The humans of Best Picture winner One Battle After Another.
Photo: Patrick T. Fallon/AFP via Getty Images
There’s a noticeable chill in the air during this year’s Oscars’ weekend, by which I mean that every home, building, and car in Los Angeles is air-conditioned to the exact temperature of a morgue. It’s one of the city’s many quiet harbingers of doom, the others being the rapid and seemingly unstoppable consolidation of Hollywood, the looming specter of AI, and the fact that the theme of this year’s Oscars is “humanity” — no longer a given state of being but an aesthetic.
I attend the Oscars rehearsal on Saturday afternoon, and, though it’s 78 degrees outside, I am shivering in my jeans and long-sleeved shirt. Instructions for what I can and cannot reveal before the show airs on Sunday night are delivered inside a velvet-lined elevator. If I reveal any script details, or who’s introducing what category, or which triplets have been stacked on top of each other in a trench coat to play the role of Adrien Brody, “We will come after you,” says one of the representatives, cheerfully.
To that end, I can reveal only that Adrien Brody wore a black T-shirt that said “Hollywood” on it as he rehearsed his bit several times, at one point kneeling on the stage to ask a producer which version of the joke hit best while a video of a sobbing Jessie Buckley played on giant screens nearby. Rose Byrne, Maya Rudolph, Ellie Kemper, and Kristen Wiig stood onstage in towering heels, giggling as they practiced a Bridesmaids-reunion sketch. At one point, Wiig offered a stage direction, suggesting that the cameraperson wait a few seconds to cut to an in-audience co-conspirator. Javier Bardem, in expensive-looking black sweats, introduced an award alongside a woman playing Priyanka Chopra Jonas, after which he walked off-stage to schmooze with some of the Academy’s top brass. “Am I fired?” he said jokingly. “I’ll learn the lines!”
Like the rehearsal’s Priyanka Chopra Jonas, the rehearsal’s Oscars were fake, as were the winners cued up to accept them — many of whom delivered quite believable speeches, often with emotion. Fake Alexandre Desplat thanked his mother for giving birth to him. One of the Fake Sinners winners was cut off by music as he thanked his mom. He seemed genuinely frustrated. Academy CEO Bill Kramer stopped by a rapidly cooling press section to reiterate that the vibe of this year’s stage was “human — organic, calm, Zen.” (On X, it was compared lovingly to P.F. Chang’s.) A reporter asked what he was most excited for. “Conan’s opening is epic,” he added. “The Sinners performance is epic.”
I don’t get a spray tan before this year’s ceremony as last year my neck skin started to look weird after only two hours. But I do purchase three different kinds of boob tape (nipple covers, double-sided tape, and lifting tape) and spend a long time in my hotel on Sunday morning figuring out how to properly comport myself so that I can blend in seamlessly with all of the impeccable boob jobs around me. I take an Uber (which is frigid) to the Dolby Theatre around 2 p.m., and, as has become tradition, my driver and I get lost in the vast maze of blocked-off streets.
I end up walking several blocks in DSW heels. Helicopters roar overhead, reminding me that last week people were worried the Oscars were going to get droned. I pass a person carrying a sign that says “Forgetting God = Hell,” so I try to remember. As I trudge down Hollywood Boulevard, two security guards take pity on me and put me in their gigantic SUV. “This is a first for us,” they tell me as we drive down a closed street. “That walk was going to be very long.” Somehow I get dropped off directly in front of the theater, also a first for me.
Inside, there’s a long line of people waiting to take a photo under a gigantic Oscar. I walk past Glennon Doyle and Abby Wambach, then Tig Notaro and Stephanie Allynne, then Sara Bareilles and Brandi Carlile, who together form a brief lesbian supergroup. Mckenna Grace of Regretting You is asking her dad to take photos of her a few feet away. I perch at the top of some stairs near the entrance to the theater and hear a man describe the hot red-carpet selfie spots as “wars of attrition.” Domhnall Gleeson does a TikTok Live with Andy Richter, who is winning his war. Emma Stone says she loves Andy but does not stop to talk; Kathy Bates does. A man I do not recognize asks if “Conan has a problem with him being here,” and a woman I do not recognize replies, “It was sketchy.”
Joe Alwyn passes by, looking almost tan. Someone non-famous steps on the back of Demi Moore’s feathered dress, leaving a lone feather on the carpet behind her. I watch it get kicked slowly across the floor for 30 minutes, becoming more and more withered. Demi herself looks perturbed but moves on quickly. Pedro Pascal walks by in a small group of people, all of whom are laughing at a story he’s telling. David Sedaris takes out a tiny notebook and writes an observation to himself, which I then document, on my phone, for myself. A woman stops me and asks, “Did you get out of a car and walk here? I saw you.” The feather is gone by the time I finally walk into the theater; it seems to have fallen down a hole to the floor below, where Nicole Kidman is talking to Steven Spielberg.
The hole.
Photo: Rachel Handler
I have to run to the restroom to replace a piece of boob tape five minutes before the show starts, and, mid-construction, Goldie Hawn struts out of the stall in front of me. Inside the theater, the voice of announcer Matt Berry calls the Oscars the “Winter Ozempics” and implores the audience to have fun: “You work in Hollywood. Your whole life is a lie.” Conan’s monologue goes over well in the room, but I don’t stay in my seat for long because, despite being a human, I’m also a journalist and therefore seated far away from the presenters and nominees. I head to the bar downstairs, which is, of course, freezing.
Emma Stone and Kate Hudson wander over first. “What can I get ya, darling?” asks Emma’s husband, Dave McCary. She orders a white wine with ice and asks him to wait as she runs to the bathroom. Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn surround Kate for a spontaneous family briefing. Kate and I say “hi” (I interviewed her a few weeks ago). “We went to get noodles,” she explains to her parents. Goldie reaches out and calmly holds my right hand in hers as we talk about Kate’s dress. Kate searches for Emma, who is still in the bathroom but I can’t reveal this. I’m like a time traveler who refuses to interfere with even the smallest details of the past, lest I accidentally prevent the birth of our next prophet. A few minutes later, Emma returns and looks for Kate. “She was out here,” she says. She and Dave pour her iced wine into a more portable cup and return to the theater.
Kirsten Dunst, Jesse Plemons, and Alicia Silverstone all hug near the bar, then disembark to respective restrooms. Nicole Kidman exits the theater on her phone and wanders into a side room; Jessie Buckley strolls out of the theater talking about snacks. Ed Harris looks lost and asks if he’s allowed to go back in (he is). Lola Kirke’s shoes are already off and she’s got a Mexican Mule. Alicia Silverstone returns, drinking a cocktail and watching the ceremony on a big screen near the auditorium door. “So do we just stand here?” she asks someone. We do.
Everyone at the bar seems to either never want to enter the auditorium again or is desperate to reenter as if not doing so at a leisurely pace will destroy their career. Joel Edgerton jogs past me into a bathroom. Jack O’Connell is running with four waters in his hands. Marty Supreme’s Kevin O’Leary, however, is in no rush as he orders a red wine and tells me about the rare Kobe Bryant basketball card hanging around his neck. “People really care about this shit,” he says. “I own part of the company that owns the card.” He tells me it’s worth something like $19 million. “You’re obviously not a basketball-card fan,” he says after he finishes explaining this to me.
Jacob Elordi walks up to the bar with his arm around his mom and orders tequila on the rocks with a lime. The gravitational pull in the room shifts in his direction and he seems to notice, walking Australian-ly into a corner. He puts his other arm around someone shorter than him (as most people are). “Is this Jacob Elordi?” asks a woman. “We have to get a picture with him.” A small line begins to form near Jacob, who politely looks away. A person approaches the picture-seeking woman and asks her about the whereabouts of someone named Nick. “I don’t care about Nick!” she snaps.
The feather.
Photo: Rachel Handler
The bar erupts in cheers for the first time when Sinners’s Ryan Coogler wins Best Original Screenplay. Gracie Abrams and Paul Mescal exit the theater together, and he waits outside the bathroom, staring at his phone like a gentleman. The Sentimental Value cast gets in line for a collective drink of Champagne. Renate Reinsve and I lament the travails of boob tape (mine is again losing its hold) as she collects eight glasses for the cast and director Joachim Trier. “You get used to it,” she says. Stellan Skarsgård approaches and holds her hand sweetly. Ari Aster, drinking red wine, asks a woman for details about her baby before joining a little group that includes Emma Stone, Felicity Jones, and Alicia Silverstone. Emma calls a man a “fucking loser!” and hugs him.
Meanwhile, Hudson Williams drinks clear liquor in a circle with some other men, talking about a feature he’s shooting in a few weeks. “I’ve always wanted to give a Nicolas Cage performance. Something as crazy as Face/Off,” he says. Joachim Trier approaches to pay his respects. Minutes later, Hudson is in a huddle with Paul Mescal and Joe Alwyn, creating a too-powerful locus of hunk energy. They chat about their jobs and how they tie their ties in an unsettlingly normal way until someone approaches and asks them to sign their Oscars program. The Best Documentary winners — Mr. Nobody Against Putin — appear and people cheer. Everyone loses it again when Sinners’s Autumn Durald Arkapaw wins Best Cinematography. Ari Aster introduces himself to Kirsten Dunst. “Hi, I’m Kirsten,” she says. The three talk for a while about how some unknown director “wants to win another Palme, but he’s not ready this year.”
Jacob Elordi and Mia Goth are posted back up at the bar, gabbing and then looking kindly at a friend’s baby photos. Everyone erupts at Sentimental Value’s Best International Film win, then again for Michael B. Jordan and Jessie Buckley — Best Actor and Actress, respectively. A woman and I commiserate over the chilling indoor temperatures of L.A. Her husband interrupts and asks me, “Hey, are you famous?” His wife says, “He has no idea who anyone is. He thinks Timothée Chalamet is Pedro Pascal.” “Everyone makes that mistake,” he says. I replace my boob tape once more, and Frankenstein’s Kate Hawley, who won Best Costume Design, is in the bathroom calling people and screaming with joy.
After One Battle After Another takes the last award of the night, I head to the Governors Ball party upstairs, where caterers invite me to stand next to the pizza oven to stay warm. “Just don’t put your skin on it or it will burn off,” says one man, helpfully. Ellie Kemper is explaining to someone that “there was a big controversy, because we were presenting Best Sound …” Alana Haim calls a Josh from someone else’s phone. “Josh?! Where are you?! It’s Alana!” She searches the room, finding Vicky Krieps instead. They hug. I get into a conversation with Kieran Culkin; neither of us can recall the steakhouse where we once shared a meal. He fans out when the Kpop Demon Hunters winners walk by and asks to take a photo.
“Sean did not give a fuck,” says someone nearby, clearly referring to Penn’s absence from the ceremony. Wunmi Mosaku happily eats pizza at a table. Several people dig into chicken pot pies and a caviar bar hanging from a man’s neck — perhaps an ironic nod to the night’s theme of “human.” I ask the man if it’s his first time being a caviar station and he says yes. “I think it could have been a table,” he says.
Before heading to the Neon after-party, I stand beneath a heat lamp in the limo waiting area, where I see the same cast of characters waiting for their cars. There’s Joe Alwyn, looking a little less tan. Attendants yell out limo numbers (“1845, last call!”), and celebrities enter their vehicles to be whisked to the next event.
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