Awwwwwwww freak out!
Awwwwwwww freak out!
Amid some poupon-colored drapery, Chris Evans turns to Hemsworth the Younger and says, with finality, “Jane Fonda.” Hemsworth the Younger nods, stealing a glance at Barbarella herself, who is vacuum-sealed in a snow-leopard print number in the northwest corner of the party, where Judd Apatow is saying “This is my wife, Leslie” to Robert De Niro and Martin Short is throttling Bradley Cooper by the shoulders and bellowing, “He was robbed! He was robbed!” Beneath them all, beached alone on a suede couch, is Quincy Jones with a glass of rosé.
Sergey Brin is one of two attendees wearing Google Glass eyewear. Richard Gere doesn’t care if you’ve been waiting longer for a drink than him. One of the Olsen twins is wearing what appears to be the deployed parachute of a steampunk skydiver. “50 Shades of Grey” novelist E.L. James is allegedly here with her agent, prowling for young bankable talent to play Ana Steele in a film adaptation of the book that ate the world. Flatscreen TVs embedded in the padded walls show Rock Hudson and Mae West performing at the 1957 Academy Awards.
Around zero dark thirty, the Oscars begin to accumulate. One statuette rests on the back of a couch near the front entrance, seemingly unescorted until a tall man reaches his weathered hand backward to make sure it’s still there. Daniel Day-Lewis. D-Day. Now officially the best actor of them all. We gravitate toward him, only to have a woman in a red sequined dress lunge at us and pull us down to an ottoman. Her breath is rotten with red wine. She is struggling, and handsy.
“They’re getting someone for her,” says a nearby attendee, also freshly molested.
“This is too much for me,” says a nearby Bill O’Reilly, as if on cue, to a well-wisher. “But I learned a lot. Got a lot of material.”
There is so. Much. Material here. The density of stars bends space time. This is not an event so much as an event horizon, from which no light or matter or gawker escapes. Sally Field and her son are passing an In-N-Out Burger back and forth and it’s the most adorable thing ever. Turn a corner, peel back a drape, and there’s a gleaming outstretched Oscar, with Anne Hathaway saying, “Wanna hold it?” Turn left and catch Hugh Jackman endure eight lonely seconds of having no one talk at him.
Quentin Tarantino’s lapels have run amok.
There are several children walking around with Oscars.
Chris Pine is next to you at the urinal.
All the 20-something minglers look like they’re on “Girls.”
The Burton-Bonham-Carters are sharing a booth with the Douglas-Zeta-Joneses.
One woman’s sole job is to continuously hoist a section of Jennifer Lawrence’s gold-metallic dress to the southern hemisphere of her buttocks so the best actress can use her knees properly. The crowd currents eddy toward and around her, and sometimes it’s impossible to move, and sometimes it's impossible to stop moving, and excuse me, ma’am — er, David Spade. Don Rickles, his face saying what words cannot, is propped up in a booth at the southern end of the party, and Martin Landau has sunken into suede cushions at the north end, a cane resting on a thigh.