The 60th Academy Awards ceremony was scheduled to begin at 6:00 p.m. Pacific Ti.
Janet arrived from Malibu just before five, helped Simon straighten his tuxedo in the Daenerys headquarters office, and then the two climbed into the waiting stretch limousine for the drive to the Shrine Auditorium in downtown Los Angeles.
Because of the writers' strike, even though this was the Oscars' diamond anniversary, many segnts had been pared back. When Simon and Janet reached the Shrine around five-thirty, the red carpet was only a short twenty-ter strip running straight from the curb to the entrance.
The limousine stopped at the carpet's start. The mont Simon and Janet stepped out, reporters and onlookers on both sides turned toward them. Cara flashes exploded like gunfire, shouts rose from the bleachers, and heads swiveled all along the carpet.
Pat Kingsley, who had arrived earlier, walked over and quietly reminded them to pause for photographs.
A few monts later fresh exclamations erupted from the stands. Simon glanced over and saw Sandra Bullock in a white off-the-shoulder gown, lifting her hem as she approached with an easy stride.
The photographers, already satisfied with their earlier shots, surged with renewed excitent.
Seeing Simon give Sandra only a brief hug before preparing to move on with Janet, one journalist called out, "Simon, Sandy, how about one together?"
Sandra answered before Simon could speak, nodding agreeably. She glanced at Janet, who was holding his arm. Janet smiled, released him, and stepped aside. Sandra imdiately slipped her arm through his.
Simon posed with a sowhat rigid smile. Between flashes he murmured to Sandra, almost without moving his lips, "Do you actually want Janet to boil alive?"
Sandra leaned closer, even resting her head briefly on his shoulder as the photographers' shouts grew louder. "Yes," she replied, utterly unrepentant.
Simon could only sigh at his misfortune in friends.
At last the session ended. He wasted no ti, ushering both won swiftly across the carpet and into the auditorium, quietly grateful that tonight's red carpet had been short enough to limit potential disasters.
Though Run Lola Run had been last year's box-office champion, it had earned only a token Best Editing nomination. Accordingly, only Simon and Sandra from the production had been invited, and the two of them were scheduled to present Best Cinematography.
Major Oscar guests were allowed companions. Simon brought Janet; Sandra arrived alone.
Inside the auditorium Simon discovered, to no surprise, that the organizers, ever fond of mischief, had seated all three together: Simon in the center, Janet on his left, Sandra on his right.
There was still ti before the ceremony began. Simon circulated for ten or fifteen minutes, greeting acquaintances, before returning to his seat. He tried to let Janet take the inner position, but she shook her head with a smile and nudged him into place.
Once he sat, Sandra imdiately leaned over as if nothing were amiss. "Simon, have you prepared an acceptance speech?"
He looked at her, puzzled. "Hm?"
"Best Editing nomination," she prompted, giving his shoulder a light tap. "You're pretending you forgot, aren't you?"
Simon genuinely hadn't thought about it. He shook his head. "For a nomination with essentially zero chance of winning, there's nothing to prepare."
"You never know," Sandra said. Then, with a hint of righteous indignation, "Lola deserved far more nominations. It's those old fossils on the Academy."
Simon made a shushing gesture and flicked his eyes toward nearby seats. "Quiet. If soone overhears, I'll never get another nomination."
Sandra gave an unconcerned laugh. "Well, if you do win, rember to thank ."
"No problem."
She nodded, satisfied, then asked, "What are you doing after the ceremony?"
"Going ho. Sleeping."
"That's it? So dull, like an old man." She glanced past him at Janet. "Why don't we all go to Warner's party?"
"Hm?"
"You know I signed for Dangerous Liaisons."
"Oh."
Simon nodded, recalling the period drama adapted from the French epistolary novel, itself a strong awards contender for next year.
Sandra had shown him the script recently. He rembered the role she had landed had originally been intended for Michelle Pfeiffer, who had earned a Supporting Actress nomination for it in the original tiline.
A little discreet inquiry had revealed that Warner had indeed first approached Pfeiffer. The shift traced back to the early-year defection of WMA vice president Ed Limato and a large group of stars, including l Gibson, to ICM. WMA had flexed its muscle, snatched the part for Sandra, and Warner, comparing the two actresses' current heat, had made the switch.
Of course, for a supporting role in a prestige costu piece, Sandra had not demanded top salary; the project was about building credentials and chasing nominations.
When Simon responded only with a neutral "oh," Sandra nudged him again. "So, are we going?"
Daenerys had not planned a party, given the single nomination. Simon had received invitations from Warner, Orion, and others, but had intended to skip them all. Now, with Sandra pressing, he turned to Janet. "Shall we?"
"Of course," Janet said, giving Simon a pointed look before addressing Sandra, who had been treating her as invisible. "Sandy, have you ever considered finding a boyfriend?"
"I'm working on it," Sandra replied without hesitation.
Janet leaned into Simon, baring small white teeth in a low whisper. "Keep this up and you'll get your face scratched."
Sandra shrugged, inching closer to Simon. "Then I'll just have to depend on Simon for the rest of my life."
Janet glanced at the man pretending to be part of the chair back. "If I scratch his face too, would you still want him?"
Sandra smiled sweetly. "If you boil him, I'll take him."
Janet narrowed her eyes playfully. "To store for winter?"
"Exactly. Add plenty of salt when you cook him."
Simon watched the two won on either side trade cheerful, spine-chilling banter, raised both hands in surrender, and pleaded, "Can we please switch to a more uplifting topic?"
Janet and Sandra rolled their eyes at him in unison. They were about to resu when staff began urging guests to settle, and both won fell silent.
At six o'clock sharp the ceremony began.
After the opening number and Academy president Robert Wise's address marking the sixtieth anniversary, host Chevy Chase took the stage.
Chevy Chase had been one of Hollywood's top codians of the seventies and eighties, rising from Saturday Night Live and centing stardom with 1978's third-highest grosser, Animal House.
Yet, perhaps because of the ongoing strike, his performance felt flat. His five-minute monologue consisted mostly of straightforward introductions to the nominated films, punctuated by a few cold jokes that landed with polite rather than genuine laughter.
Simon preferred Billy Crystal's warr style, though he recalled Crystal would not begin hosting the Oscars for several more years.
The evening had little direct bearing on Simon, but the charged atmosphere and occasional light conversation with the won beside him kept boredom at bay.
More than half an hour passed. As Best Cinematography approached, Simon and Sandra slipped backstage.
Simon had not attended rehearsals, only receiving cue cards for their intro. Under staff guidance they collected the results envelope and waited in the wings.
While the Best Animated Short winner spoke onstage, Sandra linked her arm with Simon's and waved the envelope. "You should have been nominated here too. It's unfair."
Simon smiled. "I actually like an unfair world, Sandy. Only people at the bottom of the pyramid chase fairness."
"You're really not angry at all?"
"I rarely feel anger, or many emotions for that matter," Simon said, shaking his head. "Might be so kind of emotional deficit."
Sandra paused. "Then do you love Jenny?"
"Yes," he answered without hesitation.
"Do you love ?"
"No."
"But I love you."
"Thanks."
"Jerk." She pinched his arm. "I'm not letting you off that easily."
As they whispered, the winner finished his speech, the orchestra played, and Chevy Chase returned: "Hollywood has always been a place of miracles. This past year miracles seem to have happened more often than usual. One person wrote, directed, shot, lit, and handled countless other roles to create an outstanding film. Another's debut beca the year's box-office champion. Yet another finished a movie and promptly beca the world's youngest billionaire. Most miraculously, all these feats belong to the sa person. Please welco Simon Westeros and Sandra Bullock."
Warm applause greeted them as they walked onstage and took position at the microphone.
When the clapping subsided Simon faced the packed tiers of seats and waited for Sandra to begin. Seeing her hesitate, he gave her lower back a gentle, reassuring pat.
The touch brought her back. She steadied herself and spoke. "Cinematographers are usually among the first crew mbers we et. Actors might wish they'd make us look prettier, but they do so much more. Even if all you do is run monotonously for over an hour, they can capture that run perfectly on the big screen in countless beautiful ways."
Light laughter rippled through the hall. Simon continued, "Great films always owe much to great cinematographers, whose indelible contributions shape a movie's artistic style. The nominees for Best Cinematography are:"
"Allen Daviau, Empire of the Sun."
"Vittorio Storaro, The Last Emperor."
"Michael Ballhaus, Broadcast News."
"Philippe Rousselot, Hope and Glory."
"Haskell Wexler, Matewan."
After announcing the five, Sandra handed Simon the envelope. He opened it with a smile, glanced at the card, and declared, "The Oscar goes to Vittorio Storaro, The Last Emperor."
No one in the hall was surprised.
Storaro ascended amid applause and accepted the statuette from Simon. Technical categories allowed only brief speeches; after a short thank-you, Simon and Sandra escorted the winner backstage.
Staff whisked Storaro away for engraving and photographs, leaving Simon and Sandra montarily free.
Sandra was still tense from her earlier hesitation. Simon did not hurry back to the auditorium. He guided her to a quiet sofa in the wings, fetched a bottle of water from a staff mber, opened it, and handed it over. "How are you feeling?"
She drank a few sips before answering, worry in her voice. "Simon, did I ruin it?"
"Of course not. You just froze for a second," he said, shaking his head with a smile. "And even if you had, what would it matter? As long as you stay a major star, the Academy will keep inviting you to present."
"I thought it would be easy. I did theater in New York, after all," she said, recalling the mont. "But I've never faced that many people at once."
Simon had not counted, but the Shrine held at least two thousand, and the electric atmosphere could easily overwhelm a first-tir.
Sandra drank again, gradually relaxing. She glanced at him. "You weren't nervous at all, were you?"
"Why would I be?"
She gave his arm a light punch. "Fine. You really are emotionally deficient."
Simon chuckled. They chatted a little longer until he said, "If you're all right now, we should head back. Any longer and Janet will think we're having an affair back here."
Sandra started to nod, then caught the teasing word. Her eyes sparkled mischievously. She glanced around, leaned in quickly, and brushed a cool kiss against the corner of his mouth.
Simon rembered last ti and spoke hastily. "Don't bite."
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