Then Again - Diane Keaton [52]
That night I dreamed my caps became translucent. Buckets of water leaked in through a hole where the gums hit the porcelain. In order to be ready for the awards ceremony, I had to stand on my head to drain the liquid for twenty-four hours and missed the show.
D-Day
Dorrie and I got out of the limo to bandstand platforms full of screaming people. Kirk Douglas spoke into Army Archerd’s microphone as he waved to the crowd. The frenzy of outstretched arms couldn’t have cared less about Kirk Douglas. They were shouting for the attention of a twenty-four-year-old stunner named John Travolta, approaching his first big moment on the red carpet. That’s what I noticed. Nothing lasts.
The three-hour ceremony was endless anxiety. Midway through, I snuck to the lobby, where I caught Richard Burton smoking a cigarette. He looked up and said something about doubting he would ever win one of “these damn things.” I nodded. What else could I do? I was standing next to a legend. He was right. He didn’t win. Richard Dreyfuss did. The image of Dreyfuss slapping his hands and pumping his fists was hard to top, but the encounter with Richard Burton’s face up close and personal had more staying power. I guess losing is a more human experience.
At the time it didn’t dawn on me how inappropriate I looked in my “la de da” layered getup, set against the backdrop of gorgeous women in spectacular gowns. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Jane Fonda. Oh, my God. Who was I kidding? I wasn’t better than Jane Fonda or Anne Bancroft or Shirley MacLaine or Marsha Mason. They were fabulous.
Dorrie sat next to me and it helped, but I didn’t know where I was, or who I was, or how I got there, or what to say. When I heard the D sound in a first name that became Diane, I still wasn’t sure, but I got up anyway and more or less rushed to the podium. I knew winning had nothing to do with being the “best” actress. I knew I didn’t deserve it. And I knew I’d won an Academy Award for playing an affable version of myself. I got it. But the fact that Annie Hall, a comedy, won best picture thrilled me. For some unfathomable reason, comedy is invariably relegated to the position of second cousin to drama. Why? Humor helps us get through life with a modicum of grace. It offers one of the few benign ways of coping with the absurdity of it all. Looking back, I’m so happy and so grateful and so proud to be in a Great American Comedy.
My first fabulous woman, the most fabulous woman of all, had been “Miss Hepburn at Home” on the cover of Life magazine in 1953. As pictured, Audrey was the personification of beauty, with a splash of innocence and awe mixed in. She took my breath away. The impact of such a casual, unassuming, yet stunning photograph must have been the inspiration for my obsession with black-and-white covers. You can imagine my shock when Audrey Hepburn rushed up to me after I won the Academy Award and told me the future was mine. “Really, oh, I don’t know. Wow. I don’t know about that, I mean the future and all, but you’re … you … you’re my idol, I’m just … what can I say? I’m so honored to meet you.” I stumbled and bumbled. What could I do? This was not “Miss Hepburn at Home.” This woman was old.
Everything else about the Academy Awards has all but disappeared. I’ve forgotten the ball, the congratulations, the fun, even who was there. What remains is Richard Burton and Audrey Hepburn. Nothing could have prepared me for the loneliness on his face or the elegance with which Miss Hepburn handed over the mantle of “movie star.” It was almost as if in a camera’s flash, Richard Burton