If you can get into Vanity Fair’s Oscars after party — please present your electronic ID here — then the interior is a nirvana of celebrity pinball. Ricochet from Jon Voigt’s white scarf to Maya Rudolph’s plum gown, all the way up, up, up to Rooney Mara’s formidable bang-shield.
Some folks over at Elton John’s party paid $230,000 for two tickets to this one. This is the party where, instead of “Red or White?”arriving guests are asked, “Carpet or No Carpet?” choosing whether they want to strut for the paparazzi. Olivia Munn opts to Carpet. So do Mia Wasikowska and Miley Cyrus.
For a moment, we just need to take it all in, to treat it like the silent script for “The Artist” and let the scene unfold: Michelle Williams and Busy Phillips perch in the entryway, smiling, smiling with Meryl Streep’s daughter Mamie Gummer. Host Graydon Carter shakes hand after hand as waiters swan about with trays of nibblies, goblets of champagne. It looks like there’s a tremendous view, back near the back, but we can’t seem to reach it — oof — because someone keeps bumping us with her rump. Let’s try going around — bump — maybe if we just turn side — bump — easy does it, now — bump. That’s quite enough, Miss. Who do you think you are, Jennifer Lopez?
Yes. Yes, in fact, this is J. Lo’s butt, attached to J. Lo’s person, as she chats happily with Sean Combs. Bump away, Miss Lo.
And since you want to know: The tush is firm and springy.
Over to one side, Penelope Cruz is waiting for Ginnifer Goodwin to finish up in the photo booth.
Off to the other, Steven Tyler and Cloris Leachman are pressing their foreheads together in some sort of deeply spiritual communion. She runs her fingers through his hair and murmurs, “I’m only 85.”
There are some things one cannot unsee.
But Vanity Fair is unfiltered, witnessing celebrities in their natural habitat with other celebrities, a snug environment where nobody’s famous because everybody is.
Right now, Tina Fey and Elizabeth Banks and Olivia Wilde are all bobbing their heads rhythmically to something Jason Sudeikis is saying (very touchy-feely, Sudeikis and Wilde are — Roman hands). We are attempting to casually infiltrate this group — Sorry Tina, don’t mind my foot — but the conversation is drowned out by some doofus bellowing, “You’re amazing! You’re amazing!”
Sir, would you please pipe —
Oh, he’s talking to Kristen Wiig.
Kristen Wiig. You are amazing.
Her adorer appears to be Jon Hamm, trailing her as they reverse-commute away from the bar. Is Jennifer Westfeldt going to be jealous? Nope — there’s Hamm’s ladyfriend now, canoodling on a banquette with Martin Short, who has slouched into an angle of deep repose, his head lolling in loopy circles.