Charlize Theron on stage and (top ) Hilary Swank

If I were a total cynic, I would maintain that film awards, no matter how anticipated and no matter where they are held, more often than not, are a tedious parade of congratulations. And tend to be a snooze festival. The Oscars are the creme de la creme of all film awards. The difference between an Indian film award ceremony and its American counterpart was brought home to me as I attended the Academy?s 77th Oscar Award ceremony last Sunday. Los Angeles, the Mecca of all stars, directors, stuntmen, makeup artistes and everyone else associated with the industry, proclaims its position with an entire hill face pointing out simplistically that we are surely and truly in HOLLYWOOD.

Just getting into the swank new Kodak theatre on Sunday night was a lesson in understanding the price of celebrity as it is practised in the world of stardom. Internationally, the event unfolds with its combination of glamour, glitz, and fashion. There is something about the silver screen event, which creates a feeling of awe as, for a few hours, stars are brought together ? almost within touching distance ? into the homes of an estimated 41.5 million viewers.

The Academy presented the 77th Oscar ceremony amid the usual cynical and euphoric media attention. It was the first time that I had attended it. Our son Ashvin Kumar had made a short film titled The Little Terrorist that was nominated in the international section of short action films. This entitled him to walk down the red carpet and give us similar access. We were advised to reach the famed carpet in a limousine. We reached the vicinity, dressed in our formal attires, riding a black spanking limousine, through three blocks of barricaded streets. The security for the event was such that any ideas of travelling by any other mode of transport seemed wisely discarded.

It went like this: stop at checkpoint, present ticket and ID to uniformed police officers, stop at second checkpoint, roll down all windows, pop open the trunk, and let more uniformed police officers search the car. Thereafter we streamed past crowds of screaming fans lined up behind barricades on the greasy Hollywood side streets. We presented our tickets once again, this time to a classy-looking valet, who could have been dressed by Armani. Many such encounters later, at last we collected our sari pallas, bandhgalas and shawls and stepped out onto a really wide red carpet. We joined the queue with a herd of ordinary well-dressed people, along with lesser numbers of beautiful people in jewel-toned gowns and tuxedos. We crossed the threshold towards a big open stairway, down which stars, like ordinary mortals, were queuing towards yet another bank of nattily-dressed ticket checkers.

The pace by that time had slowed down to let the paparazzi record the goings-on on the red carpet. Great banks of photographers, electronic media and journalists were hedged on one side of the carpet. The screaming from the fans had by now reached fever pitch. The atmosphere within this giant tent was electric. It does not get more glamorous than this. There were all the stars out there. Julia Roberts looked elegant in a Dolce and Gabbana, having lost a lot of weight after having twins, Barbara Streisand looked comfortable in a blue kaftan-type dress.

Hollywood dressing seems to have gone back to the mood of the fifties. To the uninitiated, this era presented elegance, drape, classicism. A certain conservative chic seemed the fashion motto of all the stars, epitomised in Hilary Swank?s indigo blue silk jersey gown, cut deep at the back with a sweeping trail that needed help as she moved. There were gowns designed by the world?s best couturiers. There seemed to be a fashion conspiracy as star after star walked the carpet wearing gowns with various necklines, pinched beautifully at the waist, and flowing full, touching the toes and trailing on the famous carpet. Red was the predominant favourite. The gowns were created by the fashion week maharajas ? Armani, Versace, Dior.

If I were to translate the look for Bollywood, it would be a return to the Nargis-Suraiya-Waheeda Rehman-look of sheer personality. The underplay that comes into work as the stars overshadow the clothes. Perhaps we could also take a leaf from the book and change the present phase of in-your-face ornamental dressing.

The week leading to the Oscar night saw a number of parties hosted to celebrate the nomination in all categories. The Oscar evening hosts the somewhat staid Governor?s Ball, a sit-down affair with thousands of guests. The hottest ticket is reserved for the party of all parties, The Vanity Fair party held at the Morton?s restaurant. Elton John?s AIDS foundation party threw up some interesting pictures. There was Donatella Versace in a dress that dripped purple sequins, Donald Trump and his new bride looked glamourous, Pamela Anderson wore a button-up shirt that opened up gradually to reveal pretty much everything that had made her famous. Sir Elton was seen wearing blue sunglasses and a blazer, hand-painted in the ancient Japanese tattoo style. Elizabeth Taylor celebrated her 73rd birthday and was seen in a white flowy kaftan, crystal encrusting the neck.

Eventually, what really made the awards special was the incredible talent and quality of the films being recognised. The standards are international ? the content is supreme and the competition the toughest in the world. Though the event unfolds with its combination of glamour, glitz and fashion, there is something about this silver screen event that creates a feeling of awe for the sheer genius that it brings together and celebrates. We in India are pleased with much less. Where really are our stars, when will we demand similar standards? A question that our film industry needs to address ? encourage fresh talent and a genre of film-making which would make us proud to be Indian.