THE BIG NIGHT

Meanwhile on the red carpet: Ricki Lake, competing for Tom Hanks' attention (who wasn't?), reached for his hand three times before successfully shaking it, and the bleacher jury arrived at this verdict: Rita Wilson, Hanks' wife, was better-looking in person. Paramount honcho Sherry Lansing marched purposefully past the commoners, a cellular phone fastened to her ear.

Inside, a title fight was touted between the forces of good (uplifting Forrest Gump) and evil (upsetting Pulp Fiction). No surprises. Gump, a gentle giant, won without bloodshed. Backstage there was nothing more than friendly rivalry among the professionals, love among the stars, losers with valor, winners with compassion. It was the year of nice--or in the words of Best Supporting Actress victor Dianne Wiest, "Oh, golly. Oh, gosh."

"I got to touch Martin Landau's," said Oscar loser Travolta to the press corps, as if the mere feel of the gold were enough. Uma Thurman and Oprah Winfrey, teased by Letterman on the show, actually did meet backstage. "Uma!" blurted Oprah. "Oprah!" gushed Uma, and they dissolved into laughter. Critic Roger Ebert admitted to being "deeply flattered" at the fat joke Letterman made at his expense. ("Life is like a box of chocolates--you never know what you're gonna get. Unless, of course, you're sitting next to Roger Ebert. Then you know you're not gonna get any.") "Siskel's a perfect weight," gloated Ebert from his seat in the press room. "But did he get mentioned? No." And all was forgiven, it seems, between Tim Robbins and Susan Sarandon and producer Gilbert Cates, who had vowed that the couple wouldn't be invited back after they held the 1993 telecast hostage to speak out for Haitian refugees. This time, they seemed downright contrite. "I was very angry at them," Cates explained. "But I don't hold any grudges, and they were fine."

The wretches in the pressroom were less forgiving. A Pakistani reporter who goes by the name of Piranha Man (ne Rana Kahn) came all the way from Chicago's WLUP radio station to ask rude questions. To Clint Eastwood: "You spend a lot of time in the saddle. Do you ever chafe your butt?" Eastwood (squinting): "No.... As soon as they yell 'Cut,' I step down from the saddle and just walk it off."

Ceremony done. More limo gridlock, and to Mortons they went. Or maybe to the Four Seasons for Elton John's bash. Or to the Paramount party at Drai's to celebrate Gump's success. Into the night, all over town, revelers cast their votes on the ceremony itself. Most cast their ballots for "boring" and "predictable." And the Dave debate raged. New York City cabdrivers? On the Oscars? Monkeys, for heaven's sake? A dog chasing its own tail? "Letterman wasn't in his element," groused one partygoer, though the host seemed to receive a kinder verdict from East Coast loyalists. "I'm going home," sighed journalist Dominick Dunne. "I gotta be back in court tomorrow. Back to Kato. Back to reality." At the Governors Ball, meanwhile, Sherry Lansing was still wide awake, and still chatting on her cellular phone.