F or years, one of the highlights of the Oscar season
was the starcrammed party that fiber-agent Irving ‘Swifty’ Lazar threw first at the Bistro in Beverly Hills and later at Spago in Hollywood. Invitations to this party were the most coveted of Oscar night, and Lazar trimmed his guest list with the ruthlessness that Genghis Khan applied to his victims’ heads. Several years ago, as I walked into the Spago party, I watched as an overly buxom starlet posed and preened for snappers outside the restaurant, having been refused entry. She was Anna Nicole Smith, whose life even then seemed like a bit of a train wreck, and now in death seems even more luridly bizarre.
Oscar Time, or the Awards Season as it’s now called, starts five months before the actual evening. By December, when dozens of DVDs of the current crop which the producers deem Oscar-worthy are received by the approximately 5,000 Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences members, the race is in full heat. Some of these movies are obviously Oscar-worthy — Babel, The Queen, The Departed — but a great many are not even worth the postage. However, as one of the 1,200 acting members of Ampas, I dutifully watch as many as I can or, preferably, go to the cinema to see the ones that I feel deserve the justice of the large screen. In order to do this, Ampas provides a card stating that you are a voting member and should be allowed access to certain movies free of charge. This card works very well in NY or LA, but some towns have never seen or heard of the Oscars, much less this card. Recently I went to see Notes on a Scandal in a remote outpost of Denver and presented my card to the cashier. When she asked me what it was, I explained that Dame Judi Dench had been nominated for an award and that I’d come to see the movie; she translated it to her manager in a loud voice: ‘Joanne Collings won an award to see the movie for free.’ I refuse to post my final five nominations in each category until I’ve seen all the films, but apparently I’m somewhat in the minority, as many members vote without seeing them and give their DVDs to their kids, grandma or next-door neighbour.
But it is not just the films that are important. The fashion industry becomes involved in cut-throat competition to get as many stars as possible to wear their $30,000 gowns or tuxedos, not to mention the Jimmy Choos or Manolo Blahniks on their feet and the Chopard and Graff diamonds around their necks and wrists. And the Beverly Hills beauticians (and plastic surgeons) work overtime in the month before the Oscars botox-ing, filling furrows, plumping and padding. Even producers, writers and directors have been known to go for ‘the plumpup’. When Percy and I attended the Emmy’s in September, I started on the slap right after lunch, as we had to leave the Peninsula by 3.30 to arrive by 5. Although the drive itself was only 20 minutes, getting through security took the rest of the time. It’s usually boiling hot in LA, so sunglasses are de rigueur ... and always a good look with an evening gown.
This year I’m in Chicago touring in a play, so on Oscar night we settled down in front of our hotel TV to watch the 79th telecast. I commented on the gowns: particularly beautifully dressed were Jennifer Lopez, Cate Blanchett, Celine Dion and Penelope Cruz; particularly badly dressed were actress Sally Kirkland in the most tasteless black see-through top with rainbowcoloured Dracula cape, and Jennifer Hudson in a highwayman’s silver jacket with straggly hair caught beneath it. My favourite actress, Meryl Streep, happily admitted that this was her 14th nomination, which went very well with her size 14 dress. In a simple blouse and jacket and a few tchotchke beads from the thrift store, she looked like a serious actress and not a mannequin.
Having voted for Alan Arkin as best supporting actor (in Little Miss Sunshine), I was thrilled that he won it, although Eddie Murphy was the favourite. And of course no surprise when Ms. Hudson won best supporting actress (for Dream Girls). These two awards came in the first 20 minutes, and then there were the longest hours of boredom since the 2000 US presidential election. There were, of course, the occasional hanging chads revitalising proceedings: a shavenheaded Jack Nicholson who appeared to be channelling Daddy Warbucks (or Britney Spears), a lively musical skit by Will Ferrell, Jack Black and John C. Reilly, and lesbian songwriter Melissa Etheridge’s witty quip while holding her Oscar, ‘This is the only naked man who’ll ever be in my bedroom.’ But finally a glimmer of light appeared when Forest Whitaker won (I was delighted, and ditto Helen Mirren). However, the absolute high spot of the night was when finally, after six nominations, Martin Scorsese won the Best Director Oscar for The Departed. Presented to him by a ‘Mount Rushmore’ of directors — Steven Spielberg, Francis Ford Coppola and George Lucas — he finally got the standing ovation he richly deserved. His win was crowned by his movie winning Best Picture. It made the entire three hours and 45 minutes of excruciating ennui worth it. Oh, and Al Gore also won an Oscar for his documentary An Inconvenient Truth, but George Bush demanded a recount.
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