I know what it’s like to hold an Oscar. I held one in my grubby paws last night at the Hollywood Museum located inside the Max Factor building for The Envelope’s Oscar week bash.
As we made our way up the stairs, a publicist got us in the mood. “This is where Marilyn Monroe was made into a blonde,” he said before taking us to the main event.
In center of the room was a case of collectibles, including two Golden Globes and an Emmy (note–the Globes are wimpy, and the Emmy is huge, seriously bigger than my head), and looked longingly at film’s biggest prize.
The Envelope’s Tom O’Neil graciously let me hold it.
I practiced my acceptance speech (in my head, of course), and took a page from Mickey and thanked my cat, Esmerelda, started crying immediately ala Gwyneth, and managed to get offstage before pulling a Sally Field. Sadly, there was no Halle Berry on hand to dip backwards and kiss.
Back to reality. The dude is heavy–eight and a half pounds–which means you can use him to lift weights. He’s got a big solid base, which would work well as a murder weapon. He’s kind of tall and strapping and has a nice six pack. O’Neil explained that the designer of the Oscar was making an inside joke. He’s holding a sword that is essentially stabbing a reel of film. Infer what you will.
If he was a little rusty looking, I forgave him. The guy I was holding was old–it was William S. Darlings’ statuette from 1946 — Best Set Design, Black and White for Anna and the King of Siam. O’Neil paid a whopping $22Gs for it.
Exhausted from the emotion of thanking everyone, I wandered around to look at the costumes from Oscar-nominated films on Display. Headless Kate Winslets were everywhere. They had her costumes from both The Reader and Revolutionary Road behind glass. Mickey Rourke’s outfit from The Wrestler was placed in the center of the room to better admire the mannequin’s abs, the glittery arm bands, and the fake-bloodied green and gold tights.
Taking home the award for Creepiest Nun Costume Even Without Meryl Streep were the outfits for Doubt. Set against a stark black background, the black caped nun figures looked more like two Grim Reapers than women of God. No wonder headless Viola Davis was standing so far away from them. I would have, too.