Buna , DAU MULTE PUNCTE imi trebuie rezumatul acestui text ( de la persoana a 3)
... Now they were giving out the prize for the best camera
work, and tension was beginning to mount. The man
from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences
handed the sealed envelope to the well-known director
who had been called up to announce the winner. The paper
crackled in the microphone as he tore it open. He paused
deliber ately for several minutes, teasing the audience, then
an nounced the result. There was hearty applause as the
winner started for the stage to accept his statuette.
I looked around the theatre, recognizing most of the
important faces in the business, but not caring much.
You see, I was plenty nervous. Myra Caldwell, whom I had brought to the proceedings, was sitting there beside
me, and right across the aisle was Joan Weyland. Now,
to get the picture properly, you have to remember that
during that particular year Myra had played the sensational
su pporting role in The Devil Loses and had been
acclaimed practically the greatest find in the history of
pictures. But that was the same year that Joan Weyland
had stolen a big picture called Calumet Centre right out
from under the nose of one of the most terrific female
stars in the industry. The only other actress nominated
was not given much chance. Now in a few minutes, they
were going to announce who had won the Oscar for the
Best Supporting Actress of the year. It was a hottest Contest
and everybody knew it. Furthermore, it was not a
secret that the two leading con testants would have been
delighted to boil each other in oil – win, lose, or draw.
And here they were across the aisle from each other. Do
you get why I was nervous?
They were giving out the writers’ awards and I was
mopping my forehead frequently with a damp handkerchief,
when Myra turned to me and said in a voice that
carried her words farther than the first rows: “Look at Joan. Isn’t she ugly tonight?” I tried to hush
her, but it was no good. Several rows of people had heard
her and there was a stifled titter. Joan looked across the
aisle and glared. Apparently she hadn’t caught the words,
but she knew they weren’t exactly flattering.
Then the lights went down. They were going to run
short excerpts from the pictures for which the actors and
actresses had been nominated. The supporting-actress
pictures were coming on, and here was Joan Weyland in
her big scene from Calumet Centre. The audience started
to applaud as soon as they saw her.
After that they ran a short scene from Whirlwind, featuring the
other nominee, a refugee actress called Tanya Braden. I had never
seen the picture of the actress, and the picture hadn’t made much
money – but, boy, there was no doubt she could act! She played the
star’s mo ther and she made you believe it.
Then they ran Myra’s big moment in The Devil Loses. After it
was over I tried to figure out who got the biggest hand, but it sounded
to me, in my weakened condition, like a dead heat.
“I think I won,” Myra said to me.
The lights went up. The elderly actor who had won the Supporting
Actor award the year before came through the curtains and prepared
to make the award. I didn’t see how I was going to live through
the next few minutes. He got the envelope from the auditor and very
slowly tore it open. He was loving every second of it, the old man.
Then he looked at the little piece of paper.
“The Winner,” he said, then paused again, “is Miss Tanya Braden, for her performance in Whirlwind.”
Well, I’m not too sure about the sequence of events that followed.
I don’t remember the applause, because Joan let out a screech from
across the aisle that drowned out everything else. Then Myra started
to cry. I don’t mean cry like the ordinary person, but I mean cry so
that the building shook.
Then Joan got up and started out, and her mother went with
her. But I couldn’t do anything with Myra. The show was stopped
and the whole theatre was looking at her. I picked her up and carried
her out.
It wasn’t a very pleasant performance, all in all, but I think there
is some excuse. After all, Joan is 8 years old, and Myra is only 6, and
she isn’t used to being up so late. I’m a little on her side anyway. And
why not? I’m her father.