The red carpet treatment

Rod Steiger was my first.

Of course, spotting celebrities in Hollywood
is never difficult. Spotting them on the way to the
Academy Awards is even easier -- it's sort of like
catching salmon during the spawning season. Still,
seeing Steiger strolling to his car outside the Four
Seasons Hotel starts my spine tingling, even though I
know I'll soon be walking side-by-side with other
entertainers down the red carpet that leads to Oscar.

I'd like to say that I earned my ticket to the
Oscars through my many years of unselfish devotion to
the cinematic arts, by virtue of my ability as a
reviewer, or simply because I was one of the few
people willing to sit through the movie "Duets." The
truth, however, is that I am here because a close
friend of mine has been working as a screener for the
awards. What that means is that she and others like
her have spent countless hours poring through tapes of
Academy-nominated films to select those moments that
will be used to identify each picture during the
ceremony.

Thanks to her, I'm riding in a limousine built
for 28 (picture a vehicle the size of a school bus
with padded interiors, a mirrored ceiling, and
seemingly endless supplies of champagne) through the
streets of Los Angeles, passing crowds of protesters,
curiosity seekers (one woman, we learn, has been
camped outside the Shrine Auditorium since last
Thursday), and a man who for no easily discernible
reason is dressed as Superman. The parade of limos
moves faster than one might expect, and before long,
we're pulling up at the end of the fabled red carpet
and taking our place in line.

I'm looking around to see if anybody who is
anybody is anywhere in my vicinity when I see them: a
well-dressed but otherwise unremarkable couple just in
front of me who happen to be carrying Academy Awards.

Apparently, they're winners of one of the
scientific and technical Oscars, passed out in a
ceremony earlier this week. This presents me with a
dilemma: on the one hand, a memo from the production
company where my friend works states in no uncertain
terms that we are not to cause trouble by arriving
drunk, chasing after celebrities with cameras, or
attempting to get our mitts on one of the golden
statues. And yet, once it's right there in front of
me, the compulsion to touch it becomes almost
unbearable. Fortunately, there's something around to
distract me from my problems, and that something turns
out to be...Ben Stiller!

Suddenly, our walk down the red carpet turns
into a kind of celebrity scavenger hunt for those
in my party ("You've got Ben Stiller? I've got Sting
and Winona Ryder"). One member of our group even pretends
to be talking on his cell phone so that he can turn around,
go back to the beginning of the line, and walk the red
carpet again. Which brings up the question: why do so
many people use their cell phones during the Oscars?
What could possibly be happening in the life of the
man in front of me that he had to miss Dustin
Hoffman's moving presentation of an honorary award in
order to take a phone call?

Once inside the auditorium, we discover that
being at the pre-Oscar cocktail party is a lot like
being on the subway at rush hour, with the exception
being that few forms of mass transit have 1) an open
bar and 2) David Carradine. We are also treated to
appetizers made, we are told, by Wolfgang Puck. (I'm
not sure what Puck did to prepare the lone shrimp I
managed to wrestle away from one of the waiters, but
it was delicious).

Our seats are somewhat far from the stage, in
the sense that we have an excellent view of the Shrine
chandelier, and a more distant view of a small colored
dot below whom we are told is Steve Martin. However,
the monitors at the sides of the stage allow us to see
everything that's going on, and my position in the midst
of a group of screeners has other advantages: for one
thing, they are probably the only group of people in the
entire auditorium who have actually seen all of the films
nominated this year. Everyone seems to have his or her
favorite film: there are explosions of applause from
one part of the auditorium or another whenever a
particular movie is mentioned, and sighs or gasps from
those around me as the Academy surprises us with an
unexpected award.

There are moments I'll remember: Tim Yip
rattling off a rapid-fire list of thank you's during
his acceptance speech, Jack Cardiff's moving tribute
to his family, and especially Best Director winner
Steven Soderbergh's decision to bypass thanking his
agent and lawyer and instead recognize everyone "who
spends some part of their day creating something." It
amazes me that with all of the power, money, and egos
in the room that nearly everyone who speaks seems to
recognize both an art and a creative force bigger than
themselves, and to appreciate all those who have gone
before.

For the first time that I can remember, the
awards ceremony seems to end too soon, and before I
know it, we're back on the red carpet, snapping a few
last-minute photos before our limousine-and-a-half
returns. Should I mention something of the parties
afterwards, of the long, star-studded night of
debauchery that continued into the morning hours?
Probably, but after all, this wouldn't be a Hollywood
story if I didn't save something for the sequel.