The day I saved a Hollywood superstar
So, the Oscars turned 85 – but remained glamorous as ever. Apart from the awards themselves, there was Shirley Bassey’s triumphant debut at the event; Barbra Streisand’s touching tribute to Marvin Hamlisch (even if she ‘talk-sang’ her way through much of his Oscar-winning song, The Way We Were), and Hugh Jackman’s gallant attempt to help Jennifer Lawrence when she fell on her way up the stairs to collect her award (Halle Berry did the same the previous day at rehearsal).
As always, there were plenty of colourful backstage moments, too, including Daniel Day-Lewis, first actor in Academy Award history to win three Best Actor Oscars, admitting that his Lincoln beard had been ‘a bit scratchy’. It’s also worth noting that nominees and presenters ended up with swag bags of goodies worth $45,000, including air tickets to Australia and Hawaii, $500 designer trainers, and a handful of chocolates each worth $100.
Which got me reflecting on previous Oscar ceremonies – and my own experiences behind the scenes… It was 1985 and I was taking a quick coffee break in the press lounge backstage between awards. My eyes were glued to the TV monitors when a timid voice asked, ‘Is anyone allowed to come in here?’
I looked up and saw a hesitant stranger. She looked a little forlorn and I recognised her as an unsuccessful Oscar nominee for her performance in Steven Spielberg’s The Color Purple. I didn’t know much about her. How soon that would change. Before long, she would be the world’s most powerful celebrity.
‘Sure, come and sit down,’ I told her. ‘Have a coffee and relax.’
‘Thanks,’ she whispered. ‘I think I got lost backstage.’
That was the only time I ever watched television with Oprah Winfrey.
But such encounters at the Academy Awards are not unusual. The backstage area is a maze of hospitality suites and press rooms. I once came across a bleary-eyed Jack Lemmon staggering around, trying to find the men’s loo. I gave him directions, but after listening to my complicated instructions, he threw up his hands.
‘Do me a favour,’ he begged. ‘Just take me there!’
After I had dropped Jack off, I made my way to the ladies’ room. As I walked through the door, I promptly tripped over a jewelled apparition on all fours, her hands methodically sweeping the floor.
I bent over her. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked, sympathetically. She turned… and I found myself staring into the face of a mega superstar. ‘I lost my contact lens while I was in the toilet,’ she bleated. ‘And now I’ve lost the other one. I’m blind as a bat without them.’
I joined her on the floor and heard an ominous rip in my tight lurex gown. But I found the contact lens. One of them, anyway. And you would never have guessed a short while later, when this superstar was presenting a major award.
I never got to interview the superstar, who, I’m afraid, I will never expose; mainly because it was a moment that just seems too intimate to put a name to. Maybe she owed me, but when it came down to it, I could not bring myself to remind her how we had met.
That wasn’t the same year, by the way, that Meryl Streep was named Best Actress for Kramer vs. Kramer and dashed off to the ladies’ room in between addressing the media in the various press rooms. She was on her way back when a voice yelled from the loo she had just vacated – ‘Hey! Someone’s left an Oscar in here!’
Since its inception, the Academy Awards have symbolised the ultimate prize in the acting world. But they are despised by some (two-time winner Glenda Jackson: ‘I felt disgusted, as though I was watching a public hanging’), and shunned by others (Woody Allen calls the Oscars ‘meaningless’ and has steadfastly ignored his 15 nominations and four wins, and instead plays his clarinet in a New York nightclub while Oscar sizzles).
Then, there are those who have vacillated. Dustin Hoffman after boycotting the awards and calling them ‘obscene, dirty and grotesque’, had a change of heart five years later when he showed up to accept his Oscar for Kramer vs. Kramer and even managed to thank his parents ‘for not practicing birth control’.
Television viewers can miss a lot of what goes on at the Oscars – backstage, there’s still so much that remains hidden. The press are segregated into different rooms for print, television, radio and photography; the winners and presenters are shepherded among them after each award.
And woe betide any reporter who tries to sneak into a prohibited area. The doors are manned by hefty armed security guards and rarely does anyone get past this sternly protected operation.
But there have been exceptions.
The year of Meryl Streep’s win, I sneaked into the photographers’ room as Meryl Streep and Dustin Hoffman finished posing for pictures. By then, they were so exhausted that they flopped down on the floor, their Oscars upright between them. I whipped out my camera from beneath my billowing evening gown to capture a memorable moment of exquisite informality.
Memories… Well, there was Richard Burton, after notching up a seventh loss: ‘My lucky number is nine, so if I’d won I’d have broken the superstition.’ (He had two more to go, but died too soon.)
Then there was the time his two-time wife-to-be, Elizabeth Taylor, won the Oscar for 1960 film BUtterfield 8, notable because the press had been pronouncing her close to death – from pneumonia – and the award really was considered to be a sympathy vote. Even Taylor hated the film, saying later: ‘I still say it stinks’.
Conversely, Peter Finch’s posthumous win for Network was greeted with resounding cheers in the press room. Peter was a friend, and when I told his widow, Eletha, of the reaction from the hardened reporters, her eyes filled with tears. She said she would display the Oscar among the actor’s cherished antique teapot collection.
Charlie Chaplin’s appearance to receive his Honorary Award caused such paranoid concern over security that, on his arrival, all the doors were locked and bolted, trapping Oscar-winning director William Friedkin (for The French Connection) inside a double-glass entrance, from which he was unable to escape until someone heard him banging his Oscar against the glass and yelling for help.
Barbra Streisand’s late arrival left her cooling her heels in the lobby with another tardy arrival, Lauren Bacall, until the doors were reopened for smokers during the first commercial break.
But my favourite moment? Probably the time I came across Gregory Peck having a huddled chat outside the press lounge with a friend who I had not yet met. Peck broke off his conversation to greet me, then introduced me to his pal. It was James Stewart, who cocked his head on one side and stared at me for a second, then drawled inimitably, ‘Oh yuh, uh, you’re that BBC girl who Kirk (Douglas) was telling me about. Uh, good to meet you.’
As always, there were plenty of colourful backstage moments, too, including Daniel Day-Lewis, first actor in Academy Award history to win three Best Actor Oscars, admitting that his Lincoln beard had been ‘a bit scratchy’. It’s also worth noting that nominees and presenters ended up with swag bags of goodies worth $45,000, including air tickets to Australia and Hawaii, $500 designer trainers, and a handful of chocolates each worth $100.
Which got me reflecting on previous Oscar ceremonies – and my own experiences behind the scenes… It was 1985 and I was taking a quick coffee break in the press lounge backstage between awards. My eyes were glued to the TV monitors when a timid voice asked, ‘Is anyone allowed to come in here?’
I looked up and saw a hesitant stranger. She looked a little forlorn and I recognised her as an unsuccessful Oscar nominee for her performance in Steven Spielberg’s The Color Purple. I didn’t know much about her. How soon that would change. Before long, she would be the world’s most powerful celebrity.
‘Sure, come and sit down,’ I told her. ‘Have a coffee and relax.’
‘Thanks,’ she whispered. ‘I think I got lost backstage.’
That was the only time I ever watched television with Oprah Winfrey.
But such encounters at the Academy Awards are not unusual. The backstage area is a maze of hospitality suites and press rooms. I once came across a bleary-eyed Jack Lemmon staggering around, trying to find the men’s loo. I gave him directions, but after listening to my complicated instructions, he threw up his hands.
‘Do me a favour,’ he begged. ‘Just take me there!’
After I had dropped Jack off, I made my way to the ladies’ room. As I walked through the door, I promptly tripped over a jewelled apparition on all fours, her hands methodically sweeping the floor.
I bent over her. ‘Can I help you?’ I asked, sympathetically. She turned… and I found myself staring into the face of a mega superstar. ‘I lost my contact lens while I was in the toilet,’ she bleated. ‘And now I’ve lost the other one. I’m blind as a bat without them.’
I joined her on the floor and heard an ominous rip in my tight lurex gown. But I found the contact lens. One of them, anyway. And you would never have guessed a short while later, when this superstar was presenting a major award.
I never got to interview the superstar, who, I’m afraid, I will never expose; mainly because it was a moment that just seems too intimate to put a name to. Maybe she owed me, but when it came down to it, I could not bring myself to remind her how we had met.
That wasn’t the same year, by the way, that Meryl Streep was named Best Actress for Kramer vs. Kramer and dashed off to the ladies’ room in between addressing the media in the various press rooms. She was on her way back when a voice yelled from the loo she had just vacated – ‘Hey! Someone’s left an Oscar in here!’
Since its inception, the Academy Awards have symbolised the ultimate prize in the acting world. But they are despised by some (two-time winner Glenda Jackson: ‘I felt disgusted, as though I was watching a public hanging’), and shunned by others (Woody Allen calls the Oscars ‘meaningless’ and has steadfastly ignored his 15 nominations and four wins, and instead plays his clarinet in a New York nightclub while Oscar sizzles).
Then, there are those who have vacillated. Dustin Hoffman after boycotting the awards and calling them ‘obscene, dirty and grotesque’, had a change of heart five years later when he showed up to accept his Oscar for Kramer vs. Kramer and even managed to thank his parents ‘for not practicing birth control’.
Television viewers can miss a lot of what goes on at the Oscars – backstage, there’s still so much that remains hidden. The press are segregated into different rooms for print, television, radio and photography; the winners and presenters are shepherded among them after each award.
And woe betide any reporter who tries to sneak into a prohibited area. The doors are manned by hefty armed security guards and rarely does anyone get past this sternly protected operation.
But there have been exceptions.
The year of Meryl Streep’s win, I sneaked into the photographers’ room as Meryl Streep and Dustin Hoffman finished posing for pictures. By then, they were so exhausted that they flopped down on the floor, their Oscars upright between them. I whipped out my camera from beneath my billowing evening gown to capture a memorable moment of exquisite informality.
Memories… Well, there was Richard Burton, after notching up a seventh loss: ‘My lucky number is nine, so if I’d won I’d have broken the superstition.’ (He had two more to go, but died too soon.)
Then there was the time his two-time wife-to-be, Elizabeth Taylor, won the Oscar for 1960 film BUtterfield 8, notable because the press had been pronouncing her close to death – from pneumonia – and the award really was considered to be a sympathy vote. Even Taylor hated the film, saying later: ‘I still say it stinks’.
Conversely, Peter Finch’s posthumous win for Network was greeted with resounding cheers in the press room. Peter was a friend, and when I told his widow, Eletha, of the reaction from the hardened reporters, her eyes filled with tears. She said she would display the Oscar among the actor’s cherished antique teapot collection.
Charlie Chaplin’s appearance to receive his Honorary Award caused such paranoid concern over security that, on his arrival, all the doors were locked and bolted, trapping Oscar-winning director William Friedkin (for The French Connection) inside a double-glass entrance, from which he was unable to escape until someone heard him banging his Oscar against the glass and yelling for help.
Barbra Streisand’s late arrival left her cooling her heels in the lobby with another tardy arrival, Lauren Bacall, until the doors were reopened for smokers during the first commercial break.
But my favourite moment? Probably the time I came across Gregory Peck having a huddled chat outside the press lounge with a friend who I had not yet met. Peck broke off his conversation to greet me, then introduced me to his pal. It was James Stewart, who cocked his head on one side and stared at me for a second, then drawled inimitably, ‘Oh yuh, uh, you’re that BBC girl who Kirk (Douglas) was telling me about. Uh, good to meet you.’