It’s Pure Hollywood--Nothing Like You’d Think

I sat just a few rows away from Oscar himself. The golden statue viewers saw at the beginning of the broadcast was perched on a platform jutting out from the second mezzanine. Amid the splendor of the theater and the challenge of getting into my seat without enveloping the man in front of me in my skirt, I hadn’t noticed at first.

But as various people admonished the audience to take their seats--no really, right now, you have to sit down--a camera on a mechanical arm descended from the heavens or possibly the third mezzanine and went in for a close-up and I realized I was in the presence of a superstar. It was about as close as I got all evening.

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you about the Oscars: Most of the people who attend are not famous, or at least not recognizably so. The image I had in my mind when I found out I was going to the Oscars was something along the lines of me and a few of my friends moving through a rustling enchanted forest of movie stars. Instead, we walked slowly down the red carpet surrounded by people who looked a lot like us. OK, Robert Redford came in right behind us, as did Sidney Poitier, and Sting was to our left, but mostly it was just a bunch of ordinary-looking people scandalously overdressed for 4 in the afternoon. Glamorous yes, superstars no.

Still, the bleachers were filled with people who could see better than we could, screaming names--Ian! Russell! Reese!--so apparently there were movie stars about and when I finally got to my seat, why, there they were: teeny tiny people in the orchestra section trying to sit still while cameras swarmed around them like robotic moths.

Memo to self: next time bring binoculars. And a bigger handbag. And snacks.

But then nothing turned out the way I thought it would. For one thing, I had no idea we would actually have to watch the commercials. I knew you had to sit through breaks in the program while the poor TV audience was inundated with J.C. Penney ads but I thought possession of a ticket raised you above the hoi polloi. Imagine my surprise to see Cindy Crawford fill the screens on either side of the stage clad in jeans and shilling for Diet Pepsi.

On the other hand, my friends and I had expected to encounter limousine lock-down and a security nightmare. In fact, we got there so quickly that I asked the driver to go around the block again so I could put on some lipstick. Security was a breeze, with about 200 of the best-looking members of the LAPD frisking the limos, an array of nice-looking security guards rifling through teeny tiny handbags. And if there wasn’t an endless grove of celebrities, there was still plenty of wondrous things to look at.

* For starters, the Oscars are probably the best place to observe the L.A. reconnaissance stare, that sidelong “Is that..? Isn’t she

* It’s always amusing to watch women in very high heels and long tight dresses try to walk up three flights of stairs, one of them made out of slick stone. Academy sheriffs try to herd people up the carpet, up the steps, into the theater and into their seats. “Treat them like cattle,” one was heard to say. “Although they’re not,” he added, catching a guest’s eye. “Absolutely not, and that’s a lovely dress you’re wearing, ma’am.”

* Here are two ways to spot a celebrity from afar: Look for men in headsets, parting the crowd like the Red Sea, and keep an eye out for women who look too thin to actually be alive. Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe must have cloned themselves--everywhere one looked, there they were weighing no more than 100 pounds put together.

* Many people attending the awards, it turns out, watch much of them on television, from the various bar areas. It’s like being at an incredibly glamorous silent Super Bowl party.

* There is an inner-circle Oscar snobbery. “All he wanted to know,” said one man to his companion after running into a friend, “is where our seats were and if we were going to the ball. And he’s working this room.”

* There were more people here on cell phones than at rush hour on the 405. Most of them, including myself, saying, “Hi, Mom, guess where I am?”

Memo to self: Halle Berry’s skirt was sort of the same color as yours, a very good sign.