Anna Kendrick's Oscar Weekend Diary

Anna Kendrick

Here, Vogue.com's onetime special correspondent Anna Kendrick documents her Oscar-weekend adventures, reporting on everything from why it's not supposed to rain in L.A. to eating In-N-Out Burger in a corset and, of course, presenting an Academy Award.

Friday Night: The rain forecast this weekend is setting everyone on edge. You can barely maintain this level of smoke-and-mirrors glamour in a hermetically sealed lab, let alone out in the world when it's pissing rain. I thought we put up with the traffic and plastic surgery in L.A. in exchange for good weather. What gives? My makeup artist, Sara Glick, arrives a half hour early and catches me eating peanut butter straight out of the jar. I don't even stop. This is still my time. Aubrey Plaza is my date for the evening. Our first stop is the Giorgio Armani party, and she's on her way to pick me up. The thing about these events is that most of them just serve booze and slivers of vegetables on rice crackers, so you basically need to be unceremoniously stuffing your face with calories every chance you get, unless you want to pass out on top of screen legend Bruce Dern. Aubrey hasn't figured this out yet, so I bring two Luna bars out to our Uber. The glamour never stops.

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The Giorgio Armani party is in the store on Rodeo Drive, and I can't shut off the perverse part of my brain that wonders if I could get away with stuffing a bunch of merchandise in my bag. The look of guilt for even imagining it never leaves my face. We run back to my house so I can change for the Art Of Elysium event, and since I own enough hoodies, sweatpants, and slippers to clothe a small army, we take advantage of our 20-minute window and throw all of these things on under and over our dresses. It's a magical moment of relief.

On to Art Of Elysium (a wonderful charity that brings the arts to hospitalized children), where my "hosting" duties really just extend to showing up. I suppose if I had any quantifiable skills, they'd be put to use, but, you know, actors . . . we're kind of useless. After the event Aubrey, Adam Devine, and Kelley Jakle (of Pitch Perfect) all come back to my house and, once again, sweats and slippers are distributed. There's a business idea in there somewhere; a soft and fuzzy post-event lounge of some kind. But I'll think about it in the morning.

Saturday Morning: I pick up my date for the Independent Spirit Awards, Zoe Lister Jones, and we are a pathetic sigh trying to waddle down her steps to the car underneath one tiny umbrella. At this moment, I realize the reason men are so often called upon to be "chivalrous" is because they aren't in heels. I get to present the award for Best Supporting Male Actor, which goes to Jared Leto. When he gets up on stage, the list in his hand is so long I wonder why I let myself be talked into the more painful shoes. However, his speech quickly transitions from a list of agents and lawyers to Pink Floyd, Wayne Gretzky, and all the women he's ever slept with. His speech is funny and his hair smells like a damn meadow. What a dream.

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Sitting at my table is the world's most charming man, Michael Sheen. I seem to look over at him every single time he's trying to discreetly stuff a bit of chicken or bread in his mouth. He looks very sheepish. I guess his friend didn't bring him a Luna bar.

Afterwards, Zoe and I run to my Oscar-presentation rehearsal. This is the most surreal thing about awards shows: In order to nail down the camera moves and the timing, not only do the presenters rehearse, but actors have been hired to "play" each of the nominees. A winner is chosen at random for rehearsals, and one of these actors gets up and makes a fake speech AS that person. Our rehearsal winner talked about the challenges of making the film and his gratitude for his director's collaborative spirit. It's enough to bring a confused, creepy tear to your eye.

Back to my house with Zoe: Sweats, slippers, you know the drill.

To read the rest of Anna's Oscar weekend diary, head to Vogue.com.

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