Direct action

DEARBHLA WALSHrecalls the well-worn Red Carpet blues

Nokia Theatre, Los Angeles, Sunday, September 20th, 2009, 2pm.

On the six-lane boulevard outside, a tsunami of stretch black tin hits a dam of security. On the other side, the infamous Emmy red carpet walk begins.

I had practised my red carpet shimmy while simultaneously breaking in my six-inch red patent heels the night before on the top floor corridor of the Beverly Hilton Hotel. The images of previous guests – Audrey, Marilyn, Betty – lined the corridor and looked on coolly with approval. I’m sure I saw Betty wink!

My Rachel Mackay “goona dearg” had been steamed for an hour before I joined the Little Dorrit Dozen in reception for a glass of pre-Emmy bubbles. They “ooohed” and they “aaahhed” until finally commenting, “Do you realise those bosoms will be the only real ones there tonight?” So here I was at last, as excited as a virgin bride – and just as nervous.

Stepping out of my limo, I clung to my thespian best friends Sir Tom Courtenay and Andy Serkis. They smiled at the shouty LAPD as we were propelled forward. “Keep it moving!” “You can’t stop there!” “Move on! Move on!”

Suddenly a woman screamed.

I wondered if someone had just been stabbed, but the über-fan had spotted Don Draper of Mad Mento my left.

There was Justin. And January. And I’m sure that was Sigourney trying not to stare at me. Jessica definitely looks older, but maybe it’s because Drew beside her looks so young – still.

And then I wondered why my new Hollywood best friends seemed so far away. It seemed that all the beautiful people were drifting away from me, yet I still saw red carpet under my feet.

And the boys of the LAPD still hollered on. “No ma’am, this way!” “The doors to the auditorium are just there!” “Keep moving ma’am!”

In slow motion I realised that I had neglected to notice the divide in the red carpet. The invisible divide. All the A-listers, the beautiful people, the stars, had been ushered to the right. Ushered towards the photographers and the reporters and Ryan Seacrest. And I had just been herded the short way around, over the cables and behind the paparazzi, into the workers’ entrance to the Emmys.

I was transported back to those school Christmas concerts where Cora, who was blonde and cute, always got the lead role, and Dearbhla, who had her mother’s drive and her father’s looks, got the back row in the chorus.

And as I stood there watching the auditorium doors close between me and the end of the red carpet, I remembered why I had committed myself to rising behind the scenes, and I berated myself for allowing myself to be seduced by the madness and the vacuousness of it all. At least, I thought, I can bring home the clarity of that.

Then, three hours later, I won.

My golden angel and I were escorted slowly out the front door and down the long loving version of the red carpet towards the first of many parties.

And then they liked me. They really, really liked me!

Dearbhla Walsh won an Emmy for directing Little Dorrit. She is now in post-production on The Silence, a BBC thriller to be broadcast in May