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.
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