Scrappy Little Nobody(55)
The first time I got to present was that same year at the SAG Awards. I was wearing a strapless purple gown and nervously fiddled with the bodice as I waited backstage. Eventually, Stanley Tucci, who was presenting with me, leaned in and said, “Stop adjusting your boobs, you look fine.”
The award went to Drew Barrymore for Grey Gardens, and she gave a flustered but obviously heartfelt speech. We escorted her offstage, and once we were in the wings, we turned to congratulate her. She walked steadily past us, leaned against a pillar, and closed her eyes. She was holding her award low by her waist and breathing slowly in and out. I thought, Something real is happening in front of me. This is a human, taking a moment for herself because everything else has been pageantry.
Stanley and I backed up a bit more. A woman wearing a headset crept near her with a desperate look on her face, but Drew Barrymore, movie star and recent SAG Award recipient, was not ready to turn herself back on. The woman in the headset finally squeaked, “Miss Barrymore, we’re just gonna take you back here to have some pictures—”
“Just give me a second.” She was perfectly calm and perfectly polite, but she was serious.
“Can I get you some water?” (It never fails.)
“Sure.”
The woman disappeared to get a glass of water. I suspect that this was more about buying time than being thirsty. Stanley and I stayed quiet and tiptoed past her. Just before she was out of view, I turned back to see her still standing there, eyes closed. I looked away quickly, because even observing her felt like an invasion. But it was sort of beautiful. She’d just been honored for a project she clearly cared about deeply and was resolved to experience that moment on her own terms.
The Oscars of a Parallel Universe
I had a very different experience presenting an award at the Oscars that year. At most award shows, you have the option to rehearse. At the Oscars, rehearsal is mandatory. It doesn’t matter if you’re Brad Pitt or screen legend Sidney Poitier, you come in the day before to walk the little path to your mark and say your intro into the microphone. It is “strongly recommended” that women rehearse in their heels.
I was paired with Zac Efron, and in my jeans and ridiculous shoes I asked him, “May I take your arm?” The rehearsal is filmed and treated as a full production so that the director, cameramen, and editors can root out any potential mishaps. There are hired standins scattered in the audience, sitting in the seats of all the nominees.
We walked our path and said our lines and waited for the winner to be announced. For rehearsal, the winner is chosen completely at random, so the camera crew will be prepared for anything. I was presenting the award for Best Sound Editing and (as I’m sure you remember) Paul N. J. Ottosson won for The Hurt Locker. But in the rehearsal, Inglourious Basterds won. A gentleman from the audience stood up and made his way to the stage. I gave him a perfunctory embrace (’cause that’s what you do) and backed up about four feet to the “listening” mark, where the presenter waits until the speech is over. Now, if I were this dude, I would just go, “Thank you, thank you, speech speech speech, I’m making my speech, it’s going on for about sixty seconds, thank you so much, good night.”
Instead, I was treated to a thoughtful monologue about the joys of working with Quentin Tarantino, the trials and triumphs of the sound-editing process, and the importance of family above all. I’d fallen into a parallel universe. This had taken research. He wasn’t reading off of anything, which meant he had memorized all this information and all these names. I realized that something strange was happening in the audience. Even though these people were not involved in the nominated films, even though the winners were chosen completely at random, they must have been sitting there thinking, Call my guy’s name, come on, call my guy’s name. I do not know how the rehearsal nominees are hired, but the screening process seems to find people fitting the description “kooky but harmless . . . we hope.”
The real deal was equally surprising. The presentation went smoothly, Mr. Ottosson accepted his award, and I escorted him offstage. The weird thing was what happened after. What’s the first thing you would want to do after winning an Oscar? Jump into the arms of your loved ones and collaborators? Of course that’s what you’d want! But that’s not what happens. What happens is that the two goons you’ve never met before who just butchered the pronunciation of your name are whisked around with you to take a series of commemorative and candid photos in different setups around the theater.
First stop is the wings just offstage—snap, snap, smile, how do you feel, congratulations. Next is a long walk down a dim hallway to a professional-looking photo setup: all-white background, good lighting, pose with the presenters, pose by yourself (while the presenters get a drink)—smile, do a serious one, hold out the Oscar, snap, snap, congratulations. Last up, a door is opened to a small ballroom, and bleachers full of photographers start snapping and screaming. You know that scene in Notting Hill when Hugh Grant tries to tell Julia Roberts not to open the door (but somehow can’t get out the words “Don’t open the door.” Come on, Richard Curtis, you’re better than that!) and she opens the door and is confronted by a sea of flashing lights and demanding voices? It’s like that. You walk onto a platform—snap, snap, smile, over here, hold out the Oscar, snap, snap, congratulations, but I need you to look over here. This room goes on the longest and is the most aggressive. Though, to be honest, I prefer the unbridled onslaught to the cordial desperation of the other stops. Then there are solo photos in the ballroom (again, the presenters go get a drink) and eventually you go back to your seat.