Internationally Shitting The Bed.

Starring in what is easily the worst segment in the history of the Oscars. You can’t unring that bell.

Rob Lowe was that star. (Click the video above to check it out. But skip around, because it’s really unwatchable. Rob enters about six minutes in.)

Here’s how he remembers it in his autobiography:

Every star can make a bad movie or TV show. If you are lucky, you may get to stay in the business long enough to make several. But very few get to participate in a train wreck in front of a billion people.

The pitch was simple: an elaborate musical number in the style of the famed Copacabana will open the show. A who’s who of old-time Hollywood stars will participate, including the biggest box-office queen of her era, Snow White. The gag will be that her date stands her up and I gallantly come to her rescue. 

There are ominous signs from the beginning. During rehearsals, it becomes clear that some of the older Hollywood legends cannot walk unassisted. So they are placed at tables where all they have to do is wave. Snow White is played by a sweet but inexperienced actress with a very high falsetto. However, when the big night arrives and she is faced with the living, breathing, actual stars, her voice jumps up two more octaves. By the time I make my entrance, live, in front of a billion people, she has that thousand-yard stare common to all performers who are going into the tank. We’ve all been there. I know the look. I look deep into her eyes, trying to get her to focus on me and steady her nerves. It seems to be going well. 

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see the great director Barry Levinson in the middle of the audience. There is nobody hotter or more important on the planet at this time. I see him very clearly. His mouth is agape. He almost looks ashen. He turns to his date, and I can clearly read his lips as he says, “What the F is this?” Bravely, I soldier on. 

I leave the stage, not having a real sense of how it went over. I make my way to the green room, deserted at this early part of the show except for an elderly lady with flame-red hair, sitting in a corner alone. It’s Lucille Ball. “Young man,” she says, “I had no idea you were such a good singer. Please come sit with me.” 

She holds my hand, and kisses me on the cheek, and then I watch as leaves to receive her Lifetime Achievement Award to a standing ovation. Within weeks she will pass away. 

Every year people debate what’s wrong with the Academy Awards. Why they are always so long, so boring, or just plain terrible. I have my theories, but of these two things I am certain: first, don’t they ever try to take the piss out of the Oscars. The ceremony is not merely escapist fare for the average American; it is considered to be of cancer-curing importance, an evening of the highest seriousness, to be revered at all costs. I hadn’t realized that. Second: when Lucille Ball likes what you do, it’s hard to give a shit about anyone else.