W e woke up early on Oscar morning to see the
hills of Hollywood wreathed in fog, clouds and spitting rain. I shivered in the unseasonable freezing weather. ‘Should be fun on the red carpet this afternoon,’ I said to Percy. Turning on E! channel at 10 a.m. we watched presenters and starlets in strapless gown with goosepimpled arms talking to various purveyors of footwear and jewels to the stars. Then some young chefs suggested what they would have served at the Governor’s Ball after the event if Wolfgang Puck (the Austrian celebrity chef) hadn’t made the cut. This broadcast was interspersed with non-stop coverage of past Oscar carpet arrivals, clips from nominated movies and a million interviews with every Tom, Dick and Harriet involved in preparing the red carpet, including the man who was trying to wring the water out of it.
This dragged on until 3 p.m. when the ABC coverage began and the stars started to arrive at the Kodak Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. Because of the weather, the red carpet was under a clear plastic tent so when the sun came out at 4.30 p.m., the stars started to look somewhat sweaty. The least important usually arrive first so it was surprising to see George Clooney and his new girlfriend there so early. He was as suave and urbane as ever as he quipped about his chances of winning best actor: ‘I’m Hillary Clinton to Daniel Day-Lewis’s Barack Obama.’ It’s not beyond the realms of possibility that George Clooney could be president one day, as rumour hath it. He’s certainly the most popular actor in Hollywood right now and there actually seems to be more interest here in the Oscars than in the presidential race. Few seem passionate about any candidate. Mr McCain has just been accused of adultery (sound familiar?) and he really needs to do something about his pallor. His complexion is more translucent than Nicole Kidman’s. There’s a sense of controlled desperation about Mrs Clinton, and so it looks as if Barack Obama, who is unfortunately referred to as ‘Osama’, is going to win the prize. Normally, when you see a black man or a woman president, an asteroid is about to hit the Statue of Liberty.
Since the annual Vanity Fair party was cancelled (they claimed it was to honour the strike, which was settled three weeks ago), we went to producer George Schlatter’s house to watch the awards with a dozen friends. This was actually a lot of fun as we could see and hear what everyone was saying. But it wasn’t only the Vanity Fair party that bit the dust. Most of the annual events, given by the likes of Barry Diller and Diane von Furstenberg, and super-agent Ed Limato, and even Dani Janssen’s industry bash, were called off, leaving the way clear for several of the smaller private parties, which we attended. Interestingly, there was a lot more talk about the depressing weather than this year’s depressing films. There were no nominated musicals except for the sinister Sweeney Todd and no comedies to speak of. It’s as if making a feelgood movie is as politically incorrect as wearing a swastika.
Everyone in Schlatter’s living-room was rooting for Marion Cotillard, who gave a superb performance as Edith Piaf in La Vie en Rose, so when Forest Whitaker announced her as Best Actress the entire room stood up to cheer. She was also the best-dressed in a stunning Jean Paul Gaultier mermaid gown, and her acceptance speech was unassuming as in her charming French accent she gasped, ‘It is true, there are some angels in this city.’ Javier Bardem was a shoo-in for Best Supporting Actor for his cold-hearted killer, but there was not much cold-heartedness in evidence as he nuzzled up to his date — his mother — then thanked her fervently in Spanish.
The big disappointment for our gang was the Best Supporting Actress award. It had been a strangely eclectic group: Cate Blanchett playing a man; Saoirse Ronan, who at 13 was almost the youngest nominee ever; Tilda Swinton doing a laid-back turn in Michael Clayton and Amy Ryan as a drug addict whose child is abducted. But everyone’s favourite was 80-year-old Ruby Dee as the impassioned mother of a ruthless mobster in American Gangster. We all thought Ms Dee would walk it, not only because, although small, she gave the most stunning supporting performance, but also because she was the only black person in any of the 24 categories. When she lost to Tilda Swinton, everyone gasped and even the applause coming from the TV seemed stilted. We were all shocked and everyone thought Swinton’s pledge to give the Oscar to her agent was at best unusual. As for her outfit, we couldn’t decide whether it was a plastic bin-liner or an ancient set of blackout curtains. Ruby Dee’s loss was the talk of the town the next day, and many, many people could not understand why this brilliant actress hadn’t won.
All in all the 80th Oscars celebration was nothing special. Certainly all the actresses looked gorgeous and slender, even if 95 per cent of them opted for strapless gowns, which when photographed in close-up made them look naked. So what did America think of the show? This year’s Oscars logged the show’s smallest viewership on record, mostly because the films had such grim subject matter. Only 33 million people in America watched it, 20 per cent less than last year. Furthermore, many Americans were disappointed that all four of the major acting awards plus many of the smaller ones went abroad. I guess Clinton was right when he said this was a global market.
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