It was midnight, and I was making my way through a room decorated
floor-to-ceiling with myrtle hedging, while clutching a glass of red wine.
In the background, a remix of Summertime played, heavy on the bongos.
Guests swayed, ashtrays rattled. The room was crowded, so I did what anyone
with experience of commuting on the Northern Line would do — I used my
elbows.
Doing the exact same thing but in the opposite direction was a slim, blonde
woman in a salmon-coloured dress. Before I knew it, my wine glass had
connected with her stomach and the liquid inside was sloshing violently.
“Oops,” I said, looking up and wincing. Gwyneth Paltrow was looking back at
me. “Urgh!” she exclaimed. I had just avoided the horror of ruining the most
photographed dress of the 2007 Academy Awards — not to mention the
possibility of making Gwyneth sob more loudly than she did on winning Best
Actress in 1999.
Yes, welcome to my night at the post-Oscars Vanity Fair party: perhaps
the only party on earth to which celebrities go for the main purpose of
ogling other celebrities. Every year, for the past 14 years, the editor of Vanity
Fair, Graydon Carter, has thrown this bash for Hollywood’s elite, and
every year it seems to become more powerful, competing almost exclusively
now with parties thrown by the studios themselves — parties that often feel
like hard work to the movie stars, and are therefore often avoided. Instead,
Hollywood’s A-listers fire themselves like neutrons into the uranium core of Vanity
Fair’s marquee at Morton’s restaurant in West Hollywood, creating
a priceless evening of nuclear celebrity fission. And on Sunday night, after
a month of favour-wrangling and security clearances, I walked straight into
the heart of the reactor. Hence the red wine, and that traumatic near-miss
with Chris Martin’s muse.
First, of course, I had to wait outside, starring at the back of Natalie
Portman’s legs, as she posed for perhaps 80 paparazzi, all men, stacked on
top of one another at the far end of the Morton’s driveway. “NATALIE!” they
kept shouting, making as much noise between them as a medium-sized football
stadium. Then it was P. Diddy’s turn. “Diddy — no glasses, take off the
glasses, no glasses!” they pleaded. “Too much reflection!” But Diddy had no
absolutely intention of removing his glasses. He moved away, and a lone
voice — a lone Yorkshire voice — rang out: “You spoiled my bloody shot.”
Soon enough, I was collected by a tall, extraterrestrial-looking PR man, and
escorted inside. This wasn’t easy, because I had to get beyond the
celebrities in the driveway, mingling in front of a giant, 30ft-long,
10ft-high Vanity Fair logo made from more sculpted hedge. Head down,
I charged at the tiny space between Al and Tipper Gore and emerged somewhere
beyond the breasts of Jennifer Lopez.
With another charge, I was finally inside. Usually my priority at these events
is to perform an instant celebrity-scan of the room — actually four rooms,
as Morton’s is virtually demolished each year to make way for the huge party
space, designed by Basil Walter Architects of New York, and lit by Patrick
Woodroffe (who also works for Peter Gabriel and the Rolling Stones). But
Sunday evening was different: I’d just finished a live blog of the Oscars,
and was starving. So instead I focused my energy on hunting down a plate of
mini-sirloin burgers on mini-blinis. I ate one. It was stupidly good. I
wouldn’t have been at all surprised to learn that Graydon Carter — lampooned
by Toby Young in his New York memoir How to Lose Friends and Alienate
People , which also riffs on the impenetrability of the Vanity Fair
party guestlist — had bred his own brand of mini-cows just to make those
mini-burgers. This is a man who knows how to entertain: on low coffee tables
throughout Morton’s, piles of ultra-thin black and gold cigarettes had been
laid next to big square boxes of Vanity Fair branded matches. Evil,
but brilliant.
I moved on, spotting Victoria Beckham, looking extremely fragile and
overwhelmed in a corner — and, alas, too crowded-in to approach. Standing
beside me, meanwhile, was Jerry Seinfeld, who was caught yawning during the
Oscars ceremony when Al Gore was on the stage. Seinfeld collects Porsches —
no wonder he switches off during lectures about global warming. Next to him
was CNN’s ubiquitous Anderson Cooper, who was in turn barging his way
through a melee of Alist screenwriters. The Vanity Fair party had
actually started at 5pm, with a dinner and viewing party for those too
important to suffer through four hours in the Kodak Theatre. Madonna and Guy
Ritchie were there, as was Oprah Winfrey and Mary J. Blige (they sat next to
each other). Even Daniel Craig came down for the meal of steak and chips
after handing out the Oscar for Best Art Direction. Each table setting came
with a free custom-made Zippo lighter engraved with “VF 2.25.07” and a
quotation from Humphrey Bogart, from the 1961 Academy Awards: “The only way
to find the best actor would be to let everybody play Hamlet and let the
best man win.” Bogart was clearly a man ahead of his time: this would have
turned the Oscars into American Idol .
I didn’t get to Morton’s until 11pm, after dropping by at Sir Elton John’s
annual Oscars screening party and charity auction, which managed to raise
$4.2 million for HIV/ Aids causes. Sir Elton used to try harder to compete
with Vanity Fair — his party was once sponsored by In Style
magazine and was located almost directly opposite Morton’s — but now it’s a
more subdued affair. His marquee, still only a block from Morton’s, was all
grey carpet and grey walls, with an Audi R8 parked in front. James Blunt
performed, with Sir Elton at the piano. “We haven’t rehearsed this,” said
Blunt, whom I’ve always found strangely annoying. “And we’ve got a new
keyboard player. I hope he’s good, because he’s pretty damned expensive.”
Then Sir Elton and Blunt performed a duet of Tiny Dancer . Guests at
the dinner included Victoria Beckham (one of the items at the auction
included a private lesson with David), Sheryl Crow and Simon Cowell. Two
bidders agreed to pay $250,000 for the top prize: “Sir Elton John’s 60th
Birthday Celebration Weekend”, which included two tickets to Sir Elton’s
private 60th birthday party in New York, two tickets to his sold-out concert
in Madison Square Garden, airfares and hotel rooms. In spite of the good
cause, however, Sir Elton’s party felt a little dull — something that a
friend of mine confirmed when I turned up at the Vanity Fair party.
“As Graydon Carton said, it’s all about who you don’t invite,” said my
friend. I asked who those people were. “Go to the Elton party,” came the
reply.
I was feeling slightly guilty about this exchange (and indulging in a second
sirloin burger) when I glanced across the room and saw a large,
be-spectacled presence making his way towards me. Could it be? Was it? Yes,
it was Sir Elton! He’d left his own Aids benefit to spend the rest of the
Oscars night at the Vanity Fair party. I went over to ask him about
this, but soon found myself in a line of fans, including the small blonde
comedian next to me, David Spade. Before I could get a word in, Sir Elton
spotted Spade and hugged him, then began to pat his head, as if he were a
poodle. I decided against any further inquiries. It was time to leave. I
made my way out, passing Martin Scorsese and the Queen — aka Helen Mirren —
coming in the other direction. They looked as though they wouldn’t be
heading back home for some time.
Quotes of the night
People all over the world, we need to solve the climate crisis. It’s not a
political issue. It’s a moral issue.
Al Gore, whose film An Inconvenient Truth won Best Documentary
I asked my kids: “What should I say?” They said: “Thank all the men for
wearing penguin suits.”
George Miller, director of the Best Animated Film, Happy Feet
Oh my God. I have to just take this moment in. I cannot believe this. Look
what God can do.
Jennifer Hudson, Best Supporting Actress in Dreamgirls
If there weren’t blacks, Jews and gays, there would be no Oscars. Or anyone
named Oscar, when you think about that.
Host Ellen DeGeneres
