All the other times she was nominated? She just didn't go--there was always a play opening in London, or a conflict of some sort. Which is not to paint her as a kind of Academy refusenik. Out of her bag she pulls a paperback--Adam Gopnik's Paris to the Moon--and the bookmark is an envelope. "How's this for affectation?" she laughs. "It's my vote." Inside the envelope is her official Oscar ballot, all ready for PricewaterhouseCoopers. "It's sealed," she says. "It's got to be sent."
And whom did she vote for? "I'm not going to say," she snaps teasingly. "You get a little note saying 'Do not tell anybody how you voted.'" Surely, though, she always votes for herself.
"No," she says. "Not every year."
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