2:54pm – Sitting in Anatoly’s office for class, he tells us, “Guys, I am sorry, I have only one ticket for the Golden Mask tonight.” We decide to flip a coin. I win.
6:34pm – On my way to the ceremony I exit GUM, the huge and lavish department store bordering Red Square, and hang a left. There it is: the Gastini Dvor, a hulking mass of white columns and not-quite-yellow paint. I found it all by myself (the few times we’ve been sent somewhere on our own, this has been a problem). The only question now is which door? Congratulating myself on my city-savvy, I search for people in the evening gowns and crazy getups I’ve been told to expect. Nothing. Only people in jeans and business casual. Oh God. Am I overdressed? Relax, Laura, there is no overdressing in Russia. Everyone’s probably at the door at the other end.
6:41pm – This door is also deserted. Suddenly I see television equipment being loaded in a side door. Panic. I look at my ticket. 20:00. That would be 8pm. Not 7pm, like I was told. And of course I didn’t think to check myself. Now I’m one hour and 19 minutes early. Fabulous.
6:47pm – Now berating myself for being stupid, I wander into GUM and decide to fill my time with some condolence ice cream. Since it’s nice out, I go outside onto Red Square to eat said condolence ice cream. Only then do I realize that I’ve chosen a variety that is almost impossible to eat daintily. Half the chocolate shell falls onto the cobblestones as I watch the sun sink below the Kremlin wall.
7:33pm – After mining my purse for something to amuse myself (unsuccessful), the time finally comes to go back to the Gastini Dvor. I take my dress shoes out of my purse and change my shoes, attracting some reproachful looks from Russians who were probably born wearing heels. Then I totter down the street to the door – the one that I can now clearly see is the right entrance.
7:40pm – Inside, I step through metal detectors and onto the landing of an enormous staircase, and I pause to survey the scene below me. The space is similar to Washington’s National Building Museum: a cavernous open hall, surrounded by four floors of balconies, stretching the length of the city block on which it sits. Tables for snacks and cocktails are scattered below, and halfway down the hall a gigantic curtain with the Golden Mask symbol hangs, cutting the space in half. I walk down the stairs an
d am immediately overwhelmed by the number of people and the enormity of the space. Where do I put my coat? How will I ever find Anatoly? How will I ever find the BATHROOM!? Most of all, why am I here by myself at this fancy awards ceremony, not understanding a word of what’s being said around me or who any of these supposedly famous people are? What the hell am I doing here?7:53pm – I venture to the bathroom to collect myself. It’s on the other end of the hall (of course). As I take my five minute walk back to the entrance, I have a revelation. I’m probably not going to find Anatoly – and that’s ok. I’m completely by myself. No one knows me or cares what I do. I can be a tourist. I can gawk and take pictures and just love the semi-absurdity of my being here. Why not? After almost two months of constantly being with other people and trying to fit into the madness of Russia, this was a unexpectedly liberating realization.
8:00pm – The tinkling of harps is suddenly replaced by reverberating drums. Stepping
through the curtain, I see what Anatoly meant when he said a set designer was in charge of the décor. A wide walkway is lined with blue and green columns. Between these columns stand pedestals with living statues, like the street performers you might see on a sidewalk, all dressed in Grecian wear. Goddesses and warriors, Athena and Poseidon – even a minotaur inside its own cage. There must have been at least 15. In the center, there’s a tall podium where four harpists sit strumming. I wander through, taking it all in, and finally find my way to my seat, where the actual set of the awards continues the funky-Grecian theme.8:12pm – An Anatoly sighting! I finally see him, down at the bottom of the amphitheater setting, glad-handing presenters. I
know there’s no time to run down and say hello, so I watch him chat with Oleg Tabakov (head of MXAT and the country’s most famous actor) and some others. Finally, everyone’s seated and the ceremony begins. Two young actors I don’t recognize are hosting. Very Ryan Seacrest. More living statues appear, holding the beautiful Golden Mask awards. Apparently, they’re this evening’s Oscar girls.8:22pm – I think the guy that’s sitting next to me was in something I saw. He’s definitely an actor.
8:37pm – I am completely lost during the first presentations and start to give up hope. How can I not understand ANYTHING?! Oh wait, they just said “musical.” I totally know what that means. Oh...I see now, it’s in the program. “мюзикл”. Right. Good thing I go to Harvard.
8:47pm – The Producers just swept the musical theater awards. In Russia. Ok?
8:58pm – I begin to realize there’s no orchestra. Instead of strings, the ceremony is underscored by two percussionists, surrounded by a jungle of chimes, drums, and symbols.
8:59pm - Omigod. It’s that guy. The guy sitting next to me is from Opus No. 7, one of the most amazing shows we’ve seen, and the one that everyone raves about. It’s totally that guy! I take a closer look at the people sitting on his other side. They’re ALL from the cast. THIS IS SO COOL.
9:05pm – One of my professors from the Stanislavsky Music Theater accepts an award for an opera singer at her theater who is out on tour. She’s dressed in her typical head-to-toe black, with one large addition: a huge pink flower pinned to her chest.
9:12pm – Every time the goat-man statue comes out with an award it freaks me out. Seriously.
9:25pm – Suddenly I understand why an orchestra is unnecessary. No need to play someone off when their acceptance speech is too long – Russians handle it themselves. When the audiences tires of listening, they just start applauding right over the “spasiba bolshois”. It’s very effective.
9:33pm – The category in which Opus No. 7 is nominated is announced: best experimental drama. I have an inkling they might win, and I’m so excited for them. [A side explanation: Opus No. 7 is one of the shows I talked about in my previous post, the one about the Holocaust and Shostakovich. The cast is made up of incredibly talented and young 20-somethings – unusual in a city where the average age of most casts is probably 35+. All of them are acrobats and puppeteers, singers and dancers, performing any number of crazy things that Krymov asks of them. It’s really an incredible thing to see.] Opus No. 7 is announced as the winner, and they go crazy. No muted smiles or jaded reactions here – whoops and fist pumps, texting of friends and family. Ah, youthful enthusiasm. I can say this because I’m so old and wise. I grin at them as they take their seats again, wishing desperately that I knew the word for “congratulations” in Russian. They put their heads together, all smiles, and people around us shake their hands. They are the cool kids, and I really, really want in on their club.
10:00pm – As the ceremony continues, I practice in my head: “Prastite, ya ne gavaroo pa-rooski harasho, no ya looblu Opus 7. Mayi droogi tolja.”
10:08pm – After the major awards have been given, Anatoly does his duty as head of the jury and gets up to give the jury’s special awards. Just like in class, he speaks effusively. No idea what he’s saying, but the Russian audiences laughs. After he’s done, I realize he didn’t go back to his seat. Probably wanted to escape, ahem, unhappy nominees. Probably smart.
10:22pm – “Prastite, ya ne gavaroo pa-rooski harasho…”
10:37pm – The ceremony finally ends. I gather my courage and tap the actor on the shoulder. Later, Jane will tell me I said something like this: “I’m sorry, I no good speak Russian, but I love Opus 7. My friendly also!” Luckily, he is very sweet, and just smiles at me and says thank you. Clearly he sees that is all that I would understand.
10:41pm – Proud of myself for trying with the Russian, and sure that I won’t find Anatoly, I decide to grab some finger food and head home. Unfortunately, there is way less food than people, and Russians have an aversion to orderly lines. Incidentally, it’s even worse here than in Italy, because Russians are way more physical. I discover I’d have to be a linebacker to get to the snack table, and so I content myself with a solitary pastry, get my coat, and walk home through Red Square.
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