God smiled on Monday, March 27, and dressed Southern California in a sun so luxuriously crisp, so silky and white, you would have thought it came from Vera Wang. That morning, down in West Hollywood, nominated director-screenwriter Quentin Tarantino (Pulp Fiction) was spotted standing on a street near his apartment, looking unceremonial in black leather duds. In another part of town, over at Tom Hanks' house, a leak sprung in an upstairs bathroom; one floor below, the cascade plunk-plunked into a Bubba Gump Shrimp ice chest.
Of course, appearances deceived. For this was Oscar day in Hollywood, when the fortunes of gods and goddesses rise and fall, and a billion people watch it happen. In 12 hours or so, both Tarantino and Hanks would strike gold at the Shrine Auditorium -- the latter's Oscar, his second, would be one of six awards bestowed on Forrest Gump. Others would go home alone, their thank yous forlornly stuffed in a pocket or purse. But everybody would be happy, in a way -- happy that Oscar night was over.
At the Shrine, as the telecast drew near, panic buzzed in the air. Two days earlier, a rehearsal audience had not been amused by a long-in-the works high-concept stunt, a game-show parody in which David Letterman was to pluck a forewarned Sally Field from the audience and award her a Chevy Lumina. The stunt was scrapped, and on Oscar day Letterman's team scrambled to put the finishing touches on a Stupid Pet Trick in its stead. Meanwhile, technicians grappled with a helicopter that, just six hours before airtime, was failing to deposit Jamie Lee Curtis on the stage. Elsewhere, a VCR was being programmed at Judge Lance Ito's request; the telecast would be shown -- appropriately edited -- for the sequestered O.J. jury. Martin Landau, the lovable favorite for Best Supporting Actor (Ed Wood), lined his tuxedo pockets with the paper wisdom of fortune cookies: ''You will receive some high prize award,'' one predicted.
Late afternoon: Limos, each one longer than the last, were gridlocked en route to the Shrine. Frustrated in traffic, Sylvester Stallone and his Amazonian date, Angie Everhart, got out and walked -- passing the pampered celebs who insisted on curbside service. ''Are we going the right way?'' he asked, approaching the red carpet where Daily Variety's Army Archerd lay in wait. Introducing the players to the crowd, Archerd, vague on details, misnamed Red, calling it Reds. Best Director nominee Krzysztof Kieslowski would have none of it. ''I don't know what I think [about the nomination],'' he snapped.
Enter John Travolta. The buzz in the bleachers crescendoed into the stratosphere at the sight of the comeback king, then fell to an indifferent pianissimo at the joint arrival of Steve Martin and Diane Keaton. And there, shoulder to shoulder with Arnold Schwarzenegger and Claudia Schiffer, who else but convicted sex offender Joey Buttafuoco, who recently completed his own film debut in Cul-de-Sac, coming soon to a theater -- well, maybe a video store -- near you. ''I think we're going to Elton John's house next,'' he later boasted. ''This is a fabulous industry. Fabulous.''
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