New York has a zoo. Los Angeles has a zoo. On the East Coast, it’s in The Bronx. On the West Coast, it’s by Vanity Fair.
Hollywood’s animals are two-legged. Their hides are in tuxedos. They paw and snort when their cameras miss a Jennifer Aniston arriving. They claw at their mikes when a Sandra Bullock trots past. Growls, snarls, controlled lunges at sight of king of the jungle Hugh Jackman.
What becomes a legend most is this magazine’s ed-in-chief Graydon Carter. His p.r spear-carrier, dressed in Carolina Herrera, is Beth Kseniak. Their post-Oscar party — which keeps us awake longer than the Oscarcast itself — is the big cheese of the Academy Awards.
We’re talking Oscar winners Anne Hathaway, Ben Affleck, Daniel Day-Lewis, Jennifer Lawrence, Christoph Waltz, Tarantino — plus Weinstein and Spielberg all together in one cage.
Party time is way past feeding time but, with the security and control points, Hollywood celebrities line up in cars longer than they stay in their marriages. Forget having to be dressed, hair and makeup, spike heels, Spanx and lashes at 2 p.m. to hit the awards. Afterward everybody — Jennifer Hudson, Jon Hamm, Salma Hayek, Orlando Bloom — got their treats at this Sunset Boulevard zoo.
Reese Witherspoon in blue Louis Vuitton. With a train. Strapless. “I plan to own it,” she said as she fixed my bracelet that was falling off. I’d have traded the thing for the dress.
Halle Berry in floor-length shimmering black-and-white striped sheath. So skinny there wasn’t enough width for two stripes. “I’m diabetic. I have to watch what I eat,” she said.
On one side, Conan O’Brien and Ron Perlman. On another, Melissa McCarthy in a huge gray tent that could’ve housed Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey.
I spoke with Victor Garber, but can’t recall what he said. I remember what Richard Gere said: “Not so easy for me to find another acceptable script to follow ‘Arbitrage.’ ”
John Leguizamo: “I just got a Latin society award here. Next week another award from another Florida group. Why LA, then Miami? Because I love America.”
Miranda Kerr wriggled past as Martin Short thrillingly announced: “I open Westbury next month.”
Then me to Fran Lebowitz: “You’re everywhere. You’re not tired making charming conversation?” Fran: “Nobody expects me to be charming.”
Diane Kruger, Jane Fonda, Natalie Portman, Amy Poehler made one side of the room tilt. On the other, Bono, Seth Rogen, Valentino, Zoe Saldana. Hilary Swank who, although she sees herself on-screen, snapped her own picture in a photo booth.
Judd Apatow: “I leave for Atlanta tomorrow to start ‘Anchorman 2.’ ‘Anchorman l’ wasn’t huge, but made at least enough money for a sequel, even if this isn’t political season.”
Allison Williams wafted by. Michael Strahan trudged by. Bill O’Reilly, who hasn’t ground out a best seller all week, dropped by. And grumpy-looking Vera Wang stood outside awaiting her car.
When I went back to my Montage Hotel, in the lobby ordering a taxi to haul them to Vanity Fair’s party around midnight — Kenneth Cole.
NEW hot trend is Quvenzhané Wallis’ dog purses. She’s been hugging one of an embellished Yorkie made with tutu, tiara and rows of crystals and sequins. They’re made by the NYC company Poochie & Co.
YOU’RE not missing out if you missed Hollywood this week.
For instance, the Independent Spirit Awards, the day before the Academy Awards, was outdoors. High noon. On Santa Monica’s beach. In full bright light of brilliant blinding sun as high as an elephant’s eye. And reflected in the water. Comparatively, the equator in July is dim.
Only 4-year-olds look OK in unmitigated dazzling frazzling sunlight. No lines, no moles, no marks, no blemishes, no creases, no fuzz, no hair, no caked makeup. At high California noon, even teenage starlets need to avoid a firefly. Or hide from a nine watt bulb. Some dude with a Zippo inhaling a cigar nearby? Run.
I don’t want to ask these motion-picture goddesses who’s their drama coach. I want to ask them who’s their electrologist?
The night before I’d had dinner in the Montage. It’s “ambassador” or greeter Frank Bowling was G.M. of our Carlyle years back and knows everyone. If Audrey Hepburn came back to life, she’d greet him by name. Frank suggested Scarpetta, an Italian restaurant on the first floor of the hotel. Lighting was subdued. So subdued that everyone burbled to me, “Wow! You look great. What did you do? You’re fabulous.”
Next day, when in searing sunshine, when the nearest cloud was Colorado, people said to me: “Poor thing, what happened to you? You OK? You look terrible.”
I am in the first caravan out of here. As you read this, I’m flying home to chilly unsunny glorious New York.