Dude, where’s my Oscar
by Charles Finch10 February 2009 - this article originally appeared in Finch’s Quarterly Review Issue 3
And the winner of the Academy Award for Best Oscars Etiquette and Endurance goes to…
none other than our very own Charles Finch, Tinseltown habitué and lavisher of essential advice on how to survive the mêlée
When my dear friend, the editor of this wonderful newspaper, asked me to write a piece on the Oscars I was quite reluctant as, for the most part, the Oscar weekend usually entails a great deal of work, a mass of anxiety, organisational hell, jet lag, as well as a great deal of disappointment. That said, this year I will host my first Oscar party in Los Angeles for a small gaggle of pals at Madeo’s restaurant on the night before the great event. My party is to celebrate the hordes of foreign filmmakers, actors and fashionistas who each year travel to the mecca of entertainment in the hope that just a little stardust will fall their way. Call it an “Orphans” party. If I do survive to tell the tale then Nick, and consequently all of our loyal readers, will be the first to know.
Obviously, the preferred way to survive the Oscars is to win one, then make a short and charming speech, clutch the statuette firmly to your bosom and head off on the obligatory victory lap of the town, having a blast at all the best parties and, naturally, ending up naked in a giant Jacuzzi surrounded by a bevy of beauties male or female.
Jack Nicholson, one of Finch’s Quarterly’s Honorary Life-Long Mavericks, is a worthy master of the Oscars. He has all this down pat. Comfortably seated in the front row and sporting a grin that tells a billion folks at home that he’s in for one great night, Jack embodies everything an award night should. Success, shades and, in his case, sex. Meryl Streep and Daniel Day-Lewis are somewhat more discreet in their victory celebrations, although one can never be too sure as Hollywood is, after all, a town of surprises, particularly on a night of a thousand stars. Perhaps DDL and MS slip off to a dark S&M rave to act out their hidden fantasies in lustful abandon. We at Finch’s Quarterly embrace all Oscar celebratory methods, as long as the recipient chooses to write for us or dresses in a manner worthy of a movie star of the bygone silent screen era…
Oscar night doesn’t always work as I have described. For example, in my father’s case, he won the Oscar for Best Actor but didn’t get to enjoy the ceremony or even the parties. The harshest critic of them all, otherwise known as The Grim Reaper, irritatingly timed his visit to rob my poor pa of a final curtain call and sent him on to the great theatre in the sky before he could pick up the statuette. He died in The Beverly Hills Hotel shortly after appearing on the Johnny Carson Show… His Oscar for Network was awarded posthumously – Heath Ledger may end up in the same situation if he is awarded the Oscar for The Dark Knight. Either way, I have it on good authority that they are both planning to sit up in the heavens and watch the show along with everyone else who is interested in all things movies.
Back when I started in the movie business I spent Oscar nights in Hollywood with friends in a cheery and liquor-fuelled gathering. We were poor actors, directors and writers, all of us dreaming of the day when our time would come, silently composing our acceptance speeches whilst throwing obscene criticisms at the nominees on television and, of course, cursing the winners. For years I watched the awards with the Brit pack of Damian Harris, Cassian Elwes, Franc Roddam, Rupert Everett and various other reprobates whom Damian and Annabel kindly put up with at their Hollywood Boulevard home. We were all pretty much at the same lowly stage in our careers, although Roddam was a big director, Jimmy Spader and Julian Sands had both been in hit movies and I had worked on the masterpieces Amazon I, II and III… all shot, incidentally, in Argentina and financed by none other than Roger Corman. Damian Harris and my other good pal, Danny Huston, also had fathers who had won awards and, like me, it probably made them a little more hungry to win one back then. I should not presume, though, as perhaps only I seethed with ambition. Later when I started representing artists, a few of whom admittedly did win Oscars (zip to do with me), I was able to have a more ringside seat at the event and, of course, at the parties. Today how I celebrate the Oscars is, in all honesty, much of a muchness to me and will be until the day I win one. For that I will need some luck, some cash and a giant hook to latch myself on to the tails of a remarkable director. Of course, dear clients, I share your triumph and glory, weep alongside you and laugh humbly as you lift the little fella and thank your mums…
The best actual party at the awards is, strangely, the Governor’s Ball, which follows directly after the awards ceremony. I stand alone in this opinion as all Hollywood insiders will tell you what a bore the whole thing is, but then they have never attended the Césars (French Oscars) or the European Awards, which defy description. All the history of Oscar night, the guest list which is not to be equalled, the great stars of now and yesteryear and so on make it a pretty dazzling evening… So what if there is a function-like quality to it all, it is still a unique night and one to savour. As this is not a celebrity mag, I won’t bore you with the details but suffice it to say that though there may be “no there there” (Gertrude Stein), as far as LA is concerned, on Oscar night there is plenty of “here here” in Hollywood.
Graydon Carter, also an honorary Maverick for Life (unless I get dumped from the VF party list), gives a wonderful party that remains the next best thing to attending the awards, winning one or staying at the Palace Hotel in Gstaad and sleeping soundly through the whole thing. The VF dinner and party is good because of the mix of guests: Graydon invites pals from different worlds, not just the movies. I sat next to Steve Wynn last year and ended up on a sofa between Lucy Liu and Naomi Watts. The key is to pace yourself because it’s a long, long night and if you’re jet-lagged or have losing clients, friends or movie, it’s interminable. The evening sometimes starts at 2.30pm for a nominee or someone working with a nominee and it goes on late. If you happen to be escorting a young star, as some of my colleagues are apt to do, then they want the full shebang – the awards, the parties and spaghetti at 5am. Thank goodness I have for some years attended the VF dinner at which I watch the ceremony alongside some pretty swanky folk. Graydon and Anna Carter meet and greet all their guests as all hosts should do, and the dress code of black tie is largely respected. Patrick Woodroffe always does a brilliant job of the lighting and Sara Marks runs the evening flawlessly.
Oscar night can be a little intimidating and thus, for those of you in need of some advice, here is how to survive:
• Never presume nobody wants to meet you. You are wonderful. Introduce yourself and do not be surprised if you get blanked. Most people in Tinseltown regard good manners as a handicap.
• Dress appropriately.
• Do not gatecrash. It is rude and boring. Penélope Cruz: this does not apply to you…
• If you can, find yourself a movie star to go with or, even better, be one.
• If you are nominated, remember your agent/manager, then the filmmakers and, finally, in a little old moment of its own, thank your mother etc.
• Don’t make political speeches unless you are Mandela.
• Do look as though you are having a lousy time.
• Be nice to Graydon.
• Be nice to Graydon.
• Act, direct, produce or write well.
The hotels that cater most for the nominees are, of course, the Chateau Marmont, the Four Seasons, The Beverly Hills Hotel, the Beverly Wilshire and the Bel-Air. From these hotels emanate the great and not so great: the handlers, hangers-on, tourists and tramps. The Chateau has the young party crowd and stylists, the Four Seasons the first-time nominees paid for by the studio or the Europeans, the Wilshire has more of the same, the Beverly Hills the matinee idols and, finally, Bel-Air usually has the big, discreet megastars.
I only really have one Oscar-night horror story. When I was a young executive working for Albert S Ruddy, the legendary Hollywood producer contributing to these pages, I was asked to attend the Oscar party thrown by Warner Brothers for Clint Eastwood. Al is a close friend of Clint’s and my attendance had been okayed. My good pal Billy Gerber was also president of the studio and I had met Clint a few times and was pretty sure he wouldn’t slug me if I showed up. Oscar night came and, sure enough, Clint won for Unforgiven. I belted down from the Hollywood Hills in my Beetle convertible with a gal named Sunrise or Sunset or Surprise, I can’t remember. Both Miss S and I dressed to the nines and, excited, we arrived at the party only to be told we were not on the list and thus not allowed in. A dark sense of foreboding swept over me and, not one to ignore my instincts, I turned to my date and as nonchalantly as possible told her I would not be treated like this and my father was famous and I was a big shot etc etc etc – let’s go have a bite at Dan Tanner’s restaurant and forget Clint and the whole sordid saga… Of course, being a Hollywood girl, this was not at all what dear Miss Surprise/Summer/Sunshine had in mind at all. No way, man! We were getting in and that was all there was to it! I don’t recall which of us, her or I, actually grasped the security man’s arm, but one thing led to another and a shouting match of some sort ensued in front of the high and mighty of Tinseltown. Behind a rope not three feet away from us stood Al, Billy, Clint, agents and producers I knew, girls I had dated and, for some reason, none of them – not a single one – could see us… There I was dressed in my best black tie, waving and gesturing frantically. “Clint, Clint…” I found myself calling out. But we were invisible. The uninvited. The D-list beyond the red cord. Finally, I caught the eye of the head of business affairs at Warner’s. A man I actually knew, and I mean that – not “Hollywood knew”… We had done some business together. I hadn’t bought the studio but it was a proper deal. And this fellow, this sonofabitch, he looked right through me, taking in Sunshine’s bronzed chest and he said, “You know, Charles, it is a private party. You really shouldn’t be here…”
It was a pretty devastating moment. I could feel the people looking at me. I recall clearly now the colour of my date’s cheeks. A strawberry colour the likes of which the best Yorkshire farmer would be happy to have on a cheek… I didn’t forget that executive and we came across each other some time later when the tables had turned and, of course, I let him in. He is not, however, on the FQR mailing list…
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May 3rd, 2009 at 5:49 pm
Refreshing to read an article that has the perfect balance of ‘Class, Humility, and Balls’. Well done.