I
covered around nine Oscars ceremonies between 1991 and 2001, and I decided to
share with you a bit of what I observed behind the scenes of what is arguably
the most famous and important awards ceremony in the world of Hollywood cinema.
During
those years, I worked as a correspondent for “TV Cultura” and the newspaper “O
Dia”, as well as for “Vídeo News” magazine and many other Brazilian and
international publications and television networks.
The
first time I ventured behind the scenes of the Oscars was in 1991. That year,
TV Globo was broadcasting the event live, and Paulo Henrique Amorim, who headed
Globo’s New York bureau, decided to come to Los Angeles to cover it personally.
I was hired to serve as the local producer; joining me were David Presas, a
producer from New York, and cameraman Orlando Moreira. They arrived two days
early, and Paulo Henrique asked me to take them to a few of the city’s iconic
landmarks to film some segments.
Since
Globo was broadcasting the show, they had a dedicated trailer located behind
the theater and a guaranteed spot on the red carpet. After filming these
reports, on the day of the event, the team gathered in their trailer; however,
they had full access to the theater, allowing them to discreetly observe the
show’s rehearsals.
That
year, the Oscars ceremony took place at the Shrine Auditorium, a 1926 theater
designed in the Moorish Revival style by theater architect G. Albert Lansburgh.
A total of 10 Oscar ceremonies have been held there since 1947; in addition to
the Oscars, numerous Grammy ceremonies, the BET Awards, the SAG Awards, and the
1933 world premiere of “King Kong” all took place there.
Unfortunately,
the only thing I caught a fleeting glimpse of on stage was Madonna rehearsing
the song "Sooner or Later" from the film “Dick Tracy”, a song that
would go on to win the Oscar for Best Original Song. I say "fleeting
glimpse" because I was walking around the theater attending to requests
from the crew; there was no opportunity to stop and watch at my leisure.
Especially since the security guards would complain if I did. However, I do
remember that later on, as I was leaving through the back exit on my way to my
trailer, I saw a blonde young woman sitting on the stairs with her back to me.
As I walked past her, I noticed that she needed to dye her hair, as her dark
roots were already clearly visible. Next, I noticed that her toenails, clad in
a pair of cheap, flimsy plastic sandals, were in urgent need of a pedicure. The
badly chipped polish gave her an air of total neglect. It wasn't until I had
finished descending the steps and looked back that I realized who she was. The
young woman sitting so humbly on the stairs was the Queen of Pop herself:
Madonna.
Later
that evening, during the show, she took the stage with a flawless hairstyle, platinum
blonde, and with her fingernails and toenails gleaming dazzlingly, polished to
a finish worthy of a luxury automobile.
In
the years that followed, I covered the event for various magazines, newspapers,
and television stations, yet I never once sat in the audience. Accredited
journalists, dressed in elegant tuxedos, and evening gowns, remained gathered
in the press room: an adjoining chamber situated far from the stage, where we
watched the ceremony on TV monitors while typing away on our laptops and
talking on our phones.
Whenever
someone won an award, the lucky recipient would be escorted to the press room,
where, standing on a small stage facing us, they would field questions from the
assembled journalists during a brief, hurried press conference. Next, they were
escorted to the photographers' room, known as the “animal room”, because the
award winners were greeted by the strident shouts of the press photographers,
who bellowed their names so they would turn around and be photographed by the
ones with the strongest lungs and the most deafening screams. It was a
nightmare.
It
was on one of those nights, in 1993, at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, somewhere
between the press room and the “animal room”, that I saw three legends of
Italian cinema passing by. Walking down the hallway were Sophia Loren and
Marcello Mastroianni, accompanying director Federico Fellini, who was there to
receive an honorary Oscar. I could hear Fellini say to Mastroianni: “Cosa vuoi,
Marcelino?”, meaning, “What do you want, little Marcello?” I found it
delightful. Fellini, at 73, calling Mastroianni, then 69, as if he were a
little boy... A truly Felliniesque moment.
Although
we spent the night in black tie, rubbing shoulders with movie stars, for the
journalists present, the work only began once the stage lights went out. We had
to write our stories, edit our video footage, and send them off to our
respective media outlets. But for the stars, the night was just getting
started.
At
the end of the show, the guests headed to the “Governors Ball”, the official,
exclusive after-party hosted by the Academy of Hollywood. It was the first
celebration where winners, nominees, and industry leaders could dine and
socialize.
For
over 30 years, renowned chef Wolfgang Puck has curated the menu, featuring an
incredibly chic buffet. There was also a designated area where winners could
officially have their names engraved on their statuettes. I never actually got
into this party. I don't believe any journalist like myself ever attended.
Perhaps only a few press celebrities, the likes of Oprah or Barbara Walters.
To
this day, in addition to the "Governors Ball," a series of other
ultra-luxurious celebrations take place across the city. Obtaining invitations
to these parties, which are generally tied to specific studios, is extremely
difficult.
In
the late 1990s, having already covered Hollywood for a long time, I began
receiving sporadic invitations to some of these parties.
In
2001, I was invited to the city’s hottest post-Oscar party, held at Spago
Beverly Hills, Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant.
Arriving
directly from the Shrine Auditorium, where the awards ceremony had taken place,
I pulled my car into the valet line right behind a Mercedes. Stepping out of
that car was none other than Steven Spielberg.
That
night, I made my entrance in style: clad in my tuxedo, walking the red carpet,
and waving to my fellow journalists who were still there on the job, covering
the party.
However,
my expectations, of finally immersing myself in the city’s hottest event, at
its trendiest restaurant, alongside the cream of the Hollywood crop, collided
head-on with the harsh reality of the American film industry and its rigid
rules and restrictions.
The
room was teeming with celebrities, some of whom had taken home awards that very
night. Yet we, the handful of invited journalists, felt like a group of
diabetics touring a candy factory. We were not authorized to conduct interviews
with anyone amidst the festivities. Casual conversation? Sure, provided the
artist was in the mood to chat. But a formal interview? Absolutely not.
And
photographs? Don't even ask. They were strictly forbidden by the organizers. If
anyone dared to take a photograph, they would have to use a very inconspicuous
camera, for back in 2001, few cell phones could take pictures. Breaking these
rules meant summary and humiliating expulsion from the party, along with
subsequent repercussions. In other words: no future coverage opportunities...
If
you imagine this party was some sort of wild bacchanal, with inebriated stars
groping one another, you are completely mistaken. Hollywood parties attended by
actors, directors, agents, and studio executives are always strictly
professional gatherings. The crowd seizes these opportunities to pitch new
projects, engage in self-promotion, and advance their careers. It’s strictly
business; after all, Hollywood is show business!
The
only option was to look, smile, and soak up the star-studded atmosphere, without
touching. To eat and drink only the very best, and nothing more. And that is
exactly what I did.
I
returned home feeling pleasantly buzzed, with the taste of champagne still
lingering on my tongue. But upon my arrival, I received the best news in the
world: my wife informed me that she was pregnant. It was even better than
winning an Oscar.
The
End
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