A party for John Turturro-Sofia Vergara-Vanessa Paradis-Woody Allen’s newie movie “Fading Gigolo.” Asks one reporter: “Which is Vergara? Never met her. Many glamorous skinny bones around, who knows who’s what? How will I know her?”
Cinema Society’s man Shane: “Oh boy! Will you know her. You’ll know the minute she arrives. Full-on movie star. Entourage, lights, black car, long hair, big makeup, p.r. person, bodyguard, couture, oh you’ll know her, yeah.”
Suddenly a chauffeured tinted window black SUV pulls up. Nobody alights. Must’ve been hair spritzing, makeup touching, shmatta smoothing. Then . . . lights flashed. Cameras pointed. And this full-on movie star plus her army had emerged.
Gorgeous. Also highly paid and rich. Her diamond solitaire larger than either boob. “Whose ring?” . . . “Mine.” . . . “But, like, who gave it to you?”. . . “It’s mine. I own it.”
OK, forget the ring. Former model who gets to Do It with Sharon Stone in this movie, how about her secret for that body? “I don’t diet. Never. I don’t believe ever in diets. I eat in moderation. My temptation is sweets, so in advance of a shoot I try not to eat dessert for a week before.”
Body makeup for the sex scenes? “A little color added, but nothing crazy or total. I tried not to do that. I didn’t like it, and nobody told me I had to have it. I also stayed away from sun to avoid tanning damage. But I did do cream. Creaming your body is good. I’ve done that 24 years.”
For photos, it was the usual pout, chin up, hand on hip, one leg forward, hair shaken. So where’d she learn that same gesture every movie star uses? “Pick it up. Learn from other actresses. I watched Sophia [Loren].”
One more question: Where’d you get that diamond solitaire headlight?
“It’s mine.”
OK, forget the ring.
Newie book keep rolling out
Maybe nobody’s buying books, but everybody’s writing books.
Come June comes Linda Fairstein’s millionth mystery, “Terminal City.” Below Grand Central’s 750,000 daily commuters, miles of underground tunnels, secret basements under street levels, hidden stairs, unknown platforms — lie bodies.
And Knopf’s “The Selected Letters of Elia Kazan.” Stuff to Brando, Odets, Tennessee, William Inge, Thornton Wilder, Arthur Miller. To me, not even a postcard.
And with Tony Shalhoub on the cover comes “Monk” on June 3.
July has actress Lee Grant’s autobio “I Said Yes to Everything.” She remembers 1975’s film “Shampoo” with Warren Beatty, who “dropped” her . . . “licked his lips . . . his mouth watered and he left me” when he spied Dolly Parton.
August brings “Elvis and Ginger.” Oy, please. Three decades later Ginger Alden, Presley’s fiancée and last love, finally grabbed publisher Berkley to tell all “from their first kiss to their last day.” Oy, please.
And Gil Capps’ “The Magnificent Masters: Jack Nicklaus, Johnny Miller, Tom Weiskopf” about 1975’s Augusta cliffhanger about which most humans know nothing.
‘Buyer’ blues
“Buyer & Cellar’s” a new comedy about working in Streisand’s Malibu basement. Understand, tomorrow’s B.S.’s birthday. Mine, too. Shirley MacLaine’s too. Shirley Temple, too — but we lost her. Eric Bogosian, too. At the show the other night, with Charlie Rose (whose birthday is not April 24) present, some yutz’s smartphone suddenly played Maria Callas music. The guy was embarrassed. The audience went nuts.
Bucks County visitor outside a West 50th eatery: “I love Manhattan for a weekend outing. Such a great city. Yesterday, while I parked the car to grab a quick burger, I got towed.”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.