All Dressed Up And No Place To Go

The red carpet was narrower than I’d imagined, but it shimmered red under the lights as expected. Bodies moved across it in a kind of choreographed dazzle – tall, elegant, mostly famous. There were barricades, barked instructions from headset-wearing handlers, and a human tide of couture flowing in one direction. I was pulled into the vortex. Bleachers of spectators cheered and encouraged all around me.

Pinch Myself

The year before, two of the documentary films I helped to shoot were nominated for the 61st Academy Awards – the year Rain Man won. One of them, Promises to Keep, was about homelessness in America. The other was Marcel Ophuls’ four-and-a-half-hour epic Hotel Terminus: The Life and Times of Klaus Barbie. (It actually won Best Documentary Feature)

I couldn’t attend the ceremony that year. But I promised myself that if the chance ever came again, I’d go.

Amazingly, in a “shock cut” kind of way, that next year, another project I’d shot was also nominated. I decided to attend.

That film, Fine Food, Fine Pastries, Open 6-9, was a day-in-the-life portrait of a D.C. family-run restaurant, a block from the Nation’s Capitol in D.C. The film portrayed the restaurant as the community hub that it was, and captured the interactions between the staff and regulars over the course of a typical day.

Arriving In Style – Kind Of

That year, the ceremony was to be held at the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion, not the usual venue.

We pooled our money and found the least expensive limo we could get. A coach-class limo you could say, if such a thing exists. It smelled faintly of perfume – clearly trying to cover up something worse. Second-class stars, in a second-class limo? That’s us: the documentary guys.

It’s important to remember that, at the time, documentaries were barely tolerated at the Oscars. We were filler, scheduled in the least glamorous segment of the evening. But all that’s easy to forget when you’re surrounded by lights and velvet ropes. I felt myself starting to believe they I actually belonged there. Entitlement creeps in fast.

We shot our film with care, and the edit was nearly complete when Dave Peterson, the director, made a bold decision: it wasn’t working.

So he tore it apart.

Every splice, every frame, was pulled from the bins. The entire film had to be painstakingly reconstituted, then reedited from scratch. That second edit followed with a new rhythm, a fresh point of view, and even more filming. Somehow, it all worked. A different film emerged. And it was better.

I didn’t recognize the part of L.A. we were driving through. Where were the palm trees? The mansions? Instead: barbed wire fences, dusty sidewalks, barking dogs. Yet here we were, in tuxedos, zipping through the neighborhood like royalty. That’s me in there, ex-Peace Corps Volunteer, unaware of the irony.

Within blocks of the ceremony, people were gathered along the road, hoping to catch glimpses of celebrities. I cracked the window, letting in the heat. It’s funny, though: it seemed the gawker types had a way of knowing who’s famous and who’s not. They don’t seem to be looking at us at all. How does that work anyway? Maybe they can tell we’re in a 2^nd class limo?

We crept forward in traffic for what felt like forever. Other cars had started unloading, and I saw women in long gowns hiking up their skirts, carrying their heels, trying not to trip as they hoofed toward the theater. Just to be clear, these weren’t stars – they were the “other” people: producers, sound mixers, guests of guests. People like us. Stars never get stuck like that except in movies.

I’d seen screenings of the other nominated docs the day before and, frankly, I thought we had a decent chance. The film had heart. It had grit. And unlike some of the others, it had soul.

As we inched closer to the Pavilion, our driver – who spoke with an accent I couldn’t place – tried to amuse us with stories of former passengers. He mentioned a few rock bands I didn’t know.

When we finally pulled up, everything exploded at once. Who knew there was such a thing as Rush Hour at the Oscars?

The fans grew louder as each limo door opened. For a fleeting second, I wondered if they were cheering for us? Where could they have seen our film?

I was dazed, squinting in the glare, trying to stay close to my group, and failing.

Someone from a TV crew waved me over. Maybe they thought I was someone? I used to be told I looked like Richard Gere. A young guy with a handheld mic asked, “Tell us who you are and what film you’re here with.”

“I shot a documentary about a family-run restaurant in D.C. – Sherrill’s,” I said. I tried to sound casual.

As soon as I said the word “documentary,” he nodded, thanked me quickly, and motioned for the next person. I’d been dismissed. It was as if I’d said, “You know in the film When Wendy Lost Hope? when Wendy drops the baby, I did the sound effects for the baby hitting the ground.”

I scampered on, clearly put in my place – and yet undeterred.

Back in the day, we shot on film – real film – coated with silver and mystery. I’d be halfway around the world, crouched behind a lens in some remote outpost, chasing light and feeling, not knowing when or if I’d ever see what I’d just captured in a finished film.

Weeks would pass. Sometimes months. Only after flying home, getting safely past the Xray dangers and safely out of the lab, syncing the sound, and waiting for an editor to thread it all together would I finally glimpse what had been shot. In the field, there was no video monitor yet, no instant playback, no producer nodding or offering up suggetions from behind a viewer. Just me, a camera, and a hunch – trying to follow the emotional thread of a story still unfolding.

The responsibility for getting it right was heavy.

I didn’t always know where a given shot would go in the film-to-be, or if it would belong at all. But I could sense, somewhere deep down, when something felt true. And I shot for that.

When video came in and soon replaced shooting on film, everything changed. Footage could be seen immediately. Producers could watch as the moment unfolded and make decisions in real time. But back then, in the age of film, we had trust each other. I had to shoot by feel, and wait for the story to find us.

Ahead of me, the red carpet split into different lanes. The main one – the glittering artery of fame – was packed with stars doing interviews. I veered left, hoping to bypass the bottleneck. It was quieter over there, less intense. Off to the side, I caught glimpses of people I recognized. Jane Fonda. Ted Turner. Michelle Pfeiffer. Then Darryl Hannah floated past me in a dress that seemed to ripple like water. For a moment, I glanced down, half-expecting to see she had flippers for feet.

They all looked like caricatures of themselves – somehow less themselves than they looked on screen. A friend once told me it’s because we’re used to seeing them forty feet tall. In real life, they seem small. Not lesser – just oddly scaled.

Eventually, I caught up with my friends. The theater loomed ahead. Inside, I knew we’d be escorted to the uppermost balcony – the “nosebleed seats” for us documentary types.

The Four Tiers of Seating Lest You Forget Your Place

Inside the Pavilion, the seating was organized like a map of the industry’s food chain.

• Tier One was for the stars – front and center, where the cameras would land during reaction shots. Their tuxedos fit better, their jewelry had security, and some of them even had seat warmers.
• Tier Two was for major directors and producers. Still visible, but slightly farther back. If a big name tripped while walking up to the stage, this tier got the best view.
• Tier Three was for nominees in the crafts – the ones who made things happen: cinematographers, sound designers, costume designers, production designers.
• And then there was Tier Four, where we were seated. Technically inside the building, but emotionally out in the parking lot. We were so high up, the stage was just a rumor. There were TV monitors for seeing what was happening below.

As the evening unspooled – the gowns, the envelopes, the applause that came in waves like heavy rain – I sat in my high-altitude seat trying to make sense of it all. It felt like I’d dropped into someone else’s dream. A swirl of celebrities and speeches, perfectly lit and choreographed, but still faintly absurd. Like a parody of itself. The only thing that would’ve made it more surreal would be if we’d actually won.

Because when they finally announced the Oscar for our category, it struck me: we’d never have made it to the stage. From where we sat, it would’ve taken ten minutes at a full sprint – climbing, ducking, apologizing past knees and sequins.

We would’ve had to yell our thank you speech from up there in Tier Four:

“This award goes out to the amazing crew… our fearless director… the guy who got us coffee in the rain…”

We didn’t win that night. But the film told a story that mattered – to the people who lived it, and to us. That’s the work. That’s the real prize. The tux goes back in the closet. The memory stays.