Ever notice Oscar’s sword?

AT 5:38 a.m., the Road to Oscar begins with a five-minute reading of nominees’ names under glaring lights at the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences. The Road to the Nominations Announcement, however, starts at midnight with a minutely choreographed kabuki dance in which the academy theater opens to the production staff, the Hollywood press and to me, who comes to watch the ritual unfold.

All quiet on the Wilshire front

No Times Square this. At 12:15 a.m., Wilshire Boulevard is deadly still. I park in a creepily deserted and dark structure a few blocks away and walk through the silence down the great thoroughfare. A nattily dressed young man in blazer and tie trudges along beside me, an intern, I learn, for a network morning show. “I have no idea why they sent me so early,” he tells me.

We enter through a back alley; two security guards check our names. I experience a bit of vertigo stepping out of the night into the blazingly lighted theater.

A couple of dozen TV techies shuffle dreamily as they set up camera stands between the rows of red seats, taping long cords down the aisles. A press assistant reminds crews to label their equipment so it won’t be confiscated when they are away.

Up on the stage, the white backdrop and crystal lectern await their moment in the sun, flanked by two 15-foot tall Oscars. After years of watching the show, for the first time I notice Oscar is holding a sword. How, I wonder, scraping away sleep, did I never see that before?

The rundown

At 2:30, an academy press woman takes the stage and warns that we have one hour until we will be swept clear of the room. “If you have problems, now is the time to solve them,” she says to the growing camera corps that is now set up throughout the theater’s rows.

At the front of the room, a man squats on the floor feeding slides into a dozen carousels. Two academy employees stand above him, arms crossed. I ask, “Are those ...”

“They’re real,” I’m told. “They’re the real thing.” And the men train menacing stares my way lest I try for a peek.

The maestro enters

Minutes later, the director of the nominations announcements and of the Oscar ceremony itself, Louis J. Horvitz, sweeps in flamboyantly in a dark overcoat.

He is met by two assistants who lead him directly to the stage, where with a small digital camera they take a picture of him smiling in front of the lectern.

He takes his chair at the command console in the room’s center. Set up for his arrival are a pyramid of five monitors, a spiral-bound script of the show, a giant digital clock, two pencils, two erasers, pencil sharpeners and little dispensers of four different-colored Post-its.

He begins the run-through, studying the shots and snapping his fingers toward the man sitting to his left when he wants a cut between cameras. In his 10th year directing the event, he reflects, “It’s a question of -- we’re going to play the Super Bowl again and a lot of the team have been there already and now we have to duplicate the win.”

Breakfast of the gods

At 3:30 a.m. we’re swept out of the theater and into the alley. We trudge like vagrants to the front of the building, then pass through the metal detectors before we can be served breakfast in the lobby. After all the build-up surrounding the famed buffet, it turns out to be scrambled eggs, bacon, French toast and hash browns, bagels and muffins, fruit and cereal, juice, an espresso maker and, not at all surprising considering the crowd, Bloody Marys.

Standing as respectable as a Swiss Guard in the middle of the room, a man in a conservative business suit sips coffee and studies the crowd. I introduce myself and learn he is Bradley Oltmanns, managing partner of PricewaterhouseCoopers, a.k.a. the Bearer of the Ballots.

Having delivered the names of the nominees at 9 the previous night, Oltmanns said, his work was done, but he wanted to come back and survey the scene that his work had summoned. I ask how it feels to be the only person in the room who knows the secrets. Oltmanns laughs, saying it will be a relief to have the secret out. “I’ve assiduously avoided conversing about movies with anyone for the past week.”

The hour at hand

It’s 5:34 a.m. -- four minutes to go. The back rows of the theater are filled with publicists, cellphones at the ready, prepped to break the news to their clients. “It is what it is,” one sighs to a friend, seemingly bracing herself to make an unpleasant call.

Two minutes to go and the room falls silent -- except for a lone reporter who suddenly goes on the air. In a voice of booming enthusiasm, he manages to get out the words, “ ‘Crash’ director Paul Haggis ... “ before the sound of his shouting breaks the nervous tension and sends the publicists section into a paroxysm of giggles, which in turn causes the reporter to crack up on camera.

Horvitz then speaks, “20 seconds ... 15 ... 10 ... “ and the music rises.