By Neda Ulaby
The presence of top stars was supposedly top secret, but I’d been at the rehearsal for all of five minutes before the big names were breathed into my ear. Kevin Spacey. Julia Stiles. Sam Mendes. The Cusack acting clan, for a special award. Bonnie Hunt. More stars would have come but for an Academy Awards luncheon on the coast. It was while this information was being imparted that a ruddy older gentleman in sunglasses strolled up to the gaggle of film critics I was gossiping with and introduced himself as Bill.
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A snort. “I thought it was a gay fantasy.”
I nodded. I smiled. I went away and sat down and started reading.
“And the nominations for best supporting actor,” I recited faithfully from the TelePrompTer, “are John Alkovich for Being John Malkovich and–”
“John Alkovich would be proud,” cracked another.
