When Fantasy and Reality Collide

La Broadway is always a hubbub of activity on Sunday afternoons for Latino families. Still, on this particular Sunday there was a feeling that something even bigger was going on.

For the first time in the history of the Oscars, the ceremony was held on a Sunday, intermixing families shopping for groceries in the Grand Central Market just a few blocks down from the glitter and glamour of Hollywood at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion on Grand.

Throw in a heated demonstration--and counter protest--and it added up to a most unusual day in downtown L.A. But while two very different worlds came into contact on Sunday, everyone’s mind seemed focused on one golden statue.

Mercedes Hernandez, 18, wore a black sweatshirt with an Oscar statuette on the back as she pushed a stroller down Broadway around noon. She said she was eager to get home in time to watch the ceremony. Her mother, who bought the sweatshirt for her, had stood in line to gaze at the limos at the 1996 ceremony.

“It’s so exciting to watch all the movie stars,” said Hernandez, whose favorite movie is “Titanic.” “We love going to the movies.”

Marta Urena, who sat at the El Pollo Loco counter at the Grand Central Market eating lunch with her two children, said every year she eagerly watches the show. Urena goes to the movies regularly with her two sons.

“Even though I don’t understand the language, I understand the story,” she said in Spanish. “I love action and horror movies like ‘Anaconda.’ ”

But the normalcy of Broadway was a sharp contrast to the packed crowds of out-of-towners elbowing their way through the crowds for a glimpse of a star. Some--like Al Jacobs--had also voyaged to the Pavilion for a chance to be discovered.

Jacobs, who wore a paper re-creation of the ship Titanic on his head as a hat, wore a sign around his neck that said “I want to be a star.”

Most fans were not lucky enough to grab a seat along the bleachers by the entrance of the Pavilion and had to make do with a fleeting look at limousines and tinted windows.

People like Gaston Alfonso and Mariela San Giorgio, both Argentines, had just arrived in Los Angeles and driven directly downtown with hopes of catching a glimpse of their favorite stars. “You always see this on television. Now that we are here, this is very special,” said Alfonso, gazing at the crowds from beneath his Ray-Ban sunglasses.

Off-duty Los Angeles Police Officer Kevin Scott, hired as a security guard on Hill Street, tried to control the growing crowd. Despite his efforts, the lines of curious tourists continued to grow.

“I told them that no one comes around this way but they still want to stand here,” Scott said. “I had a woman come up to me and say, ‘I didn’t come all the way out here from Palmdale not to see anyone.’ It’s a losing battle.”

But the scene became even more hectic near the main entrance where hundreds of protesters against Elia Kazan’s honorary Oscar clashed with pro-Kazan demonstrators as tourists mingled among them. At times, it was hard to distinguish between the die-hard protesters and the stargazers.

Since police had cordoned off sections for the protesters directly along the limousine route, many fans grabbed signs protesting the Kazan award only to get closer to the stars. Some even offered to pay up to $150 to hold a sign to get through the police barrier, which allowed entry only to the protesters.

“Separating the tourists from the demonstrators is our problem,” said Don White, one of the anti-Kazan protest organizers. “We invited the public and there is no litmus test for who demonstrates.”

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At one point, the Los Angeles Police Department deployed reinforcements, hoping to calm down the crowds that had gathered on 1st Street. In a volatile mix, atheists and communists were standing shoulder to shoulder with neoconservatives and religious activists.

Despite the confusion, there were several hundred protesters against Kazan. Some, like writers Abraham Polonsky, Joan Scott, Norma Barzman and Robert Lees, were blacklisted themselves. Others, like Jo Weber, whose father John Weber, head of the literary department at William Morris Agency until he was blacklisted, and Becca Wilson, daughter of Michael Wilson, writer of the award-winning film “Bridge Over the River Kwai,” were there as a reminder of the personal toll the McCarthy era had taken on their lives.

But on Broadway, the escapism, allure and glamour of Hollywood filmmaking seemed to have won out Sunday. Munching on a chicken leg at the Grand Central Market, Urena said: “If I were to meet a Hollywood executive, I would congratulate them on the movies they are making. We love them.”