Web Behrens

With nine days to go before the Academy Awards, all attention wasn't on Los Angeles or even on pre-Oscar buzz, but on the unassuming facade of the Northwest Chicago firm where Oscar is manufactured and sent out into the world.

The latest in a series of snafus that first saw Internet claims of leaked nominations and the largest batch of Academy ballots go missing, the world's highest-profile trophy went MIA last week as well, apparently hijacked from a California loading dock. And though fifty-three of the fifty-five golden guys were found safe and sound, it still meant a weekend of overtime for the folks at R.S. Owens, the company that has manufactured the Oscars since 1983. The replacement Oscars will be ready to shine Sunday night in case the first batch, found Monday next to a dumpster, are still in police custody (as anticipated).

Timing aside, though, all the calls from reporters and the visits from photographers was a simple case of deja vu. In early February, two weeks before the Academy even announced its nominations, the company held a "media day," an understandable effort to consolidate all the journalistic inquiries about Oscar into a period of a few hours.

And on that morning, the cast of characters ranges from other print guys (such as a celebrity journalist from the Sun-Times) to talking heads -- er, broadcast reporter -- from nationally syndicated TV shows. You can easily spot the latter: They're the nattily dressed ones. Those of us who don't need to look good for the camera aren't sporting any GQ threads. The only sharp-looking individual who's not there to cover the event is company president Scott Siegel, who personally greets everyone as we pass beyond the lobby checkpoint.

He's a fortysomething-looking 52, handsome and ready for a couple of his fifteen minutes, Siegel leads a small group out the offices, into the industrial section of the Owens complex. I sidle next to him as we walk and ask a few questions, like "How many molds do you have for the Oscar?" and "Where do you keep them?" He's ready with answers: "Just one" and "We keep it under very tight security-under my pillow." Smiling, he clarifies, "No, we have a storage area where we keep it locked up."

We enter a big room with an insidious odor and vats of chemicals lining the floor. Some seethe and roil, while others appear placid, save for the ominous vapors swirling from their surface. This is where the big guy -- made of brittanium, a pewter alloy -- gets his golden sheen. The gold coat comes last-platings of copper, nickel and silver precede it, a process that takes several hours per award.

As we walk among the vats, cameramen jostle around, vying for the best shot. Like the Hollywood denizens who'll soon present these awards, so much of this moment is artifice: One TV guy wants footage of a trophy coming out of the gold bath, but when Oscar emerges with his butt to the camera, the videographer instructs the worker to perform the move a second time.

As the cameramen do their thing, the reporters have their own conversation. A print guy sounds genuinely interested in a broadcast guy's celebrity puff-piece credentials, then responds with a remark about what a fun and fascinating time he always has in Los Angeles covering the Oscar ceremony. This would be a kin to name-dropping, I suppose-event-dropping. We leave the chemical-dip room, and the local Fox News guy hurries off so his station can air footage on their noon show. Those of us with lazier deadlines stroll back to the offices with Siegel. I ask -- quite presciently, it turns out -- if they've ever replaced an Oscar.

Siegel lobs the question to his Oscar account rep, Noreen Prohaska. And yes, she says, the firm once replaced Gene Kelly's Oscar, which was lost in a fire.

"Oh, Gene Kelly's Oscar-for 'Dancing in the Rain'?" the numbskull print guy interjects, not wanting to be left out of the discussion. Competition sure is a strange and ugly beast.

"And," Prohaska continues, "We had Shelley Winters' cleaning lady call us once. She wanted to have the Oscar retrieved from the museum in Amsterdam -- she had won that for 'The Diary of Anne Frank'-so we could refinish it, back to its original luster -- "

"So it wasn't Shelley's Oscar," my confused colleague interrupts.

"It was hers; she had donated it to the Anne Frank house," Prohaska patiently explains.

"Oh, yes," he now pretends to understand. "She had won that for..." But he can't come up with a title.

"For 'The Diary of Anne Frank," Prohaska finishes his sentence for him.

"Was she in 'The Diary of Anne Frank'?" he wonders. Gosh, this is getting painful.

Mercifully, Siegel changes the subject. "So we don't know yet how they're going out to California this year?" he asks Prohaska.

"No, we don't know yet," she replies. "There may be another publicity stunt with the Oscars -- "

"Not a stunt, not a publicity stunt," Siegel corrects. "A publicity event." They laugh.

The dope next to me laughs too. "An opportunity!" he offers, grinning at Siegel. Then, in a theatrical aside to Prohaska, he adds, "I love your honesty!"

(2000-03-23)

Also by Web Behrens

about Newcitychicago | about Newcity magazine | advertising | privacy policy | FAQ | employment