Scrappy Little Nobody(56)
I’ve presented to groups before—sometimes the winner of a technical award will be a small team—and those seem less jarring. They can enjoy the win together and throw each other what-the-hell-is-happening looks, which must make it more manageable. But accepting an award by yourself has the hardest comedown I’ve ever witnessed.
One year after I presented an award, I was waiting in the hallway outside the auditorium to go back to my seat. You have to wait for a commercial break, so I was back there for a few minutes. Lupita Nyong’o walked up and stood across from me in the hall. She had, perhaps fifteen minutes prior, won an Oscar for 12 Years a Slave.
“Congratulations,” I said.
She smiled, gave me a nod, then looked back down at the award in her hands. Jesus, I thought, Lupita Nyong’o just won an Academy Award for starring in her first film; her family, the cast and crew are mere feet beyond these doors, and she’s gotta stare at my stupid mug for another three minutes before she can hug them? This is a travesty. Someone hand her a glass of champagne! Or a puppy! Or a male model to make out with!
A similar thing happened at the Grammys. I was waiting to introduce a musical act and Sam Smith walked toward me after winning Best New Artist. He got to the bottom of the stairs under the stage and stopped. He looked around, Grammy in hand, and asked me in his sweet accent, “Do you know where I’m supposed to go?” Travesty! Champagne! Puppy! Male model!
I didn’t know where he was supposed to go. I just stood there, a living reminder that even after you win a Grammy you’ve got to put up with idiots who don’t know anything. I think Drew Barrymore had the right idea.
Most of All, I’d Like to Thank Cate Blanchett
The year I was nominated for Up in the Air was fun because I knew I wasn’t going to win. I know that sounds like bullshit, and of course the best iteration of an award season would be to win everything and make yourself an impractical but fabulous headdress with your many statuettes. However, that year, Mo’Nique won almost every award for the absolutely harrowing performance she gave in the film Precious. I won the National Board of Review, but in that instance the winner is announced before the ceremony.
There was never a “and the winner is” type show where I was going over a potential acceptance speech. I can’t imagine the stress of a close call, hearing your name at some events and someone else’s name at others. Doubly fun was that all of us in the Up in the Air gang were destined to be losers. George was up for Best Actor, which was always later in the program. After my category was presented, he would turn to me and whisper, “I’m still a nominee and you’re just some loser.” Knowing you weren’t going to win wasn’t what you wanted, but at least you could drink.
The only time I’ve been genuinely happy to lose an award was when I was nominated for an Independent Spirit Award for Rocket Science. I didn’t stand a chance anyway (I was up against Cate Blanchett), but I wouldn’t have been able to make a speech if I had won because—drumroll—I was high off my face.
The afternoon before the show, I’d felt a tingling sensation in my nose. Actually, it wasn’t quite in my nose, it was behind my nose. By that night it had become painful, and in the mirror my face looked swollen and slightly warped. I thought maybe I was having an allergic reaction to something, but I didn’t think allergies were so painful. Whatever was swelling in my nose was hard and it was putting pressure on the area above my lip, making it uncomfortable to smile. The ceremony was the next afternoon and I hoped that it would be gone when I woke up.
In the morning, it had gotten significantly worse and I walked across the apartment to wake my roommate Alex. I knocked on his door.
“You need to take me to the hospital.”
He opened the door, half asleep. “You look weird.”
We went to the emergency room and, much like my parents, no one there had ever heard of the Independent Spirit Awards. Where are the film fans in this town? They did not seem moved to bump me to the top of the ER’s priority list. I sat in the waiting room staring at my face in the reflection of my smudged metal purse handle. Whatever was happening was painful, too painful to touch, but when I wrote nine out of ten on my form’s pain scale, even the admissions nurse knew it was a lie. Somebody fix my face!! I had an award to lose!
After a while a doctor took me into a hospital room and told me I had an infection that had created a cyst inside my nose. Charming. It was minor, but still serious because of its proximity to my brain.
I chose this moment to say, “Have you ever heard of the Spirit Awards? They’re like the Oscars of independent film.”
He put his hand on my forehead for leverage.
“Stop talking, I have to lance it.”
Lance, as in, cut open. That’s right! The hard, unbearably tender thing behind my nose was about to be stabbed and drained. And the way in? Up my nostril! He told me he was going to numb it with something called “freezing spray” and proceeded to stick a nozzle into my nose and spray in a cold liquid. Funny thing about your nose, though: it rejects fluids being shot into it, because your brain thinks you’re drowning. It’s the same principle as waterboarding. I involuntarily pulled away several times and spluttered wildly when he held my head.
The doctor looked at me, as disappointed as he was frustrated, and eventually said, “Well, if that’s the best we can do, this is going to hurt.”