I stood absolutely transfixed in our living room as images of the Toms (Hanks and Cruise), Diane Keaton, Kelly McGillis, Dennis Quaid, and Meg Ryan panned slowly across the screen. At the age of twelve, my education had begun. I started paying attention to the business of showbiz when “Premiere” magazine made its U.S. debut in 1987. I vividly remember the moment I first saw that advertisement light up our large living room television set.

To finish the spot, a very classy and announcer-y voice implored viewers to “call now for the new magazine about movies and the people who make them.” With my heart in my throat, I ran back to my parents’ bedroom, repeating the toll-free number over and over to myself all the way down the hall so as not to forget it. My mother was putting on make-up at their bathroom sink when I blurted out a breathless request for my first trade subscription.

Mom saw how much this meant to me. She has always been able to look straight into my heart and provide unwavering support for those things that spark joy in my soul. There may have been some discussion about paying for the magazine out of my allowance. Honestly, I can’t remember. The financial arrangements are fuzzy in my mind, but I’m leaning toward the notion that Mom and Dad ultimately footed the bill. I certainly don’t recall how much the subscription cost, but any expenditure of money in our house was made thoughtfully. My father’s salary as an officer in the Army provided us with a comfortable existence, but extravagances and impulse purchases were carefully considered. While Mom OK’d the expense, she said I’d have to make the arrangements myself. I called the subscription office and gave them the delivery address. Per my instructions, I asked them to please send an invoice so we could pay the annual fee by personal check.

Within 4–6 weeks, my first issue arrived. Oh, it was so fancy, glossy, and larger than the yellow-bordered “National Geographics” my dad received monthly. Those were rectangular and about the size of a piece of loose-leaf paper. “Premiere” wasn’t very rectangular at all. It was nearly square — a special shape for a special publication. The little white address label gum-affixed to the cover said “Mr. Gary Hilborn” above our street name and number. I pored over every issue the moment it arrived. Mom would leave them on my bed the day they hit our mailbox, so it would be the first thing I saw when I dropped the heavy backpack I’d been lugging all day on the floor of my room after the long ride home from Jones Street Junior High. Integration ordinances were still in effect in Central Louisiana, so we were bussed where the Rapides Parish School Board dictated — even if that was several miles and a trip across the Red River away. Though the school day was long and the travel to and fro was tiring, I’d easily gain a second wind on days when my new issue of “Premiere” arrived. All of a sudden, I didn’t mind some extracurricular reading.

There were very few ways to learn how the movie sausage was made in 1987, and I was hungry for an education. You have to remember there weren’t 24-hour entertainment channels like E! at that time. And there were no DVD extras showing glimpses of the action behind the scenes…because there were not yet any DVDs. (Yes, we’re talking the Stone Age, kids.) In addition to in-depth cover stories, pictorials, and reviews, “Premiere” afforded me a host of informative “courses” in filmmaking by way of its regular monthly columns with clever industry-referencing titles, such as: “The Backstory” — an introduction by the Editor-in-Chief, “Letter Box” — subscriber correspondence with comments from industry insiders, “Flavor of the Month” — a spotlight on hot new screenwriters, and “The Slate” — a roundup of recently greenlit projects.

There was even a satirical (and truly hilarious) column called “If You Ask Me,” written by the playwright Paul Rudnick under the pen name Libby Gelman-Waxner. That’s how Libby always ended her columns, “…if you ask me.” It was her witty rejoinder that came at every close. Libby offered comical comments on current movies by way of stories about her life in Manhattan, her Jewish mother, her gay best friend, and her husband the orthodontist. At one point in time, I owned a hardback compilation of Libby’s essays; she was my Carrie Bradshaw long before sex found the city.

Each year, “Premiere” published three special volumes: “The Power List,” “Women in Hollywood,” and the “Special Academy Awards Issue.” It was this last one that set my heart aflame. The Oscar issue had a pull-out poster stapled to the center and folded into quarters so that when released by carefully, oh so carefully, bending the center staples alose, it became roughly four times the size of the actual magazine.

Around the poster’s perimeter were little square sections headed by the major awards categories — each nominee listed below in alphabetical order. The center of the print featured an artistically rendered drawing of the Oscar statue — different every year. Every spring, I freed the prized poster, and then I just as carefully re-bent the fasteners to once again secure the publication’s pages. And each year, that poster was tacked up in my bedroom.

Mom hated thumbtack holes in the drywall, so — for a time — she insisted we use these gummy, sticky, putty things to hang any artwork in our rooms. I’ll never forget my horror when, within 24 hours of my Oscar poster having been hung with that tacky, white substance, I came home to find oily spots on my prized print! A meltdown ensued, and Mom eventually relented on her no-push-pin policy. I guess she decided a few tiny holes in the wall were a worthy price to pay if it meant dodging another irrational reaction to a greasy piece of poster paper.

I was aware of the Academy Awards much earlier in life, but I’m not sure they held much interest during my first dozen years. I vividly remember sneaking out of my bed to see C-3PO and R2-D2 make their first Oscars appearance at what Google has confirmed was the 1978 ceremony.

I don’t think I truly knew what I was watching. I just wanted to see those shiny robots from the movie Nana and Papaw G.W. had taken us to see at the Showtown Twin Drive-In in West Monroe. I was only two years old at that time (and I know you may scoff), but I distinctly remember witnessing the flash of a lightsaber battle on a movie screen through a car window while my newborn brother was bundled to my right, and my grandparents flanked us on either side. So, while that late ’70s Oscar moment may be my first memory of the broadcast, my love of the ceremony didn’t really take hold until my first “Premiere” Oscars edition arrived. I’ve had a lifelong love affair with the movies, and I still look forward to the biggest night in Hollywood just as much as I did in 1987.

I’ve been lucky enough to build a career in front of and behind the camera, and I’ve even come to work with some Oscar nominees and a few winners. I’ve also stood on marks next to actors who haven’t yet gotten their gold-plated due, but their empty shelves don’t mean they aren’t every bit as talented as those who are accepting trophies.

Some of my colleagues don’t share my enthusiasm for awards shows. And while I disagree, I respect those folks, so I’ll extend that respect to their opinions on the matter.

For me, awards season is a time to honor something I’ve loved since I was two and studied since I was twelve. For me, the Academy Awards are a celebration of artists who team together and diligently work to put a dream on a screen.

Yes, there’s big business attached to the whole affair. Yes, for each of the five nominees in a performance category, there are hundreds or thousands of deserving actors who haven’t yet gotten their breaks (and maybe never will). That doesn’t mean the catch in the winner’s throat as she thanks her Mom and Dad and high school drama teacher isn’t genuine. Their moment in the spotlight doesn’t dampen my glow.

My mother held onto those boxes of magazines I’d carefully cataloged and saved for many years after I left home. She kept them until they’d begun to disintegrate in the storage shed behind her house. She cared for them as long as she could. Maybe she remembered the joy they brought me every time she put one on my childhood bed. Maybe not. Most likely, she protected them for the reasons she protected anything special to her boys. If it’s important to us, it’s important to her. That’s just the way Mom is wired.

It’s been over thirty-five years since I received my first issue of “Premiere” in the mail, and I consider myself incredibly blessed to live the dreams of that sixth-grader who stared at thumbtacked posters and glossy magazine covers.

It would be cool to sit down and flip through some of those back issues today, but it’s not really necessary. My memories are strong enough to take me back. I can still smell that printing press ink and feel the quality of the paper on my fingertips. The lessons I learned by studying at Premiere University have gotten me pretty far down this fantastical path, even if I haven’t yet reached the podium to claim my little gold man. Just in case I never do, I’d like to take this time to thank my Mom for the many ways she invested in my dream. Her support of my passion has been perfectly priceless…if you ask me.