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Inner monologue of a nominee
There I am, sitting in the plush red velvety seat, itching a bit in my cheap, simple, rented tuxedo -- already torn at the tails. I'm a little queasy from the duck pate and bad champagne at dinner. Still, I feel good, if a bit on the sweaty side. I have a high metabolism, and I don't need to apologize for that. Steve Martin is making me laugh -- his hair has turned so white! -- and I think to myself it's really too bad for Billy Crystal, who needs the work. A number of awards have been given, and I am slightly surprised that I am always able to predict what will win Best Documentary without ever having seen any of them.
What is Val Kilmer doing here? I thought he was washed up. Wow, Drew Barrymore and Tom Green really are that annoying in person. I yawn; the star power in the room is not quite enough to overcome several hours of sitting. I begin to imagine myself playing soccer, as I do when the weather is nice and my attention wanders.
Suddenly, I realize that everyone is looking at me, and a couple of cameramen have moved in. Slightly bewildered, I turn to the person next to me -- looks like that guy who looks like Tobey MacGuire but isn't. He tells me I have just won the award for Best Original Screenplay!
I make my way up to the stage through applause and slaps on the back. As I approach the podium, I begin to pat myself for a speech I might have prepared but didn't, or maybe one that comes with the tux. To the smiling audience, I remind them of perhaps their favorite English professor, but younger, as I look a little lost yet endearing, slightly rumpled. All I find in my pocket is a tiny slip of paper. I look up to the crowd of admirers, who may at this point be on their feet, still applauding. I hold up the piece of paper from my pocket and read aloud, "Inspected by Number 7."
There are roars of laughter and then more laughter, crashing like waves as my comment carries to the farthest balconies. I take my statuette and walk away, and there are a few cried of "Genius!" from the audience.
By the next commercial break, I have returned to my seat and am getting through the last of the congratulations from the locals of my row. The Tobey MacGuire Doppelganger is trying to insinuate himself into my next script. Mercifully, the pitch ends when I suddenly find that I have just won for Best Director!
Back up stage I go, this time wondering what I can do or say to keep the people entertained. When I get to the podium this time, I realize I have in my hand one of those disposable cameras, which I must have been given backstage. "Smile," I say, as I take a photo of the attendees. There is again thunder from the seats. I again humbly exit stage right with statue number two and a photograph that will preserve this wonderful memory. This time, the conductor does not take as long to recover to initiate the walk-off music.
The daze has hardly worn off as I sit and find that the Tobey O'Guire guy has been replaced by Elizabeth Hurley. I suddenly cease to regret that I was so late in replying to the show's invite that I couldn't find a date on such short notice. We chat for a bit, though she's not my type (too Hugh Granty). To end the conversation politely, I turn to pay attention to the award for Best Picture.
This third win for me is no less sweet and surprising than the previous two. As I near the podium, my co-workers, already onstage, all pause to give me the microphone. The conductor, a saucy fellow, begins to play the music immediately, as a joke. We all have a solid laugh. Again I find myself looking out at the masses I have entertained so thoroughly, their faces transfixed in joyous anticipation. I open my mouth to say something, but I hesitate. At the speed of thought I consider options of what I could say: some dig at being "in the same boat" as the mis-awarded Titanic, profuse thanks to endless names of loved ones, something about the need to stop sweatshop labor, but none of it seems right. I lean back a bit and shrug. "Thanks," I say simply, "Thank you very much." I shake hands with those around me and head quickly offstage.
The crowd is raucous. I see Steve Martin, offstage left, shaking his head in awed respect. The President of the Academy comes up to me and says, "Hey, show's over -- 45 minutes early!" I autograph his annoying band collar tux shirt, pressing hard, though I am glad to bring us in under the clock.
The rest of the night is a whirlwind of parties and dancing, interesting women and dull old men, sycophants and surly writers. Steve Martin, a private man, stops by to see if I want to play golf. As I don't play golf, we make alternate plans to play darts, as neither of us is very good at that particular game. I find the best company is that of the conductor, who is the most down-to-earth of the whole lot. Turns out, we went to high school together, so much of our time is spent reminiscing, our conversation far from the reaches of Hollywood.
Dawn arrives slowly, with a bit of a drizzle in the L.A. smog. I have a small breakfast with some friends from college who live in the area, and we don't even talk about movies. I return to my hotel long enough to change, and I bring what's left of the tuxedo back to the rental store. Not well-made to begin with, the apparel by now is in shambles. The gentleman behind the counter is chagrined.
"You certainly didn't take good care of this," he says.
I say something about maybe it was poorly constructed and in bad shape even before I got it. Then he says, "That's not my fault."
I look at him and say with a smile, "Maybe we should blame Inspector Number 7!"
He doesn't laugh, as he saw last night's broadcast, and repeating a joke like that is admittedly rather lame.
You really have to know your audience.
By Brady Richards
032001