HANJA’S ACADEMY AWARDS

LA FAMIGLIA— 1986

“It’s my husband’s birthday next week,” Gigliola Scola said after she’d seen my cabaret Story of a Life in 21 Songs. “And I’d love it if you would come and do your show at the party I’m organizing for him. It will be a surprise. I’ll pay you for it.”

“Oh no, no I will not let you pay me. It would be an honour for me to do it.”

Ettore Scola was one of Italy’s most prestigious directors. He had made outstanding films such as A Special Day, We All Loved Each Other So Much and Le Balle.

It was arranged: my performance would take place at their sea-side house in Fregene. They would go out for a meal with their guests and when they came back they would find me there.

“I’ll leave some good wine and something to eat if you want it,” Gigliola had said.

On the day, a friend, Carla, drove me to Fregene. We opened a bottle of red wine, re-arranged the room and placed a stool for me in a strategic spot. I practiced my chords.

When a group of merry-makers walked in around eleven o’clock, the first person I recognised was Marcello Mastroianni.

Strumming my guitar, I sang happy birthday to a very surprised Scola, and as soon as they settled down I began my performance. It was an informal recital. In between songs Marcello extended small glasses of grappa towards me.

When I finished they asked for more, more! Another song, another song, until I finally ran out of my repertoire.

“Hai una grande voce Hanja” — “You have a great voice Hanja,” Scola said.

“I’ll teach you some Russian songs I know,” said a guest who had hair down to her waist. “They will suit your voice.”

I continued accepting Marcello’s offer of una piccola grappina — a little grappa, until the end of the party. I would have accepted anything from this sweet man.

On the way home, when streaks of early light appeared in the sky, Carla said, “Hanja, Marcello Mastoianni kissed me. I have been kissed by Marcello Mastroianni!”

“As was I!” I sighed. There are not many women who can boast of this.

In the morning my phone rang often. “How was it?”

“Brilliant.” I recounted the evening. “They were very appreciative, but I don’t think it’s going to go any further. I mean as far as my singing career goes. It was a one off.”

Later Scola telephoned. “Hanja, would you mind being in my film?”

“I’d love to be in your film Ettore! Thank you.” So it hadn’t been a one off.

“Can you come to Cinecittà tomorrow? We’re in Studio 5.”

It was the same studio where I had worked in Cleopatra in 1962. There I’d played a hand-maiden to Elizabeth Taylor, here I was to be Susanna, the mother of a large, turn-of-the-century, typical middle-class Roman family, who had renounced a singing career to dedicate herself to domestic life.

The saga spanned through eight decades of the family’s life and I was to play her from the age of twenty-seven to her death in her seventies. In three months I was going to age from young girl to old woman. Could any actress ask for anything better? Especially as the renowned Vittorio Gassman, who was about twenty years older than me, was to play my son.

“You don’t have to do the old woman, if you don’t want to,” Scola told me, thinking I might not wish to appear old on screen.

“But of course I want to do the old woman Ettore!”

On the first day, when I played her young, the hairdresser pinned my tumbling mass of hennaed hair very tightly on my scalp, then fixed a stocking to it, pulled it firmly and up lifted my face. A long, blonde wig was then placed on my aching head. I didn’t think I looked all that different, but when, in the evening, the wig was taken off, the hair-pins loosened and down came my face I saw I wasn’t so young anymore: after all I was nearly fifty now. And I hadn’t noticed.

A relaxed, assured director, Scola shot the film in chronological order, which is rare in movie making. Usually scenes are filmed in sections, here and there, but this was like being in a play. And fascinating to see oneself and the rest of the actors ageing.

The cast was select. Stefania Sandrelli, who played Gassman’s wife, and hence my lovely daughter-in-law, was always cheerful and friendly to everyone. Vittorio, a reserved man, was less inclined to hang out and wanted the scenes shot as quickly as possible. “Come on, come on, let’s get this one over with,” he’d urge impatiently. It was difficult for me to approach him, but he was so handsome as he hurriedly strutted by — often with bare torso — displaying his toned muscles, that it was a pleasure just to observe him. He was a man tormented by depression, it was sad. The French actress, Fannie Ardent, was distant and never left her dressing room unless she was wanted on the set.

I felt insecure amongst all these great performers. “They’re going to see through me. They’ll see I’m a bluff and can’t act,” was a thought that liked to creep up on me. Had I been in Hollywood I would have had an acting coach help me through the different phases. Here, on my own, in my dressing room, I took out my Chinese coins and consulted the I Ching for guidance on how I should interpret a scene. ‘Perseverance Furthers’ came up often.

My dressing-room window looked straight across to the bar, and given that a great part of the day on a set means just hanging around waiting for one’s scene to be shot, a window with a good exposure is an asset. From there I could watch the many film personages as they regularly dropped in for numerous hits of strong espressos or cherry-red Camparis. There goes so and so, and so and so, and there’s Monica Vitti gesticulating vivaciously as her hairdresser, comb in hand, following close behind, adjusts her pale locks. And here comes Federico, the great Fellini himself, in the company of an actress with enormous bosoms, and fourteen-hundred dwarfs.

When I played the old lady, the make-up department spent hours putting gum on my face and hours tenderly peeling it off at the end of the day. My wig was now a salt-and-pepper one.

On completion, the picture met with huge success. We went to Florence for the grand Italian opening and in May to the Cannes Film Festival.

At the end of the film’s screening in the Palais des Festivals et des Congress, I lost the rest of the company in the dense crowd and found myself walking down the long, wide, red carpeted stairway on my own.

Hundreds of fans clapped to see this actress, wearing a vintage, ankle length black lace dress. They had no idea who I was, but there I was descending the staircase of fame, so they cheered and applauded with all their might.

It wasn’t an easy journey. All those people looking at me, and I’m shy. What if I trip in these high heels and fall? But, at the same time, I was also thrilled. Then, almost at the end of my descent I had a flash. I had an aha moment. I knew in that instant that I would be walking on my own through life.

But that evening, when I sang There’s No Business Like Show Business in a fancy bar, in a duet with Vittorio Gasman, I was anything but alone.

I was enjoying my fifteen minutes of fame: TV and newspaper interviews, parties and invitations to film festivals. However the most amazing event was yet to come.

When La Famiglia was nominated to compete for the Oscar as best foreign film in the 1988 Academy Awards, Scola said he wasn’t going to go. He’d been there several times for various nominations already and it hadn’t come to anything. “I hate Hollywood. I’m never going back there.”

“Why don’t you send me in your place?” I spontaneously asked him.

Maybe it wasn’t all that spontaneous as for some time I’d been day-dreaming about going to the Academy Awards. I could see myself in a blue dress clutching the Oscar Statue. I even told my friends about it. “If you dream of something hard enough it could come true.”

“I think I can arrange that,” Scola answered.

My friends were impressed.

Before leaving I went to see him with the good news that we were going to win.

“How do you know that?”

“I was meditating a few evenings ago and the Oscar came to me and told me he wants to go to Ettore Scola.”

“No he won’t. He’ll go to Malle’s Au Revoir Les Enfants. It’s a very beautiful film.” Now I was on my way to Hollywood decked out in a star’s wardrobe. Brocade dresses, black lace mantles and skirts made with meters of white tulle; fancy Italian shoes and faux jewellery all loaned to me by Clara Centinaro, one of Italy’s finest couturiers. A friend lent me her fancy, pale-blue Samsonite suitcase. “You’ll be surprised how much you can pack in there,” she said, and was right.

At the LAX airport I was met by a charming, grey-haired Frenchman.

Kissing my hand he presented himself, “I’m from the Academy,” and escorted me into a white limo — large enough to house a family of gypsies. As we cruised down avenues framed by high palms towards the Beverly Hills Hilton, that palatial establishment frequented by the famous, he filled me in on his status.

“I used to be an actor in my young days, but the acting business is very hard and I got out of it. I had some money so I invested it and my wife and I can live well on it.”

“That’s nice for you.”

“At times I do pleasant little jobs like this for the Academy. It’s fun. I hope you have a lovely time in Los Angeles.”

When we stopped in front of the hotel and a man in livery came running from under the porticos to pick up my suitcase it was hard for me to believe my luck. Especially when I was escorted to my suite on the third floor. Bouquets of flowers and Champagne in a wine cooler awaited me in this lush pink fairy-land space.

From then on it was party time. In my haute couture Clara Centinaro outfits I was chauffeured in limos to events where caviar and champagne flowed. I met George Clooney at one of the bashes; “He’s trying to get into a soap,” the older women who was escorting him told me.

I saw Jacqueline Bisset at another do, and cheerily made my way over to her.

“Hi” I said. “We were in a film in London years ago. The Knack.”

It was a film by Richard Lester and we were part of a group of lovely young women who appeared in various scenes, but had no dialogue. Charlotte Rampling, Jane Birkin and Joanna Lumley were part of our group. It is to say that Richard Lester had an eye for future stars. All of them except for me. But I, who had wished on many falling stars, never wished to be a Star. It’s not a persona I wanted to inhabit. I have simpler tastes.

“Oh, I don’t consider that to be called being in a film,” Jacqueline Bisset said and turned away from me to continue her conversation with her friends who she wasn’t going to introduce me to. I remember how, when we were filming, I thought that she was the most ambitious in this group. “I’m going to go to Hollywood,” she had said, and she was right.

Cradling my flute of champagne, I had a much friendlier reception from Roddy McDowall who had been in the film Cleopatra. “We met in Rome,” I told him. “I was one of Elizabeth’s hand maidens.”

“How lovely to see you. What are you doing here?” he asked and I told him.

Then came the Big Night.

Helped by the hotel’s maid, I slipped into the tulle skirt and black lace bodice crying, “I’ll never get this make up on properly.” “Shit, my hair looks awful.” “These shoes are too tight.” As I tortured myself, at the same time I practiced my Oscar speech which I was going to give in both English and Italian.

Shortly after mid-day the concierge called to say that my escort had arrived. Picking up my voluminous, black lace shawl, I swiftly went down to the lobby. The princess going to the ball.

The young Italian Ambassador would be taking care of me. His tall, Austrian wife, with a pixie haircut, held out her hand in friendly gesture. They were a good looking couple. We greeted each other, “Ciao.”

In the limousine the Ambassador uncorked a bottle of champagne. It was nose to tail limos. Police lined the avenue. Our handsome, young driver told us he was doing this job only because he was waiting for a film to come his way. Though the venue wasn’t far from the hotel, when we finally arrived it was already four o’clock.

An attendant in dinner jacket took me under my arm gently, albeit officiously, and escorted me to the red carpet where actors and actresses posed to say a few words. Flashlights flashed around me. I gave my name and the name of the film I was representing. “That’s a beautiful gown,” the interviewer commented. “Ah, Italian, of course,” he concluded.

Then I was speedily ushered into the cinema, down the aisle, to my seat in the huge Shrine Auditorium. The ambassador and his wife were already there.

Inquisitively I watched the hundreds of buzzing celebrities showing themselves off as they walked around the room. In anticipation of receiving the Oscar, I practiced my speech. “I thank you all on behalf of Ettore Scola, etc., etc.”

It was a never ending show hosted by the comic Chevy Chase. A gazillion of commercials in between the acts made me restless. Come on, come on, my silent voice cried.

Cher, who got the best actress award for Moonstruck, wore a totally transparent black gown. Clutching her Oscar on the stage, she took in a deep breath and in her sexy, nasal voice proclaimed, “Just give me a moment, this is very important for me. I want to get it right.” After a few seconds, as we leaned forward in our seats with anticipation, she said, “First of all I want to thank my hairdresser.”

Her hair (or was it a wig?) did look brilliant.

Later, as she passed me by I got a whiff of her musky perfume and heard her say, “Hullo Jack,” to an ever sneering Jack Nicholson.

Bernardo Bertolucci, whose film, The Last Emperor, received nine awards, stood with assurance on the stage. “If New York is the Big Apple, tonight Hollywood is the Big Nipple,” he said and made everyone laugh.

Finally it was time for the Best Foreign Film category. As each film was announced a short clip of it was projected on the TV screen.

“Babette’s Feast (Denmark) in Danish and French — Gabriel Axel.”

I put on more lipstick.

“Au Revoir les Enfants (France) in French — Louis Malle.”

I fluffed up my hair.

“Course Completed (Spain) in Spanish — José Luis Garci.”

I started doing my mantra. “Om Tare Tam Swaha ….”

“The Family (Italy) in Italian — Ettore Scola.”

I looked at the screen and didn’t see myself in the clip.

“Pathfinder (Norway) in Sami — Nils Gaup”

I curled my toes as the envelop with the winner’s name was slowly opened. So slowly. “Don’t forget to breathe,” I said to myself.

“And the Oscar goes to . . . Gabriel Axel for Babette’s Feast.”

He was sitting right behind me and I turned around to him with gaping eyes and mouth, before he jumped up to go to the stage to claim his prize.

I felt like a sunflower on a rainy day, but sported a radiant smile as we made our way to the festive dining room. If I was devastated I certainly wasn’t going to show it.

On the staircase I bumped into Louis Malle and his wife Candice Bergen. “We didn’t win either,” I said with a sad face under my smile. As he had no idea who I was he gave me a disinterested look and walked away. So I never got to tell him I was here taking Ettore Scola’s place who didn’t come because he expected Au Revoir les Enfants to win.

After the lavish meal, where more liquid than food got consumed, it was time to hit the parties. The Ambassador asked me whether I would like to go to the Vanity Fair one or to Spargo’s. I opted for the latter. Which was a good choice, because when we knocked at the heavy wood door Gregory Peck opened it and said “Welcome.”

This is definitely a dream, I told myself, but did not tell the velvet voiced Peck, that when I was a young teenager I had sent him photographs of myself. I recalled how I tried to scratch the pimples off my face with one my Dad’s razors. I was much too timid to approach him at the bar where he was standing with friends to tell him that I’d addressed the letter to Gregory Peck, Hollywood, America.

Nor did I approach Shirley MacLaine to tell her we’d met in London at Roman Polanski’s bachelor party.

As soon as I got back to my hotel I sent Scola a telegram. It said: EVEN OSCARS LIE.

Then the dream was over. The flowers in my pink suite were drooping a little, there was no champagne in the cooler, the maid did not offer to pack my bag.

Though the song had ended the memory would linger on.

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