Catherine Seipp

Media Circus: goodbye, sc3

The departure of wishy-washy editor Shelby Coffey III completes a top-down housecleaning at the Los Angeles Times.

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Well, we won’t have Shelby Coffey III to kick around anymore and I, for one, am feeling — can it be? — a sense of loss. Journalists are a sentimental, even maudlin bunch. We can’t resist the chance for a lachrymose, clichi-filled Hallmark Hall of Fame Moment, even when we ought to know better. An idiotic refrain has been playing pointlessly through my head since the Los Angeles Times editor-in-chief resigned Oct. 9: “Looking through my tears, I miss the Shelby years …”

OK, thanks for the slap — I needed that. The departure of the infamously wishy-washy SC3, as he’s known in Times inter-office e-mail, came a month after take-no-prisoners Times Mirror CEO Mark Willes assumed even more control of Hollywood’s hometown paper of record by also becoming publisher. Richard Schlosberg III, who had been publisher, resigned Sept. 12 after months of butting heads with Willes, the hardheaded former cereal company executive who arrived at Times Mirror just over two years ago.

SC3 was replaced by his No. 2, veteran foreign correspondent and Pulitzer Prize winner Michael Parks — who hadn’t even been his boss’s first (or, as a matter of fact, second) choice for managing editor. The fact that Shelby was overruled in his choice of managing editor last year was the beginning of the final stretch in a long goodbye.

Shelby had dearly wanted to be the first editor-in-chief of a major metropolitan newspaper to appoint a woman as second-in-command. His two leading choices were: top Times gal Narda Zacchino, then the associate editor overseeing Life & Style, Calendar and the other “soft” sections; and senior editor Carol “Big Nurse” Stogsdill, at the time in charge of all California coverage.

But Zacchino and Stogsdill were widely loathed. Zacchino was prone to intrusive micromanagement, which generally took the form of endless diddling with copy at the last minute. “No one on the West Side would say that,” she once memorably announced, removing a quote critical of the homeless from a Sunday Magazine story. Zacchino has been demoted to mere Times front gal — a liaison between Spring Street and the community. Stogsdill was a meddlesome bully. Now she’s on her way out. Reportedly, she began badmouthing Parks during the “m.e. derby,” as it was called in-house.

New editor-in-chief Parks is his former boss’s opposite in every aspect. A former Moscow and Jerusalem bureau chief, Parks has a Pulitzer for his South Africa coverage, was one of the first American journalists allowed into China, etc., etc. He is well-liked and widely admired, although the managerial skills he’s displayed since ascending to the managing editor spot last winter have been fairly disastrous.

“Ever since (former managing editor George) Cotliar retired in December, it’s been a mess; they tear up the front page every single night!” a Times insider exclaimed to me in frustration last month. “George was the default mechanism. Parks just says, ‘Shelby, whatever you want.’ And Shelby doesn’t know what he wants.”

Observers question Parks’ knowledge of Los Angeles — and indeed of the mechanics of running a newspaper — since he’s been out of the country for almost three decades. The plus side of this, though, is that he is not yet thoroughly steeped in the oily marinade of Spring Street office politics. He is also a very old-school white guy, which during the Shelby years was a career-buster for pretty much everyone but Shelby. Parks has a penchant for military-ese (he schedules meetings for 1400 hours) and a buzz-cut and tie right out of Jack Webb in “Dragnet.”

SC3, in contrast, is the quintessential guilty white male: insular, kindhearted, cluelessly patronizing, endlessly infuriating. And so, during his eight-year tenure, was the Los Angeles Times.

Willes said he tried to persuade Shelby to stay, and that’s probably true. He had expected his editor-in-chief to quit eventually, of course. Just not this soon, when the CEO was in the middle of rearranging the business side of the paper — which was even more somnambulant (if that’s possible) than the editorial side.

During a series of meetings Willes held with editors last month after the Schlosberg resignation, someone asked what the CEO-cum-publisher’s new relationship with his editor-in-chief would be. “I can’t honestly tell you,” Willes replied, “it’s evolving.” Shelby was visibly upset by that answer.

Like a draining battery, he’d been leaking power for some time. This became especially apparent with the arrival just over two years ago of Willes, a former General Mills vice chairman (thus his “Cereal Killer” and “Captain Crunch” monikers, after his belt-tightening at Times Mirror and closure of the money-hemorrhaging New York Newsday) and onetime head of the Federal Reserve Bank in Minneapolis. Shocking as these things always are, last week’s exit was really just the final, gentle closing of a door. Because actually, the lights of the Shelby era had been dimmed for months and most of the furniture already carted away.

Not to beat a dead equine-American, for instance, but … what ever happened to the Diversity Committee? Shelby made Spring Street a national laughing-stock four years ago with the Diversity Committee’s notorious Style Guidelines. (Sample Guidelines: gal, as in top Times gal: “offensive reference to a woman”; hillbilly: “offensive reference to a rural person”; handicap: “offensive …”; ghetto: “offensive …”; inner city: “offensive …” And so on.)

At the height of the Shelby era, you couldn’t swing a dead cat on Spring Street without hitting some touchy member of the Diversity Committee, who would then most likely announce that such a metaphor was offensive to feline-Americans and stomp off to organize a petition. But like so many landmarks of the Shelby years, the Diversity Committee seems to have gone with the wind.

“In his defense,” a Times insider said of SC3 last week, “all an editor had to do during the pre-Willes years was keep the seat warm and not screw up. And he did that; that was his job. I think on a kind of gut level, he knew that his time was over, that he’s not an editor for a growth period.”

Patrician Southern gentleman that he is (his grandfather was a U.S. senator from Tennessee), Shelby never could seem to lower himself to deal with the urgent hustle of the newspaper world, or the prosaic needs of its workers. Years ago, when he was Style editor at the Washington Post — where he spent 17 years — underlings called him “Bwana.”

One ex-staffer whom the Times wanted very much to retain remains bemused by his endgame sessions on Spring Street. “You have these long meetings with Shelby,” he told me, “and he asks what you want to stay, and you tell him, and then he doesn’t give it to you.”

But you really felt the full force of SC3′s superiority when he didn’t want you to stay. Former Times reporter Mark Stein, who left Spring Street for Bloomberg Business News in London, flew down from the San Francisco office a few years ago to ask about the possibility of being assigned to an overseas bureau. Shelby, who was 45 minutes late, announced he had only five minutes for the meeting and got down to business.

“Where did you go to school, Mark?” SC3 asked.

“Chico State.”

Deep sigh. “Well,” Shelby replied at last, “perhaps you should consider taking a few courses at Berkeley.”

As a longtime reader of Shelby’s “Top of the Times” in-house missives to his staff, that struck me as an odd comment from someone whose prose generally has all the style of a high-school book report aspiring to be a corporate brochure. Spewing out the Times’ precious, “Hee-Haw”-ish prose, which grew steadily worse during the Shelby years (so help me, they actually used the word “yummies” in an editorial the other day), does not exactly require a top university education.

Last week, CNBC pointed a camera in my direction and asked if the Willes-led changes, including Shelby’s departure, didn’t mean the Times would now be overly friendly to advertisers. My response, which was only half-facetious: “What advertisers?”

The back story to all that’s happened on Spring Street these past few years has been a tale of disappearing local department stores. The Broadway for years was the Times’ single biggest advertiser, and there was a certain amount of pussy-footing around Carter Hawley Hale. But now, of course, the Broadway, Bullock’s, I. Magnin and Bullocks Wilshire are no more, while Robinson’s and the May Company have shrunk into the single entity of Robinson’s-May.

Press critic A.J. Liebling remarked years ago that the quantity of news we receive is dependent on the whims of downtown dry goods merchants. Around here, those whims now carry less weight.

Shelby has always been known for his personal cozyness with the rich and powerful, and I’m bemused that people seem to be forgetting this. Last week is the only time I know that he’s managed to look like a hero. “It looks to me that Shelby’s resigning for the right reasons,” said a former Times writer who for years was very angry at his boss, who thoroughly boondoggled him. “He doesn’t want to walk around with a jacket that says, ‘The Los Angeles Times: Sponsored by Cheerios.’”

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Say cheese!

Retro, smarmy, egomaniacal, incestuous -- the '98 Oscars was one of the best ever.

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Last night I dreamed I died and began floating up a long, richly carpeted aisle toward all my smiling friends from those Oscar spectacles of yesteryear. Why, look, it’s Sacheen Littlefeather! And over there, Vanessa Redgrave is blathering about the Palestinians. And — could it be? — yes, it’s my earliest Oscar memory ever: a teenage Michael Jackson singing “Ben,” the best song nominee from, of course, “Ben,” the sequel to that seminal sewer rat extravaganza, “Willard” (“Ben, the two of us need look no more”).

And there at the top of the stairs is Leonardo DiCaprio, waiting to give me a great big kiss while Michael and Vanessa and Sacheen and the orchestra all applaud and beam their approval and –

Oh, uh, excuse me. Apparently about three and a quarter hours into last night’s Academy Awards I dozed off and mixed up the grand finale of “Titanic” with what was really on TV at that point: “Oscar’s Family Album,” another procession of smiling, familiar faces from the past, featuring everyone from Anne Bancroft to Teresa Wright. I wasn’t imagining Vanessa Redgrave, but instead of blathering about the Palestinians this time she just beamed benignly at her fellow “R,” Luise Rainer.

Listen, I’m not complaining. The Oscars should run long. They should also be smarmy, vulgar, over the top, dripping with sentiment and show biz feel-goodism and the occasional, truly leaden missed attempt at humor. (Dustin Hoffman’s pointlessly snickering innuendo about the meaning of the number “69″ took care of that within, I believe, the first hour.)

Truly, I enjoyed “Oscar’s Family Album,” not least because it offered a nice counterpoint to the annual salute to passed-on movie folk. Instead of “Oh, that’s right, he’s dead,” the thought inspired by this largest assemblage of Oscar-winning actors ever was a cheerier, “Gee, I didn’t know he was still alive.” It’s just that when the Oscars go much past three hours — and this one, of course, went way past — a person can’t be blamed for starting to hallucinate.

Still, the upbeat tone was refreshing. It’s a happy thing when the life achievement award winner, Stanley Donen, not only didn’t have one foot in the grave like so many life achievers, but was actually spry enough to perform a little tap dance. It’s inspiring when the geezers in attendance aren’t frail and pitiable but crankily vigorous. “It used to be much better organized,” grumbled Charlton Heston to an interviewer during the melee of the arrivals. An ungracious moment, certainly, but also kind of a peppy one.

Last night I even warmed to Billy Crystal, whom I normally find a rather irritating and self-important host. The “Titanic” loogie-in-the-face in the opening montage won me over, even though the mucous-evoking image was so nauseating I had to close my eyes and think of beautiful fields of flowers for a few minutes to keep from throwing up.

I’ve always thoroughly enjoyed the Oscars. For one thing, they are that rare, special time when the whole stuffy concept of “Ms.” stays home and “Miss” is allowed to come, in all its retro finery, to the ball (“Please welcome a great actress, Miss Meg Ryan!”). Crystal did, absurdly, refer at one point to the girls in the wings handing out the Oscar statues as “the — (long, respectful pause) women.” But more in the Oscars spirit was Alec Baldwin, who in introducing the “L.A. Confidential” best picture clip, informed us cozily, “the girl in the picture is kinda cute too.”

When you watch them here in Los Angeles, as I always have, the Oscars make you feel like “this town” (to use the industry term) is your town. The awards bring people together. On Christmas friends and family call each other with season’s greetings. On Oscars night, during the commercials or tedious song numbers, Hollywood folk call each other with — well, last night, my friend and I had a long conversation about whether Kate Winslet was wearing shoulder pads or not, and if this was an attempt to make her shoulders seem wider than her hips.

This year felt even more small-towny than usual, since the outrage my daughter and all the other third-grade girls felt about “Titanic” heartthrob Leonardo DiCaprio’s unnominated status was enhanced by the fact that Leonardo is truly a local boy. At this point I know more about Leonardo’s history here in the Los Feliz-Silverlake area than I’d ever hoped to (“He shops for groceries at Lucky’s!” “One of the teachers at school used to baby-sit him!” “When he visits his mom, sometimes they go to Lucky’s together!”).

So last night’s Oscars were colored by my daughter’s sulky We Wuz Robbed attitude whenever “Titanic” didn’t win something. “She shouldn’t keep saying ‘um,’” was her only comment on Helen Hunt’s rather gracious best actress acceptance speech. Never mind. I’m sure some 30 years from now she’ll remember all this with the rosy nostalgia I feel for Michael Jackson and “Ben.”

But to return, as we must, to “Titanic”: Even if it didn’t, as some observers had wagered, beat “Ben Hur’s” Oscar record, its record-tying 11 Academy Awards still made last night an almost thoroughly “Titanic” evening. Which was fine with me, because I was looking forward to seeing James Cameron’s rampant egomania in all its splendor and wasn’t disappointed. (Also, a plus was that the director did indeed keep his promise to thank my old pal Rod Lurie.)

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 1 came when he won the best film editing award. “Honey,” he said to his 5-year-old daughter watching at home, as he waggled the statuette at the camera, “this is the thing I was talking about. It’s called an Oscar, and it’s really cool to get.” A neat touch, that — puffed-up pride sugarcoated in a public display of preciousness.

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 2, during the best director acceptance speech, took a while to develop. Several moments of gracious thanks all around — I began worriedly looking at my watch — and then (yes!) here it came, that full-throated shout: “I’M KING OF THE WORLD!” Only if he’d said, “I’M KING OF THE WORLD, MA,” would the moment have been more perfect.

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 3 was perhaps the most in keeping with the true spirit of the Oscars. Almost four hours had passed, the longest awards ceremony within recent memory, yet Cameron had the nerve to extend it even more with a few moments of silence for the Titanic dead. (Oh yeah — them.) Only the most unfeeling, hardened wretches would resent going along with this — but come on, it was quarter to 10 already.

Well, Academy Awards producer Gil Cates resisted his probable temptation to yank Cameron off the stage with a hook and everyone was dutifully silent. Until, of course, the director ended it with that traditional benediction at the end of such prayerful moments: “NOW LET’S PARTY TILL DAWN!”

Can you blame me if I consider last night one of the best Oscars ever?

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Say cheese!

RETRO, SMARMY, EGOMANIACAL, INCESTUOUS -- THE '98 OSCARS WAS ONE OF THE BEST EVER. Retro, smarmy, egomaniacal, incestuous -- The '98 Oscars was one of the best ever.

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Last night I dreamed I died and began floating up a long, richly carpeted aisle toward all my smiling friends from those Oscar spectacles of yesteryear. Why, look, it’s Sacheen Littlefeather! And over there, Vanessa Redgrave is blathering about the Palestinians. And — could it be? — yes, it’s my earliest Oscar memory ever: a teenage Michael Jackson singing “Ben,” the best song nominee from, of course, “Ben,” the sequel to that seminal sewer rat extravaganza, “Willard” (“Ben, the two of us need look no more”).

And there at the top of the stairs is Leonardo DiCaprio, waiting to give me a great big kiss while Michael and Vanessa and Sacheen and the orchestra all applaud and beam their approval and –

Oh, uh, excuse me. Apparently about three and a quarter hours into last night’s Academy Awards I dozed off and mixed up the grand finale of “Titanic” with what was really on TV at that point: “Oscar’s Family Album,” another procession of smiling, familiar faces from the past, featuring everyone from Anne Bancroft to Teresa Wright. I wasn’t imagining Vanessa Redgrave, but instead of blathering about the Palestinians this time she just beamed benignly at her fellow “R,” Luise Rainer.

Listen, I’m not complaining. The Oscars should run long. They should also be smarmy, vulgar, over the top, dripping with sentiment and show biz feel-goodism and the occasional, truly leaden missed attempt at humor. (Dustin Hoffman’s pointlessly snickering innuendo about the meaning of the number “69″ took care of that within, I believe, the first hour.)

Truly, I enjoyed “Oscar’s Family Album,” not least because it offered a nice counterpoint to the annual salute to passed-on movie folk. Instead of “Oh, that’s right, he’s dead,” the thought inspired by this largest assemblage of Oscar-winning actors ever was a cheerier, “Gee, I didn’t know he was still alive.” It’s just that when the Oscars go much past three hours — and this one, of course, went way past — a person can’t be blamed for starting to hallucinate.

Still, the upbeat tone was refreshing. It’s a happy thing when the life achievement award winner, Stanley Donen, not only didn’t have one foot in the grave like so many life achievers, but was actually spry enough to perform a little tap dance. It’s inspiring when the geezers in attendance aren’t frail and pitiable but crankily vigorous. “It used to be much better organized,” grumbled Charlton Heston to an interviewer during the melee of the arrivals. An ungracious moment, certainly, but also kind of a peppy one.

Last night I even warmed to Billy Crystal, whom I normally find a rather irritating and self-important host. The “Titanic” loogie-in-the-face in the opening montage won me over, even though the mucous-evoking image was so nauseating I had to close my eyes and think of beautiful fields of flowers for a few minutes to keep from throwing up.

I’ve always thoroughly enjoyed the Oscars. For one thing, they are that rare, special time when the whole stuffy concept of “Ms.” stays home and “Miss” is allowed to come, in all its retro finery, to the ball (“Please welcome a great actress, Miss Meg Ryan!”). Crystal did, absurdly, refer at one point to the girls in the wings handing out the Oscar statues as “the — (long, respectful pause) women.” But more in the Oscars spirit was Alec Baldwin, who in introducing the “L.A. Confidential” best picture clip, informed us cozily, “the girl in the picture is kinda cute too.”

When you watch them here in Los Angeles, as I always have, the Oscars make you feel like “this town” (to use the industry term) is your town. The awards bring people together. On Christmas friends and family call each other with season’s greetings. On Oscars night, during the commercials or tedious song numbers, Hollywood folk call each other with — well, last night, my friend and I had a long conversation about whether Kate Winslet was wearing shoulder pads or not, and if this was an attempt to make her shoulders seem wider than her hips.

This year felt even more small-towny than usual, since the outrage my daughter and all the other third-grade girls felt about “Titanic” heartthrob Leonardo DiCaprio’s unnominated status was enhanced by the fact that Leonardo is truly a local boy. At this point I know more about Leonardo’s history here in the Los Feliz-Silverlake area than I’d ever hoped to (“He shops for groceries at Lucky’s!” “One of the teachers at school used to baby-sit him!” “When he visits his mom, sometimes they go to Lucky’s together!”).

So last night’s Oscars were colored by my daughter’s sulky We Wuz Robbed attitude whenever “Titanic” didn’t win something. “She shouldn’t keep saying ‘um,’” was her only comment on Helen Hunt’s rather gracious best actress acceptance speech. Never mind. I’m sure some 30 years from now she’ll remember all this with the rosy nostalgia I feel for Michael Jackson and “Ben.”

But to return, as we must, to “Titanic”: Even if it didn’t, as some observers had wagered, beat “Ben Hur’s” Oscar record, its record-tying 11 Academy Awards still made last night an almost thoroughly “Titanic” evening. Which was fine with me, because I was looking forward to seeing James Cameron’s rampant egomania in all its splendor and wasn’t disappointed. (Also, a plus was that the director did indeed keep his promise to thank my old pal Rod Lurie.)

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 1 came when he won the best film editing award. “Honey,” he said to his 5-year-old daughter watching at home, as he waggled the statuette at the camera, “this is the thing I was talking about. It’s called an Oscar, and it’s really cool to get.” A neat touch, that — puffed-up pride sugarcoated in a public display of preciousness.

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 2, during the best director acceptance speech, took a while to develop. Several moments of gracious thanks all around — I began worriedly looking at my watch — and then (yes!) here it came, that full-throated shout: “I’M KING OF THE WORLD!” Only if he’d said, “I’M KING OF THE WORLD, MA,” would the moment have been more perfect.

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 3 was perhaps the most in keeping with the true spirit of the Oscars. Almost four hours had passed, the longest awards ceremony within recent memory, yet Cameron had the nerve to extend it even more with a few moments of silence for the Titanic dead. (Oh yeah — them.) Only the most unfeeling, hardened wretches would resent going along with this — but come on, it was quarter to 10 already.

Well, Academy Awards producer Gil Cates resisted his probable temptation to yank Cameron off the stage with a hook and everyone was dutifully silent. Until, of course, the director ended it with that traditional benediction at the end of such prayerful moments: “NOW LET’S PARTY TILL DAWN!”

Can you blame me if I consider last night one of the best Oscars ever?

Continue Reading Close

Say Cheese!

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Last night I dreamed I died and began floating up a long, richly carpeted aisle toward all my smiling friends from those Oscar spectacles of yesteryear. Why, look, it’s Sacheen Littlefeather! And over there, Vanessa Redgrave is blathering about the Palestinians. And — could it be? — yes, it’s my earliest Oscar memory ever: a teenage Michael Jackson singing “Ben,” the best song nominee from, of course, “Ben,” the sequel to that seminal sewer rat extravaganza, “Willard” (“Ben, the two of us need look no more”).

And there at the top of the stairs is Leonardo DiCaprio, waiting to give me a great big kiss while Michael and Vanessa and Sacheen and the orchestra all applaud and beam their approval and –

Oh, uh, excuse me. Apparently about three and a quarter hours into last night’s Academy Awards I dozed off and mixed up the grand finale of “Titanic” with what was really on TV at that point: “Oscar’s Family Album,” another procession of smiling, familiar faces from the past, featuring everyone from Anne Bancroft to Teresa Wright. I wasn’t imagining Vanessa Redgrave, but instead of blathering about the Palestinians this time she just beamed benignly at her fellow “R,” Luise Rainer.

Listen, I’m not complaining. The Oscars should run long. They should also be smarmy, vulgar, over the top, dripping with sentiment and show biz feel-goodism and the occasional, truly leaden missed attempt at humor. (Dustin Hoffman’s pointlessly snickering innuendo about the meaning of the number “69″ took care of that within, I believe, the first hour.)

Truly, I enjoyed “Oscar’s Family Album,” not least because it offered a nice counterpoint to the annual salute to passed-on movie folk. Instead of “Oh, that’s right, he’s dead,” the thought inspired by this largest assemblage of Oscar-winning actors ever was a cheerier, “Gee, I didn’t know he was still alive.” It’s just that when the Oscars go much past three hours — and this one, of course, went way past — a person can’t be blamed for starting to hallucinate.

Still, the upbeat tone was refreshing. It’s a happy thing when the life achievement award winner, Stanley Donen, not only didn’t have one foot in the grave like so many life achievers, but was actually spry enough to perform a little tap dance. It’s inspiring when the geezers in attendance aren’t frail and pitiable but crankily vigorous. “It used to be much better organized,” grumbled Charlton Heston to an interviewer during the melee of the arrivals. An ungracious moment, certainly, but also kind of a peppy one.

Last night I even warmed to Billy Crystal, whom I normally find a rather irritating and self-important host. The “Titanic” loogie-in-the-face in the opening montage won me over, even though the mucous-evoking image was so nauseating I had to close my eyes and think of beautiful fields of flowers for a few minutes to keep from throwing up.

I’ve always thoroughly enjoyed the Oscars. For one thing, they are that rare, special time when the whole stuffy concept of “Ms.” stays home and “Miss” is allowed to come, in all its retro finery, to the ball (“Please welcome a great actress, Miss Meg Ryan!”). Crystal did, absurdly, refer at one point to the girls in the wings handing out the Oscar statues as “the — (long, respectful pause) women.” But more in the Oscars spirit was Alec Baldwin, who in introducing the “L.A. Confidential” best picture clip, informed us cozily, “the girl in the picture is kinda cute too.”

When you watch them here in Los Angeles, as I always have, the Oscars make you feel like “this town” (to use the industry term) is your town. The awards bring people together. On Christmas friends and family call each other with season’s greetings. On Oscars night, during the commercials or tedious song numbers, Hollywood folk call each other with — well, last night, my friend and I had a long conversation about whether Kate Winslet was wearing shoulder pads or not, and if this was an attempt to make her shoulders seem wider than her hips.

This year felt even more small-towny than usual, since the outrage my daughter and all the other third-grade girls felt about “Titanic” heartthrob Leonardo DiCaprio’s unnominated status was enhanced by the fact that Leonardo is truly a local boy. At this point I know more about Leonardo’s history here in the Los Feliz-Silverlake area than I’d ever hoped to (“He shops for groceries at Lucky’s!” “One of the teachers at school used to baby-sit him!” “When he visits his mom, sometimes they go to Lucky’s together!”).

So last night’s Oscars were colored by my daughter’s sulky We Wuz Robbed attitude whenever “Titanic” didn’t win something. “She shouldn’t keep saying ‘um,’” was her only comment on Helen Hunt’s rather gracious best actress acceptance speech. Never mind. I’m sure some 30 years from now she’ll remember all this with the rosy nostalgia I feel for Michael Jackson and “Ben.”

But to return, as we must, to “Titanic”: Even if it didn’t, as some observers had wagered, beat “Ben Hur’s” Oscar record, its record-tying 11 Academy Awards still made last night an almost thoroughly “Titanic” evening. Which was fine with me, because I was looking forward to seeing James Cameron’s rampant egomania in all its splendor and wasn’t disappointed. (Also, a plus was that the director did indeed keep his promise to thank my old pal Rod Lurie.)

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 1 came when he won the best film editing award. “Honey,” he said to his 5-year-old daughter watching at home, as he waggled the statuette at the camera, “this is the thing I was talking about. It’s called an Oscar, and it’s really cool to get.” A neat touch, that — puffed-up pride sugarcoated in a public display of preciousness.

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 2, during the best director acceptance speech, took a while to develop. Several moments of gracious thanks all around — I began worriedly looking at my watch — and then (yes!) here it came, that full-throated shout: “I’M KING OF THE WORLD!” Only if he’d said, “I’M KING OF THE WORLD, MA,” would the moment have been more perfect.

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 3 was perhaps the most in keeping with the true spirit of the Oscars. Almost four hours had passed, the longest awards ceremony within recent memory, yet Cameron had the nerve to extend it even more with a few moments of silence for the Titanic dead. (Oh yeah — them.) Only the most unfeeling, hardened wretches would resent going along with this — but come on, it was quarter to 10 already.

Well, Academy Awards producer Gil Cates resisted his probable temptation to yank Cameron off the stage with a hook and everyone was dutifully silent. Until, of course, the director ended it with that traditional benediction at the end of such prayerful moments: “NOW LET’S PARTY TILL DAWN!”

Can you blame me if I consider last night one of the best Oscars ever?

Continue Reading Close

Say cheese!

Retro, smarmy, egomaniacal, incestuous--the '98 Oscars was one of the best ever.

  • more
    • All Share Services

Last night I dreamed I died and began floating up a long, richly carpeted aisle toward all my smiling friends from those Oscar spectacles of yesteryear. Why, look, it’s Sacheen Littlefeather! And over there, Vanessa Redgrave is blathering about the Palestinians. And — could it be? — yes, it’s my earliest Oscar memory ever: a teenage Michael Jackson singing “Ben,” the best song nominee from, of course, “Ben,” the sequel to that seminal sewer rat extravaganza, “Willard” (“Ben, the two of us need look no more”).

And there at the top of the stairs is Leonardo DiCaprio, waiting to give me a great big kiss while Michael and Vanessa and Sacheen and the orchestra all applaud and beam their approval and –

Oh, uh, excuse me. Apparently about three and a quarter hours into last night’s Academy Awards I dozed off and mixed up the grand finale of “Titanic” with what was really on TV at that point: “Oscar’s Family Album,” another procession of smiling, familiar faces from the past, featuring everyone from Anne Bancroft to Teresa Wright. I wasn’t imagining Vanessa Redgrave, but instead of blathering about the Palestinians this time she just beamed benignly at her fellow “R,” Luise Rainer.

Listen, I’m not complaining. The Oscars should run long. They should also be smarmy, vulgar, over the top, dripping with sentiment and show biz feel-goodism and the occasional, truly leaden missed attempt at humor. (Dustin Hoffman’s pointlessly snickering innuendo about the meaning of the number “69″ took care of that within, I believe, the first hour.)

Truly, I enjoyed “Oscar’s Family Album,” not least because it offered a nice counterpoint to the annual salute to passed-on movie folk. Instead of “Oh, that’s right, he’s dead,” the thought inspired by this largest assemblage of Oscar-winning actors ever was a cheerier, “Gee, I didn’t know he was still alive.” It’s just that when the Oscars go much past three hours — and this one, of course, went way past — a person can’t be blamed for starting to hallucinate.

Still, the upbeat tone was refreshing. It’s a happy thing when the life achievement award winner, Stanley Donen, not only didn’t have one foot in the grave like so many life achievers, but was actually spry enough to perform a little tap dance. It’s inspiring when the geezers in attendance aren’t frail and pitiable but crankily vigorous. “It used to be much better organized,” grumbled Charlton Heston to an interviewer during the melee of the arrivals. An ungracious moment, certainly, but also kind of a peppy one.

Last night I even warmed to Billy Crystal, whom I normally find a rather irritating and self-important host. The “Titanic” loogie-in-the-face in the opening montage won me over, even though the mucous-evoking image was so nauseating I had to close my eyes and think of beautiful fields of flowers for a few minutes to keep from throwing up.

I’ve always thoroughly enjoyed the Oscars. For one thing, they are that rare, special time when the whole stuffy concept of “Ms.” stays home and “Miss” is allowed to come, in all its retro finery, to the ball (“Please welcome a great actress, Miss Meg Ryan!”). Crystal did, absurdly, refer at one point to the girls in the wings handing out the Oscar statues as “the — (long, respectful pause) women.” But more in the Oscars spirit was Alec Baldwin, who in introducing the “L.A. Confidential” best picture clip, informed us cozily, “the girl in the picture is kinda cute too.”

When you watch them here in Los Angeles, as I always have, the Oscars make you feel like “this town” (to use the industry term) is your town. The awards bring people together. On Christmas friends and family call each other with season’s greetings. On Oscars night, during the commercials or tedious song numbers, Hollywood folk call each other with — well, last night, my friend and I had a long conversation about whether Kate Winslet was wearing shoulder pads or not, and if this was an attempt to make her shoulders seem wider than her hips.

This year felt even more small-towny than usual, since the outrage my daughter and all the other third-grade girls felt about “Titanic” heartthrob Leonardo DiCaprio’s unnominated status was enhanced by the fact that Leonardo is truly a local boy. At this point I know more about Leonardo’s history here in the Los Feliz-Silverlake area than I’d ever hoped to (“He shops for groceries at Lucky’s!” “One of the teachers at school used to baby-sit him!” “When he visits his mom, sometimes they go to Lucky’s together!”).

So last night’s Oscars were colored by my daughter’s sulky We Wuz Robbed attitude whenever “Titanic” didn’t win something. “She shouldn’t keep saying ‘um,’” was her only comment on Helen Hunt’s rather gracious best actress acceptance speech. Never mind. I’m sure some 30 years from now she’ll remember all this with the rosy nostalgia I feel for Michael Jackson and “Ben.”

But to return, as we must, to “Titanic”: Even if it didn’t, as some observers had wagered, beat “Ben Hur’s” Oscar record, its record-tying 11 Academy Awards still made last night an almost thoroughly “Titanic” evening. Which was fine with me, because I was looking forward to seeing James Cameron’s rampant egomania in all its splendor and wasn’t disappointed. (Also, a plus was that the director did indeed keep his promise to thank my old pal Rod Lurie.)

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 1 came when he won the best film editing award. “Honey,” he said to his 5-year-old daughter watching at home, as he waggled the statuette at the camera, “this is the thing I was talking about. It’s called an Oscar, and it’s really cool to get.” A neat touch, that — puffed-up pride sugarcoated in a public display of preciousness.

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 2, during the best director acceptance speech, took a while to develop. Several moments of gracious thanks all around — I began worriedly looking at my watch — and then (yes!) here it came, that full-throated shout: “I’M KING OF THE WORLD!” Only if he’d said, “I’M KING OF THE WORLD, MA,” would the moment have been more perfect.

James Cameron Rampant Egomania Moment No. 3 was perhaps the most in keeping with the true spirit of the Oscars. Almost four hours had passed, the longest awards ceremony within recent memory, yet Cameron had the nerve to extend it even more with a few moments of silence for the Titanic dead. (Oh yeah — them.) Only the most unfeeling, hardened wretches would resent going along with this — but come on, it was quarter to 10 already.

Well, Academy Awards producer Gil Cates resisted his probable temptation to yank Cameron off the stage with a hook and everyone was dutifully silent. Until, of course, the director ended it with that traditional benediction at the end of such prayerful moments: “NOW LET’S PARTY TILL DAWN!”

Can you blame me if I consider last night one of the best Oscars ever?

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Media Circus: The Freudian flack

Deeply psychotherapized publicist Michael Levine is one of Hollywood's grand eccentrics -- and his media dinners are the hottest ticket in town.

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Not that I like to pigeonhole people, but these days the vast bulk of Hollywood publicists do seem to fall into the following categories:

1. Snarling Micromanagers — the legendary Pat Kingsley of PMK is queen of the pack here — who now orchestrate pretty much every aspect of magazine cover stories, and who have managed to make “access” one of the more hideous journalism buzzwords of the ’90s.

2. Grumpy Old Machers, like press agentry veterans Lee Solters and Warren Cowan, whose favorite phrases (at least when I’ve talked to them) are “No!” and “I’m going to call your boss!”

3. Clueless Young Things, easily identified by their favorite phrase, the lilting “… and where can I get a copy of your magazine?”

Then there’s Michael Levine. I’ve never been able to categorize Michael Levine, even though in the ’80s he was for a while needled monthly in the old Spy magazine as the quintessential Hollywood flack. In the past couple of years, however, he’s managed to make his monthly Los Angeles Media Roundtable dinners a prized invitation among journalists, who are normally dismissive of invitations from press agents. And it’s not just the free food either, although of course with the press you should never underestimate the importance of that.

Tall, with silvery blond hair, the stepson of gossip columnist Marilyn Beck, Levine cultivates the slick demeanor of a Hollywood man-about-town. He’s generally seen at social events with a different babelike young actress. Once one of these girls got a little overexcited and started prattling loudly in my direction about “Generation X articles” and how “we should have coffee some time!”

“I must apologize for my date,” Levine said later. “I was going for the visual.”

But all that aside, Michael Levine is more than a publicist — more than even, as he’s sometimes described in the press, a “superpublicist.” He’s one of Hollywood’s grand eccentrics.

A while ago, he decided we should have lunch. Although we had exchanged few words prior to that meeting, he dispensed with the small talk and began right away with a line of intense questioning:

“If a man calls you up for a date on a Sunday evening,” Levine asked, “is it a big deal for you to get a baby sitter? And should the man pay for the baby sitter?”

“Uh …” I said.

“Because I don’t think a woman should make it a big deal,” he said. “And don’t you agree,” he added, leaning forward intently, “that the biggest favor you could do for your daughter would be to find her another father?”

“Well, uh …”

We also talked about his idea for raising money for a Statue of Responsibility, a sort of Los Angeles bookend to New York’s Statue of Liberty. And about how he was thinking of volunteering to be a Jewish Big Brother.

“That’s really nice!” I said.

“But the thing is,” he added, “I’d rather be a Big Brother to a girl.”

Levine Communications Office of Beverly Hills is known for its high-volume, regularly changing roster of up-and-coming personalities, anchored by the loyal, rocklike presence of Charlton Heston, a client for 15 years. Thus it occupies a unique niche in the world of Hollywood press agentry, which tends to focus on cultivating a few high-profile cash cows.

But unlike many of his fellows, Levine is not known for being nasty. His method of dealing with calls from the press could perhaps best be described as deeply psychotherapized. It’s a tone that’s echoed in a little book of aphorisms he published three years ago when he turned 40, called “Lessons at the Halfway Point: Wisdom for Midlife.”

Some of the lessons: “Truth is like ammonia on a dirty windshield”; “The weirdest dream I ever had involved being stuck in an elevator with Shari Lewis and Lambchop”; and “One night, to relieve some tension, I drew up a list of people I’d kill if they weren’t already dead.”

He makes a point of returning all calls the same day. “Mr. Solters, in his wisdom, decided that being belligerent to the media was the way to go,” Levine says. “I don’t happen to feel there’s ever any reason for being impolite. I feel the tunnel between the publicist and the media should be clean, well-lit and well-traveled.”

Which brings us back to his Los Angeles Media Roundtable. Two years ago, Levine was thinking about a line that had always irritated him in his favorite movie, “Annie Hall,” the one about how the only cultural advantage to Los Angeles is the ability to make a right turn on a red light. The dinners, says Levine, “grew out of my constant annoyance at Los Angeles being crapped on as an intellectual desert.”

At these dinners, journalists (mixed with a smattering of lawyers, politicians, business leaders and, for some reason, the odd plastic surgeon or dermatologist) get together and, off the record, complain loudly to each other about the state of things in general. A big attraction is the four-course meal at Campanile, probably the best restaurant in town.

Still, in the beginning, “No one wanted to come — not even my own staff,” says Levine. Now there are three or four people hoping to be invited for every seat that’s available. Of course, the popularity of any given dinner depends on the guest of honor. Sometimes it’s just an editor from a local publication, which can be a tough sell.

But in the past two years, guests of honor have included movie producer Robert Evans, Variety editor in chief Peter Bart, Los Angeles District Attorney Gil Garcetti, ousted Los Angeles Police Chief Willie Williams, good old Charlton Heston and — at last week’s dinner — O.J. Simpson prosecutor Christopher Darden.

I can’t tell you what’s said at these events, because they’re off the record. But based on my experience (which is to say, two dinners) someone will always deliver an uplifting monologue about volunteering with inner-city children. And someone else (OK, that would be me) will deliver a rather tactless opinion — like how watching TV news rots your brain, even though the table might include (OK, did include) several TV news people.

But Michael Levine says he welcomes such outspoken opinion. “I like the way you participated,” he told me later. Then he leaned forward and said, with quiet intensity, “So … are you plantable?” Match me, Sidney, what a “Sweet Smell of Success” moment! But, to get back to my publicist categories, maybe that’s what kind of a publicist Michael Levine is: a Sidney Falco for the ’90s.

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