You Know You've Arrived . . .
. . . When You Stroll Casually Along Oscar's Red Carpet -- Though Taking Those Steps Is a Feat of Choreography

By Paul Farhi
Washington Post Staff Writer
Sunday, March 5, 2006

The first and most obvious misnomer about the Academy Awards' red-carpet arrival ceremony is the carpet itself.

It may have been red in 1922 when movie impresario Sid Grauman rolled out Hollywood's first for the opening of his elaborate Egyptian Theatre, but nowadays the red is dead.

Red -- as in the color of blood or fire engines -- tends to photograph a little dark. What's more, those shades don't complement the temporary drapes strung outside the Kodak Theatre, the Oscars' home. So the carpet for tonight's festivities is more pinkish, or perhaps, as an Academy spokeswoman describes it, "cranberry."

The second and more substantial myth about the walk on the red (or cranberry) carpet is that it's somehow ad hoc and informal. Celebrities gliding the carpet tend to fix a look of slight bedazzlement, as if the noise and camera flashes, and all that grubby hubbub among media types and other lesser mortals, were startling and unexpected and really quite overwhelming.

In fact -- sorry to blow the cover on another bit of Hollywood magic -- not much about tonight's red-carpet stroll has been left to chance. How could it be? With 375 credentialed reporters, photographers and TV people on hand, with 350 carefully screened fans sitting in the bleachers, with international TV coverage (including three American TV networks carrying the arrivals live), there's too much at stake in those 500 feet of polyester pile to leave anything to whim.

Everyone -- publicists, media, stars, assorted handlers -- has a role in this set piece, this highly processed product of the celebrity-industrial complex.

The arrivals offer something for everyone involved. Nominees and stars get vast media exposure to plug their movies, their free designer gowns and loaner jewels, and themselves. The news media get access, albeit fleeting, to glamorous faces. The Academy -- officially, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences -- reaps enormous publicity for itself and its awards.

The Academy has even figured out how to make a few dollars off the arrivals. ABC has a deal that gives it the exclusive right to broadcast live from the carpet's final half-hour, when the mega-celebs tend to traipse through. Other media can keep yakking and taping until the 8 p.m. Eastern showtime, but home viewers will need to click over to ABC if they want to catch the final sashays right then.

And the fans? The fans get old-fashioned "glamour," the illusion of Hollywood as a star-clotted community and weeks of arrivals fashion spreads in InStyle and Us Weekly magazines.

"People love [the arrivals] because they can see what these people look like in daylight," quips Joan Rivers, the catty queen of red-carpet interviewers (she and daughter Melissa will be asking the likes of Charlize Theron and Julia Roberts whom they're wearing for the 11th time tonight on the TV Guide Channel). "It's a rite of passage. And anything can happen. You never know because it's live."

In fact, weeks of preparation go into ensuring that the unexpected doesn't happen.

A-listers making the scene start their 500-foot odyssey at the hangar-size arrival tent at Hollywood Boulevard and Highland Avenue. After one last security check -- even movie royalty get wanded and metal-detectored -- the famous meet up with their handlers, the small army of personal publicists and Academy-appointed escorts that accompany the celebrated and the nominated. These functionaries have several roles: media go-betweens, traffic cops, clock watchers, hand-holders to the stars.

Like the road to Oz, the carpet almost immediately hits a fork. The right lane out of the security tent leads past bleachers filled with shouting fans. The other lane, separated by a low hedge from the first, runs past the assembled media.

For the well-known names there's not much debate; they're heading left, down Ego Alley, to exchange air kisses with other celebrities. But most of the 3,300 people attending the awards each year are not well known, the carpet's division poses a delicate dilemma for the organizers: How do they break it to some proud or powerful industry type that he's no Brad Pitt and should take the "other" lane instead?

"If someone comes through and says, 'I want to walk on [the media] side,' we don't stop them," answers Leslie Unger, an Academy spokeswoman. "We prefer that you take the quicker walk, but we don't say you can't go that way. This is an event where everyone is important."

Largely out of frame, the publicists and handlers do their most important work once the Kidmans and the Hankses hit the carpet. Their primary job -- connecting the famous with favored reporters and media outlets -- is made easier by the fact that the Academy assigns every reporter a marked position along the hedge at the carpet's southern edge. Interviews usually don't happen by chance. The handlers know, for example, where to find the reporters who've requested a particular interview.

Publicists tout lesser-known figures to the media right on the spot, like beer vendors at a ballgame. One red-carpet reporter recalls standing in the throng several years ago as a publicist cried out her wares, the makers of an Oscar-nominated documentary, shouting, " 'Chernobyl Heart'? 'Chernobyl Heart'? Anyone for 'Chernobyl Heart'?"

Despite their seemingly casual nature -- "Halle Berry! What a lovely surprise!" -- most red-carpet TV interviews are scheduled well in advance. TV bookers spend weeks negotiating with the stars' representatives to determine who will talk to whom, when and for how long.

The only real wild cards are the interviewers. While much of the questioning is soft and fawning -- a rotating loop of "Who are you wearing? How do you feel? Isn't this a special night?" -- Rivers and a few others have transformed the coverage in recent years by throwing some rude fashion zingers at the stars ("They all come back again the next year," she says. "The publicists know we're live and are getting great numbers. This is such a business!").

E! used to have tart-tongued comedian Kathy Griffin as one of its pre-show hosts but has replaced her with the even more outrageous Isaac Mizrahi. On the Golden Globes' red carpet in January, the fashion designer shocked viewers by peeking down Teri Hatcher's dress, grabbing one of Scarlett Johansson's breasts and asking Eva Longoria about certain, very personal grooming habits. All of the actresses seemed surprised, even amused, but none complained. There's not a lot of complaining on the carpet.

To instill some decorum, the Academy imposes rigid rules on the press mob: Reporters and photographers, who are required to wear gowns or black tie, can't move from their assigned spaces, under penalty of ejection by security. Photographers at the Oscars are mostly experienced pros who follow the rules, says the Academy's Unger, and in any case, the couture-clad actresses make the shooters' job easier by pausing and posing every 50 feet or so.

The concentration of so many stars in one relatively small space points up another tricky red-carpet issue: when to arrive. The media begin assembling three hours before the awards ceremony, while for celebs, in Oscar-status semiotics, a too-early arrival suggests that one is too eager to hog the spotlight. But late-arriving stars risk competing with other, potentially bigger celebrities for attention. According to several longtime observers of the event, the star jam is at its peak about 30 to 45 minutes before the show.

This presents handlers and escorts with their most mundane task -- keeping things moving. The red carpet is a bit like Cinderella's coach; a thing of magic, maybe, but with a finite lifespan. The Academy prefers to clear the carpet about 20 minutes before the program to get guests to their seats.

As a result, Kira Feola, an Academy volunteer for the past six years, says she offers gentle reminders to those she's escorting. "You're very conscious of how much time you have left, especially with the late arrivals," she says. "They will close the doors on you at a certain time." And, apparently, they do.

"I've seen celebrities stuck on the carpet outside after the Oscars have begun," says Michael Lawson, a veteran public relations specialist who has escorted such celebrities as Orlando Bloom to dozens of red-carpet events, large and small. Not a good thing, Lawson says, "not with cameras everywhere."

Lawson says most celebrities walk off the carpet elated by the experience. "I wouldn't say that's true across the board, but they do enjoy the attention and the excitement," he says. "Most of us can't imagine having so much attention paid to you. I think it's thrilling for most of them."

Most, agrees Rivers. But a few act as though the red carpet "is a big hassle," she says.

Oh, dish, please.

Rivers doesn't hesitate: "Tommy Lee Jones. Russell Crowe -- that big fat Australian! They act like they're doing everyone a favor being there. If you're a celebrity and you don't like the red carpet, then you're an idiot. It's a wonderful moment in their careers, it's everything they wanted since they were a child, and this is a pain in the [booty]? How can you not be excited to be at the Academy Awards?"