It is no exaggeration to say that I have spent most of my life obsessed with the Oscars. When I was a kid, my favourite video was one my mother bought, for some reason titled “Oscar Highlights! 1940-1990”, and I loved everything about it: the terrible speeches, the baffling choices of winners, the hilariously anachronistic fashions and the fabulously anachronistic hair. I can’t remember a thing I learned at university, but I still know precisely what Diane Keaton wore when she won for Annie Hall in 1977 (long beige skirt, oversized grey blazer, white blouse, beige scarf, pink corsage).
So when I found out that the Guardian had somehow scored a ticket for me to go to the event this year, it was almost an out-of-body experience, sort of like how I imagine athletes feel when they get a gold at the Olympics: my highest ambition, achieved at last. But elation was undercut with swift panic: what the hell would I wear? I’d be filing copy from the event and immediately afterwards, so I couldn’t swank about in a completely impractical ballgown as I’d prefer. I’d need to be limber, able to run between the Kodak theatre and my hotel at multiple points in the evening. Also, I know myself pretty well by now and I knew I’d never get it together to go to a hairdresser, let alone a professional makeup artist, beforehand, so it needed to be something low-key. I also knew the Academy was pretty strict about dress codes – exposed knees are frowned upon, which ruled out pretty much my entire wardrobe. Flummoxed, I sent a bat signal to Melanie Wilkinson, the Guardian’s fashion stylist.
Mel, aka the fairy godmother, very sweetly called in some beautiful full length dresses for me, my favourites being an incredible Erdem dress, which consisted of a black slip with a dark lace overlay with orange and blue flowers, and a full length pink and green silk gown by Roksanda Ilincic. I was Cinderella, and while I didn’t have any singing birds and mice to help me dress, I was going to the ball.
But on the morning itself, I chickened out. I knew I’d be running around for 12 hours, and the idea of half a day in high heels, as these long dresses required, made me want to crawl into bed and eat ice cream instead. So I decided to opt for comfort over glamour and wore a 1960s-style knee length(ish) black and white tunic dress by Chloé, which I bought in the sales almost a decade ago and is still my favourite dress of all time, pairing it this with a pair of eminently run-around-able three-inch heels by Miu Miu. For makeup, I scribbled on my face with my favourite Charlotte Tilbury products, which are as easy to wear as my tunic dress, and just as effective. My hair was simply blow dried and offered up to the gods for mercy.
Because the truth is, I realised, nobody would be looking at me. Nobody. No one would be putting me under the Mani Cam (thank God.) All I needed was to look halfway decent for my own sake and to be comfortable, so that’s what I went for. And what better thing to wear to my most anticipated event than my favourite ever dress? I’ll save the beaded ballgown for when I’m actually nominated for an Oscar.
