The Academy Awards are the undisputed zenith of Hollywood, its most prestigious event on the calendar. Yet, the effortless glamour broadcast to the world belies the staggering amount of work required to make it happen. It is an operation that demands nothing short of military precision; every limousine drop-off, every camera angle, and every second of the broadcast is calculated down to the millimeter to ensure the night runs flawlessly.
By 5:30 PM, the loop leading to the Shrine Auditorium was a gridlock of black stretch limousines, inching forward in a synchronized crawl. Outside, publicists clutched walkie-talkies, barking orders to "wranglers" on the carpet to ensure the stars didn't arrive in a clump. The goal was to space them out—giving the cameras enough time to feed on each celebrity before the next course was served.
Inside Alex's limo, the tinted windows muffled the roar of the crowd, but the vibration was unmistakable. It sounded like a riot.
Alex sat back, adjusting his cufflinks, while Claudia peered out the darkened window at the sea of fans. She turned back to him, a question furrowing her brow.
"Alex, can I ask you something silly?"
"When you look like that, nothing you say could possibly be silly," Alex replied, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.
"Come on, I'm serious," she said, though a flush of pleasure rose in her cheeks at the compliment.
"I'm all ears," Alex said. "Go ahead."
"Why is it called an 'Oscar'?" she asked, smoothing the silk of her dress. "Where did the name come from?"
Alex smiled, leaning back against the leather seat. "Well, that depends on who you ask. There are three legends."
He held up a finger. "First, the Librarian Theory. In 1931, a woman named Margaret Herrick saw the golden statue for the first time and shouted, 'He looks just like my Uncle Oscar!'"
Claudia giggled. "That is sweet."
"Then," Alex continued, his eyes twinkling mischievously, "there's the Bette Davis Theory. She swore up and down that the backside of the statue reminded her of her first husband, Harmon Oscar Nelson." He paused for effect. "Specifically, when he stepped out of the shower."
Claudia's eyes went wide, and she burst into a laugh. "No! She did not say that."
"That's what they say," Alex said with a shrug. "And finally, there's the Columnist Theory. A writer named Sidney Skolsky claimed he invented the name to mock the Academy's stiffness. He wanted to take the high-and-mighty 'Academy Award of Merit' and bring it down to earth with a cheap vaudeville nickname."
Claudia shook her head, amused by the absurdity of it all. "So, which one is the truth?"
Alex grinned, adjusting his cufflinks as the car slowed down.
"Nobody knows. But does it really matter? I think a little mystery just adds to the charm."
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A sharp rap on the window cut him off.
"We are next," Alex said, his demeanor shifting instantly. He buttoned his jacket and looked at Claudia. Her hands were trembling slightly in her lap. "Brace yourself. It's going to be loud. And bright."
The car stopped. A white-gloved attendant pulled the handle.
"Showtime," Alex whispered.
He stepped out first.
The moment his foot touched the red carpet, the sound hit them like a physical wave. It wasn't just cheering; it was a wall of noise—thousands of fans screaming his name, mixed with the aggressive, barking shouts of photographers in the press pit.
"Alex! Alex! Over here!" "To the right! Alex! Look right!"
Security guards in tuxedos were linking arms, physically holding back the surging crowd pressing against the velvet ropes.
Alex turned back to the car and extended his hand. Claudia emerged, the slit in her black silk dress revealing a long leg, the flashbulbs exploding in a strobe-light frenzy that turned the twilight into noon.
She froze.
Claudia had walked runways in Paris and Milan. She had done photoshoots with the world's best photographers. But that was controlled. That was work. This was chaos. The sheer volume of people—the screaming, the desperation to get a look at Alex—was disorienting. She looked like a deer caught in the headlights.
Seeing her hesitation, Alex stepped closer, shielding her slightly from the glare. He didn't say a word; he just offered his elbow, a solid anchor in the storm.
Claudia looked at him, exhaled a shaky breath, and smiled. She threaded her gloved hand through his arm, gripping him tightly.
"Just keep walking," Alex murmured, flashing his trademark smile to the cameras. "Don't look at the lights directly."
They moved down the line, a gauntlet of media outlets broadcasting live to the world. A reporter from ABC, holding a microphone like a weapon, flagged them down.
"Alex! Alex Hayes!" the reporter beamed, turning to the camera. "I'm here with the man of the hour. Alex, three of the five Best Picture nominees tonight are your projects: Rain Man, My Left Foot, The Princess Bride. This is unprecedented. How do you feel?"
Alex laughed, leaning into the mic. "I'm happy, though I'm in a bit of a bind. I'm not sure which one to root for without offending someone. It's a good problem to have, though."
"And you have two acting nominations yourself," the reporter pressed. "Do you expect a win tonight?"
"Well, that's all in the Academy's hands anyway," Alex said with practiced diplomacy. "I am just going to enjoy the night."
The reporter's eyes drifted to Claudia, who was standing poised beside him, looking statuesque.
"And who is this beautiful lady on your arm tonight?"
"This is a friend of mine," Alex said smoothly. "Claudia Schiffer. She is a model."
"A model?" The reporter looked impressed. "And that dress? It's stunning."
Claudia, though still ruffled by the noise, found her footing. She turned on the charm, her German accent soft and elegant. "Thank you. It is from Armani." She glanced at Alex with a smile. "When Mr. Armani heard I was attending with Alex, he insisted on dressing me personally for the occasion."
"Well, you two look like the couple of the night," the reporter said. "Good luck, Alex."
They moved on, stepping into the grand lobby of the Shrine. The noise of the crowd faded, replaced by the murmuring of the Hollywood elite.
Here, Claudia's eyes went wide as she observed the star-studded event. It was a living wax museum. Everywhere she looked, she saw faces she had only ever seen on television while growing up in Germany.
There were Gene Hackman, Meryl Streep, and Patrick Swayze. She saw Bruce Willis and Demi Moore nearby. Further down, there was Tom Hanks, Robin Williams, and Olivia Newton-John.
She spotted Dustin Hoffman. Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell, Sigourney Weaver, Michelle Pfeiffer, and Jodie Foster were all visible in the sea of tuxedos and gowns. She even caught a glimpse of Sean Connery and Michael Douglas moving through the crowd.
Claudia clutched Alex's arm a little tighter, a silent thrill racing through her as she spotted Walter Matthau near the bar, then Lucille Ball, and even Bob Hope. These were the legends she had grown up watching from across the ocean, and now they were standing just a few feet away.
Everyone who passed Alex stopped to greet him. Handshakes, back-slaps, kisses on the cheek. He moved through the room with the confidence of a man who knew he belonged there.
"Have you worked with all of them?" Claudia asked, watching Jacqueline Bisset wave at him.
Alex laughed softly. "No. But once you have a certain level of success, the industry shrinks. You get closer to everyone, whether you know them or not."
"Alex!"
A tall woman with raven-black hair approached them. It was Cher.
"Cher," Alex said, greeting her with a warm, easy smile, as if they were just old colleagues. "You look incredible."
"I always do," she drawled, her eyes immediately sliding to Claudia. She looked the young model up and down with a sharp, assessing gaze. "And who is this?"
"This is Claudia," Alex introduced.
"Lovely to meet you," Cher said to her, then turned back to Alex. "Good luck tonight, babe."
She walked away to meet other guests, her beaded gown swishing behind her.
"Were you two in a relationship?" Claudia questioned in a low voice near his ear as they walked.
Alex blinked, genuinely surprised. Their fling had been brief and kept entirely out of the tabloids. "How did you know? Almost nobody knows about it."
"Woman's intuition," Claudia said, glancing back at the singer. "And the way she looked at me. She was comparing."
Alex shrugged, conceding the point. "It happened a while ago. We just called it quits consensually. Just don't tell anyone."
"Okay," Claudia smiled, leaning in. "Your secret is safe with me."
Alex smiled in gratitude, but as he turned toward the auditorium doors, his smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
Across the room, standing near the entrance, was a face from long ago. Phoebe Cates—his first girlfriend. She was laughing at something her husband, Kevin Kline, had just said.
She looked happy. Truly happy. For years, Alex had carried a very small, quiet guilt about how things ended—about never saying those words, 'I love you,' to her. But seeing her now, glowing and laughing with her husband, he felt that sliver of guilt evaporate.
"What?" Claudia asked, noticing his pause. "Is something wrong?"
Alex stared for one more second, then shook his head, the mask sliding back into place.
"Nothing," he said, turning his back on the past. "Come on. Let's go inside."
They found their seats near the front, settling in just as the lights dimmed. The orchestra swelled, and the 61st Academy Awards began.
And then, the opening act started.
Alex watched in stunned disbelief as an actress dressed as Snow White walked through the audience, shaking hands in a high-pitched, squeaky voice. It was strange, but manageable. But then, she reached the stage and was joined by Rob Lowe.
What followed was an 11-minute musical number of "Proud Mary" that was so tonally confused, so off-key, and so garishly campy that the air seemed to leave the room.
Alex sat back and looked around. The Hollywood elite were all wearing the same look of confusion. It wasn't just bad; it was embarrassing. It felt like a high school play with an unlimited budget.
"Is... is it always like this?" Claudia whispered, looking confused.
"No," Alex whispered back, rubbing his temple. "Definitely not. I think somebody messed up."
He could only hope the rest of the ceremony would go better.