Sir Anthony Hopkins. In Woody Allen‘s delicious new film “You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger” — about how after you get older, des perate, divorced, Viagra and so sexy you marry a hooker, it all goes lousy. Said Hannibal Lecter:
“Comedy is not my usual role. I’m not Dick Van Dyke, but this was a good part, and I enjoy offbeat New York Jewish humor. I can play any situation. My character is ‘afraid of being alone.’ I know one divorced Hollywood guy in his 60s who got into hookers. He died, alone, in six months. They can have it. I’m in my 70s, and I know.
“For seven years I’m with my third wife, who’s 18 years younger and a nurturer. I’m a loner. Very few friends. None actors. She has her Spanish lady friends around, and I love that. We have a ball. I’m not looking for women, but I do love the ladies.”
Said newly slim Tony Hopkins: “I lost too much, 75 pounds in two years. But I gained a little back in Europe. I was addicted to bread, cookies, whatnot. I love all the bad stuff. My wife’s no dictator, but she said I must stick to a regimen. So I’m in the gym six days a week, I power walk, live on 800 calories a day. No pasta. No seconds. A sandwich occasionally. Now I’m a health nut. I can’t get back into my wardrobe. I gave it all away to some mission. I tried tailoring the pants but they look ridiculous.
“I can’t do anything but act. I stumbled into the profession 55 years ago. I’m careless. I go astray. Misplace things. As an impractical kid I was hopeless. I’d do odd jobs. If I weren’t an actor I’d be a burglar or seafarer.”
NEW Yorkers are the best. We put the “F” in attitude. Our newest dinner party prize is Canadian publisher Conrad Black, convicted of fraud in a US court, sentenced to 6½ years in the can, now out on bail. Even phones personally and asks to see friends. He’s suddenly more important for a hostess than a clean tablecloth. His wife, Barbara, told a guest plaintively: “I’m already 70. Now that he’s out, I wonder what he’ll do with me.” Listen, she can always host her own potluck and invite Ruth Madoff.
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LL CLINTON spoke at a small (40-person) Bryant Park Hotel cock tail do for Caroline Fayard, who’s running for Lt. Gov. of Louisiana. She’s 31. I have blouses older than that. Skinny Clinton told me: “I’m still eating, only not that stuff I shouldn’t have been eating 20 years ago . . . but, then, I’ll say anything to get in a newspaper column.” To Greta Van Susteren‘s lawyer husband John Coale: “I watch Fox only to see Greta.” To us both: “Glenn Beck‘s speech put everyone to sleep. But not me. I fell asleep before he started talking.” About the economy: “The government’s blown it.”
More Clinton. They recently enjoyed none of their new $11 mil Bedford house’s horse barn, guesthouse and pool. They saw George Clooney‘s newie “The American.” Rows of front seats were roped off in the wee town’s only movie theater, the Bedford Playhouse, for Secret Service. Then out the rear exit into three SUVs.
More. Chelsea‘s father-in-law Ed Mezvinsky, following five years in federal prison, is on probation until 2011, plus he owes $10 mil restitution. Could be why he didn’t pose for cameras. If you already read these tidbits, blame my anesthesia. If not:
Hillary told the wedding guests, “The press was saying who is invited — well, you are. Everyone here touched Chelsea and Marc‘s lives, and we thank you for all you’ve done for them.” Bill said, “outnumbered in his house,” he looked forward “to an ally.” Chelsea spoke off the cuff of her love for Marc. Marc described asking them for Chelsea’s hand, said she embodied their finest qualities, thanked them for raising such “a special person.”
Bride and groom did a sexy tango. And the bride’s mother called Madeleine Albright, dancing every dance, “one hot mama.”
Anyone note first daughters don’t improve namewise? Caroline Kennedy became Schlossberg. Chelsea Clinton? Now Mrs. Mezvinsky.
PHOTOGRAPHER Harry Benson, at Elaine’s, just back from London pho tographing Queen Elizabeth. The session took two hours . . . Gay Talese‘s skinny bones did Russia. A piece for The New Yorker . . . And please catch “The Flying Karamazov Brothers” at Minetta Lane Theatre . . . Prophet Mohammed’s 43rd generation direct descendant, Jordan’s sitting head of state King Abdullah, schooled in America, has written Viking’s “Our Last Best Chance.” He says the Middle East issue’s an “enormous . . . failure far greater than we dare imagine.”
NAZALENE, my housekeeper of 13 years, is on the train yesterday morning coming in from Brooklyn. Two ladies alongside are both reading my first back-to-work column after nearly five months. Said one to the other: “My God, she’s still alive?”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.