It was somewhere north of Wilshire on Highland where the road rage took hold. I should have known better, having already been caught in the snarl that morning, cursing the city official who sanctioned the closing of Hollywood Boulevard. But the rage continued to swell inside me: "The Oscars have nothing to do with me — I don't watch them, I don't care who wins, I've seen only half the films nominated — it's so unfair that access to my home, my home, should be restricted because someone else is going to win an award. Why can't they just set up the day of the event? Why can't they figure out a way to set up for their show without making the rest of us suffer? Considering the small number of people living in Los Angeles whose lives are actually affected in some tangible way by the Oscars, it is unfair, almost cruel, to close our streets and subject us to horrific traffic conditions so they can set up a tent and some bleachers. Par for the course. The movie God is king in Southern California. Try getting a film crew to not throw garbage on your lawn or block your driveway as they shoot a Viagra commercial next door — your complaint will fall on deaf ears at the EIDC. We live on a set, and there are rules that apply... " And suddenly, I felt much better. Like any tantrum, it put things into perspective as I inched closer and closer to my home.
Oscar week in Los Angeles is like the Santa Ana winds. We've come to know it as an annual ritual that is the price we pay for living in what are paradise-like conditions the rest of the year. Residents of the city mutter it under their breath, as if an explanation for everything that will go wrong during during the week-long period leading up to the show. Of course, every traffic congestion is attributed to Oscar — and rightly so, considering the street closures and the influx of people who come to attend a party or simply line the sidewalks outside the Kodak in hopes of catching a glimpse of an actor. Executives, producers, distributors and actors from around the world also fly in, bringing with them the same expectations of having a "Hollywood moment" — be it talking to a celebrity or just seeing one in the flesh. They may say they're doing business, but the secret desire is to end up in someone's suite at the Chateau Marmont having a magical midnight conversation that will be a memory for life, like something out of a movie. The hopes of the out-of-towners are part of the stew of dreams that make up Oscar week — and most leave with the same disappointment that a nominee feels when their name isn't called, the tinge of regret of a hope unfulfilled.
The tax on the everyday working people adds an added level of anxiety. Many of my friends — the event planner, the powerful agent's assistant, the chef — are put to the ultimate test over the course of the week, dealing with other stressed-out people who fret over whether they are at the right party or wearing the right clothes. It ricochets all the way up the food chain, until you hit the Oscar nominees themselves, who are freaked out until the moment of the truth, and spend the following few weeks wondering why they did or didn't win, and subsequently torturing the souls working around them in a frenzy of self-doubt.
"It brings out the worst in people," said another friend of mine a few days ago, a highly successful guy in the art business. "Those clothes, the self-congratulation, it's disgusting." I agreed immediately, intuiting exactly what he meant, but I was surprised it came from him. Generally easy-going and uninterested in pop culture, I didn't think he would care much one way or the other about the Oscars. I couldn't even imagine him watching the show. But the more I thought about it, "bringing out the worst in people" is really what the Oscars do on a more universal level. It's not just the show but the entire culture of the thing that has a creepy patina. There's the neediness of those trying to get into parties, and the neediness of talking to the right people when you're there, and the neediness of guessing the most right winners to prove that you "know something" about the movies. And then there's the annual derby of getting the free screener tapes — a privilege which indicates you are important yourself or know someone important, another odd ritual considering that most of the same films will be on DVD and probably discounted the week after the show.
You sense the desperation most strongly on the westside, where the majority of the entertainment industry has houses and condos. That vibe that's always eerily present when you cross La Cienega — the chip on the shoulder, the sense that people think they should be better off than they are — gets elevated to a fever pitch. Most people in the movies are never happy where they are, and the Oscar ceremony is the annual self-check to see where you land in the pecking order. It's inevitable that most come up short, and driving through Westwood or Beverly Hills, there's an energy of nervous disappointment, the feeling that if you just push harder, drive meaner, are generally more aggressive, you just might be better off next year. But even if you reach the highest levels, there's still disappointment to be found. A relative went to the ceremony a few years ago, and there was such a logjam after it ended, the limos couldn't get to the front fast enough to curry away guests. When hers finally arrived, she shared a ride home with an actress who had been nominated for her supporting role, and lost, and had been waiting an hour for her driver to retrieve her. "It's an honor to be nominated," as the old saying goes, but the treatment is still shoddy and with the compliment comes a thousand disgraces.
For a few years, I made a secret effort to be in another city during the Oscars. But I've come to realize that, as a lifelong resident of Los Angeles, it's part of something we go through communally, just as we go through the Santa Ana winds (which many grow to enjoy). Oddly, we deal with the Santa Anas the same way we deal with Oscars: With aspirin, patience, and the knowledge that it will be over soon, that it ends every year. And there's always a calm after the winds blow, they leave the air fresh and warm and still. And that's what it's like today, on the Monday after the Oscars. Like the winds, the Oscars seem to wipe everything clean. And maybe that's their greatest purpose. Everyone leaves town, Hollywood Boulevard starts to flow again, and life resumes. We thank God we won't have to hear about Brokeback Mountain or Crash or whatever any longer. We breath a sigh of relief, happy that we've gotten through it again, and smile, knowing that it will be 11 more long months before those irritating Oscar winds start to blow again.
Getting Reel is a biweekly commentary about movies and the world.
