Sure the request, by its nature is simple—a form to fill out. But don’t be fooled, this is no simple ‘start with please and end with thank you’ cakewalk. God, in this case Oscar, is in the details—yours and theirs.
For there is an enthusiasm quotient by which the Academy factors into to the decision making process. This quotient is determined by the number of Academy sponsored pre-Oscar media events to which you are willing to commit to attend. One absentee and you could find yourself on the outside looking in, on Oscar day. Such mandatory drop-in events include: the mailing of the voting ballots—both for nominations and the awards themselves, the unveiling of the official poster, the unveiling of the set, the fashion show, the placement of the large Oscar outside of the venue and the nominees luncheon. All of these offer oodles of worldwide free publicity for the Academy—the media equivalent of having a gun cocked to your head—and for what in return? Consideration of your request! No guarantees.
But even if you wanted to thumb your nose at most things Oscar, the must-do pre-Oscar event is the reading of the nominations. It is a 5 a.m. cattle call at the Academy theater for a presentation which takes all of 45 minutes from set up to break down. The rest of the day is devoted to a nightmarish Hollywood shuffle, competing with every other outlet, tracking down the newly named nominees for that first “exclusive” reaction to the news. But that marathon of a day is simply a pre-cursor to the big event. If you can’t take that day then stop the bus, you won’t want to continue on this ride.
Those four months between credential requesting and the actual day has come to be known as award season to Hollywood veterans. In and around the hoops through which the Academy has the media jumping, there are up to three dozen additional award shows, clamoring for the same attention. Starting with “The Golden Globes” given out by the less then 100 members of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, each award claims to be a barometer or indicator as to what will happen on that fateful day in March. To their credit there is some validity in knowing who wins the Producer’s Guild Awards, The Screen Actor’s Guild Awards, The Writer’s Guild Awards and the Director’s Guild Awards; the latter historically having awarded its ‘Best Director’ award to the same Academy recipient on all but a very few occasions. You see, when it comes to nominating peers for the Oscars; you can only vote in your category: Actors nominate actors, directors nominate directors, and so forth. When it comes to giving out the actual awards, the entire voting block of somewhere around 7000 members of the Academy vote in every category. So those pre-Oscar also-ran award shows do, on some level, indicate the way the peers are voting and may, in fact, sway a decision of an academy member who hasn’t made up his mind in a certain category. Or so the thinking goes.
But despite the handful of ‘important’ awards during the season, there is a staggering proliferation of other self-aggrandizing evenings that simply litter the field. They wedged themselves into the media frenzy, assuming rightfully that after the Oscars no one will care about such perennials as: The People’s Choice Awards, The Blockbuster Awards, The Independent Spirit Awards, The BAFTA Person of the Year, The American Comedy Awards, The Critic’s Choice Awards or anything about music. The media covers such non-starters because they are lemmings, too afraid they miss something that could make the cover of next week’s “People” magazine or “The National Enquirer”. Inevitably, as a reporter, all you seem to miss is your evening’s meal and possibly a good night’s sleep. But what these shows can create is something that comes dangerously close to award show apathy.
“And the award presented by an ‘Apathetic Media’ goes to…TITANIC!”
Taking you back to the year “Titanic” swept the award season. Proving that a Juggernaut at the box office matters more than a quality script, the film was nominated for everything by everyone. As such, from one red carpet to the next, there we’d find the self-proclaimed ‘King of the World’ James Cameron and his then wife, actress Linda Hamilton. Understanding that “Titanic” had been gossiped about, eulogized, reviewed, analyzed, praised, applauded and prized since it’s inception, by about Cameron’s third red carpet waltz there was nothing new left to ask the writer/director/producer. Even the novelty of awards themselves had worn off. Award season, at least for that season, was fast becoming less of a horse race and more of a tally sheet. Jim and I share a mutual friend, so in this, his moment to shine, he affably sought me out and stood attentively as I tap danced my way around yet another version of “So what does this night mean to you?”
As keen observer of human nature, I could see the season was taking its toll on Mrs. Cameron, Linda. As an actress with her own ego to think about, the toughest role she had to play seemed to be that of dutiful wife. During award season, no one cares what the nominee’s partner has to say, except for an occasionally elicited testimonial of praise. More than once I saw her harrumph and sigh her way through his non-stop self-serving babble, or look vacantly into the distance, as Jim was drawn to the red light of each and every camera in record mode. And in return, I witnessed more than a few stage-whispered admonishments come her way from her husband, ‘the bigger name’. By the time The Producer’s Guild Awards rolled around, she had lost patience and propriety, pulled away from Jim’s arm and indignantly marched her way solo down the red carpet to the Beverly Hilton ballroom only to be stopped from entering without a ticket. She pointed out that she was Linda Hamilton, to no avail. She pointed out she was Mrs. James Cameron, still to no avail. And, eventually, now fuming, she stomped her way back up the red carpet to interrupt Jim’s interview and retrieve her ticket, the one labeled ‘and Guest’, from his tux pocket. I wouldn’t have wanted to be at that table—not through dinner nor when he won for ‘Best Picture’.
We all suffered from the same apathy at The Blockbuster Awards just a scant few days from the Oscars. By this time, publicists were instructing the limo drivers to not leave but to simply circle the block as the star, their client, would be out the door and in the car at the precise moment their category was announced or their presenting duties were finished. Not even the after-party could entice people to stay. It was, after all, just another after-party. Again, to no one’s surprise, up walked Jim and Linda and right into my faux pas.
“How bored are you by now?” was the best question I could muster. He laughed but she didn’t.
“Not too bad this time,” he said half chuckling. “But this isn’t my night, it’s Linda’s.”
“That’s right,” she chimed. Did I detect a note of sarcasm? “I’m nominated for Dante’s Peak for ‘Best Female Action Star.’”
The video renters nominate those for the Blockbuster Awards as a kind of audience appreciation award. And as such, they were given out to the previous year’s films, now having made their way to video rental status. For God’s sake I thought at that very moment. It’s bad enough that we have to worry about 30-odd award shows and the dozens of nominees in each; do we really need to concern ourselves with about forgettable movies from the previous year? Clearly we did that year! Linda won, by the way. And I stayed, mostly out of guilt, to talk with her back stage. She had had a rough season; the least I could do was pay attention to her on her night.
Still, by Oscar day, I was exhausted.
And it is during those scant few days before the ceremony itself, after preparations have been made and dollars spent, that you find out where you truly stand in the eyes of the Academy by finding out where you literally stand on Oscar day. The Academy has checked your Christmas wish list, even checked it twice, while Oscar Claus determines whose been naughty or nice. You are notified to pick up your Oscar credentials rather unceremoniously during a ‘walk though’ on the Friday before the Sunday. And not until you are there in person do you know your fate. You may have credentials but not enough for your entire crew. You may have red carpet access but have been denied a space back stage. You may have been given access to the red carpet but you may never get near an actual star. That’s right! After all the politicking and puckering, you may not even be able to speak with a star!
You see the media is tiered off on three levels. The actual arrival line makes the shape of an inverted Inca pyramid on either side of the red carpet. High above the fray will be the fans, most of who are perennial visitors who camp out on the sidewalk for a week to secure a chance to be penned in just screaming distance away from a Tom Cruise or a Julia Roberts. A sad but consistent bunch. The lower three tiers—yes three—are reserved for the world’s media. Now those of you astute enough to have figured out the significance already will have noted that if you are the media outlet assigned to the upper of the three tiers, there will be two other media outlets between you and the stars. Problematic? Only for the media outlet. The Academy…and I have heard this said…believes those on the third tier should be grateful to have been credentialed at all, completely missing the point that if you have no access to speak with the stars than access to the red carpet is meaningless. Many a dazed face is found wandering the red carpet that Friday, wondering how to salvage their reputations and questioning aloud, that for lousy such placement, why was it they attended the God-forsaken poster reveal media event.
For those of us lucky enough—and I use that term guardedly—to be assigned the coveted spaces along carpet’s edge; there is a nightmare of a different sort. Space…or should I say the lack of space makes one’s Oscar covering experience more one of endurance than endearment.
Each media outlet is assigned a square, a three feet by three feet square. And in that square it is expected you will house the reporter, the cameraman, the soundman, the camera and tripod, lights (should you require such), a producer (should you require such) and any other miscellaneous supplies or equipment you may need. In the square on either side, not to mention the two behind you, other media outlets are experiencing the same logistical nightmare. Ask any cameraman in town and they will all tell you that Oscar day is their idea of hell on earth. And without question, to them, it is. For they arrive hours before the reporters, in order to set up. Hours before, in the blazing heat, adorned in the mandatory monkey suit tuxedo, only to be corralled like beef to the slaughter for four of the longest hours in a lifetime.
All media participants must be off the red carpet and ensconced into their rightful square by 1 p.m. The ceremony itself doesn’t begin until 5 p.m. So for four, very cramped, very hot, very unpleasant hours, you are sequestered behind a hedgerow, unable even to visit the facilities if Mother Nature herself came a callin’. Fortunately Mother Nature has yet to secure a ticket to the ceremony on the years I have been there. We simply stand there lined and ready, waiting for Gadot, or Bardot or any other person to show; hoping for all the world that our perfectly made-up faces don’t melt. (I’ve long since given up on the notion of not sweating right through whatever I am wearing and have learned to take a second shirt and tie along to change into after the arrivals are over.)
But it is when the arrivals begin, roughly at 3 p.m., when people like me start to really earn their money. Now finding stars to talk to is not the issue; there are stars everywhere. But it is the art of wrangling the ‘hot’ stars, this year’s big ‘get’, which takes a certain prowess. And the common enemy is the publicist. Do they wear black because it the color of Hollywood camouflage, like the stage prop masters they are? Or is the uniform of the devil’s spawn? Yes and yes. There are certain publicists whose job it is to get as much camera time for their b-list or c-list attendee. There are other publicists who know their star is the “get” of the day and they can indiscriminately pick and choose the media outlets with which they wish their clients to talk. And then there are still others for whom the day overwhelming and they simply get in the way.
To give you an idea of the power of the publicist I take you back once again to that “Titanic” year. I was schedule to appear live to the British audience from outside the Vanity Fair post-ceremony bash—the hot party ticket of the night. So, I was not concerned about Oscar arrival line position, as I was not going to be there. Still, you must not break the daisy chain of Academy ass kissing for there is always next year. So, yes, I dutifully attended all the academy functions including the annual nominee’s luncheon. I was lined at the annual nominees luncheon waiting for the usual suspects when I was grasped by the arm, rather aggressively, by the publicist from the uber pr. agency representing the needs of Kate Winslet during her six-week nomination Hollywood honeymoon.
“Don’t think for a moment we don’t know what you’ve said about Kate,” spewed the flack, dropping her usual pinched faux-gentility.
By this, she was referring to my on camera odds making of Oscar picks during which I gave Kate the longest odds possible (read: no shot) at taking home the statuette. I stated her negative press at the wrapping of principal photography and her unfortunate lack of availability during the press/media publicity junkets as reasons for not having the backing of the studio—the studio quid pro quo of you scratch my back and we’ll scratch yours. More importantly, I stated that other nominees were more deserving. Forgetting I get paid for just such analysis and commentary, the publicist fired a not so veiled threat.
“If you say anything the least bit negative to her or about her, we will deny you all access to her.”
All of which would have been a laughable, ‘so what?’ Except she followed through with the threat, despite my overly courteousness to her client. And on Oscar evening, when to the shock of no one, Kate lost; that same flack served as a effective buffer between the actress and me, de facto denying her the chance to send a greeting back to the hometown audience. Again, that would have been a big ‘so what?’ Except when Kate saw me and my camera she made a beeline toward me…all had been forgiven. But she was physically pulled back by the publicist and told she was not allowed to talk to me. Not once but twice! Making me look, in the eyes of my boss, unable to ‘get’ the ‘get’.
Publicists have forgotten that they are paid by the star--paid to advise them as to what they should or should not do, not to tell them what they can and can not do. I have never spoken to Kate Winslet since nor has she won an Oscar…hmmmm? Coincidence?
But my job on that day of all days is to cull through the sea of celebrity and get to the “get”—those most likely to receive an award or those simply too big to ignore. In order to do so takes a certain amount of skill. You see, you must engage the star you are currently talking with, making sure they believe you are truly interested in what they have to say; all the while paying close attention to your peripheral vision on either side, to see if a bigger name is on deck. A star won’t wait to talk to you. So you must graciously disengage from the current conversation in order to secure face time with the next name otherwise they will simply hopscotch past to the next available microphone. It is most unfortunate, if not job threatening, if the star willing to hopscotch past was say Julia Roberts while you were busy speaking to Tippi Hedren—it could happen!
Conversely staying engaged with the star at present can save you the world of trouble if the person next in line is some of so little import, such as a special effects nominee, soundtrack composer or a star of the caliber of say an Elizabeth Berkley.
Just so you have an idea of actual time spent with each celebrity. If you are on your third question, chances are the publicist has already grasped the arm of said celeb and is yanking the yakker forward. The problem is you must ask them about their role in the evening—either as nominee, past winner or presenter—and you must ask who did the dress and jewelry. That makes up the two allotted questions, which is mistakenly thought of as conversation. And yes, it’s all about the dress.
They don’t call this the most watched fashion show in the world for no reason. Many a man-hour has been spent musing and bemusing over which star will be wearing which designer. A strange sort of fashionista has cropped up, known as the ‘stylist’, who makes a living by culling through the choices for stars seemingly unable to match their clutch, baubles and pumps to the elegant sheath chosen for them. It’s Hollywood’s own social retardation whereby money and fame depletes taste.
Dresses can cost more that the yearly salary of the soundman working for you—a fact not lost on the soundman working for you, I might add. And we are equally as intrigued by the stars looking they’re most glamorous as we are with those donning the fashion equivalent of a car wreck. Bjork, Cher, Geena Davis, Gwyneth Paltrow, Kim Bassinger, Cameron Diaz, Dolly Parton and Fran Drescher are just a few of the names who wear the hyphenate ‘fashion faux-pas’ better than the dresses they chose. And strangely no one’s screaming, “Oh that damn stylist, it’s his fault!” Jane Seymour, Jodi Foster, Jamie Lee Curtis, Uma Thurman, Holly Hunter and Julia Roberts are just a few who never disappoint. Because the truth is, you don’t remember last year’s nominees, but you do remember the dresses.
I should point out that over the course of my Oscar covering life fashions have gotten me into trouble with those wearing them. I have been yelled at by Jamie Lee Curtis for asking about her dress before asking about herself—as if anyone gave a damn about her presenting the award for “Best Achievement in Special Effects” over her figure hugging lemon yellow Pamela Dennis one of a kind. That same year I mistakenly assumed that Oprah Winfrey’s voluminous chocolate Armani was off the rack but was quickly corrected by the queen of daytime talk that she personally called the master, he doodled the creation and flew in himself for her fittings. Proving once and for all, it’s good to be queen—not to mention being on the brink of becoming a billionaire. I was mortified to find out, after the fact, that the camera was rolling when I told the good people of Great Britain that Jacqueline Bisset was wearing her Oscar number for the third time—fortunately, for her, at different events; unfortunately, for her, I was at each of them.
It is not uncommon to talk to fifty or more stars during the course of the arrival parade. And at some point, their faces blur and conversation muffles into one continuous drone. But, by no means does the day end there. Those holding credentials for the back-stage experience join the media free-for-all of the Oscar winners facing a barrage of innocuous questions and then, for most of us, it is on to the party circuit.
The Academy hosts their own Governor’s Ball—the post-ceremony meal during ravenous stars, most of whom have dieted for weeks to get into a dress worn once, mill and chat, pick and poke, but never swallow. Fortunately for the media, it is a virtual camera free zone—leaving those of us still on the clock to scramble to one or more of the myriad of back-slappers all over town. Each studio or major distributor has a party to celebrate their nominees and, more importantly, their winners. The problem is, chances are you’d already spoken to them on the arrival line, or as a winner backstage, not to mention time and again over the past four months, and there’s very little—strike that, NOTHING left to ask. They’re talked out and so are you. “How’s the party?” Who cares? The party’s great…if you won.
I have had the great fortune, and the sometimes misfortune, of attending the Oscars for programs of great import. I have experienced a day that lasts closer to 48 hours for the cable networks who tie you to an editor until you spew forth such Academy nicety highlights as “Winners”, “Losers”, “Best Dressed”, “Worst Dressed” and any number of ever green stories that run for days after the night. You are the production equivalent of a piñata; badly beaten, if not broken, in order to get the goods. I have worked for national series whose objective was to be everywhere, not to miss anything, and talked my way into inaudible babble along the way. I have worked for international outlets whose live coverage ends when the show ends. And when it ends, year after year, I drink myself silly and pledge this to be my last.
For the Oscars are a ball busting, adrenaline pumping, ass kissing, and seemingly never-ending extravaganza. And to my eternal gratitude, the Academy has seen fit to grant me the opportunity to be a part of something, even in the periphery, the envy of a billion people—more or less—the world over. For it is truly Hollywood’s biggest night, even if it takes two days of sleep from which to recover. And if given half a chance, I’d be back in a heartbeat.
