After the Oscars, Hollywood Indulges Its Party Hobbit

LOS ANGELES, March 1

The Academy Awards ceremony is crashing toward the final curtain calls, and we're typing in the pressroom on deadline like chimpanzees on diet pills, as fuzzy-faced men from New Zealand keep coming and coming, nobody could stop them -- they are like orcs, clutching their golden statues! -- as disconcertingly perky Kiwi reporters keep gushing on and on about "The Lord of the Rings."

Please. We want it all to end, and think, really, there was a time and place for hobbits, and it was sometime around junior high.

Then it is over. And we feel suddenly very sleepy, and like America, we want to slip into our Superman pajamas, pull the goose-down duvet to our chins, click off the remote and say goodnight Irene.

But we are totally professional, dammit, and we take turns slapping each other and guzzle down our freebie Pepsis, grab our rental chariots from the urine-smelly, off-site parking garage and head off into the night to bring you this year's post-Oscar party poop.

Once more, into the dish!

Girding our loins and thinking "siege mentality," we crash the outer gates at Morton's in West Hollywood for Vanity Fair's annual do. We ever so politely push and shove through the hopeless throng of poseurs. The flashbulbs of the paparazzi are lighting up the sky like a bad night in old Baghdad, and -- thank you, Jesus! -- our names are on The List.

First up, as always, we say our hellos to VF correspondent Dominick Dunne. We express our sad feelings about the loss last year of his brother, John Gregory Dunne, husband to Joan Didion. The latter two wrote screenplays for "The Panic in Needle Park" and "A Star Is Born" (the Streisand version). Dominick squeezes our hand tightly and says, with gentlemanly sincerity, "That is very nice of you to remember."

And so right away, we're thinking about our own impending mortalities -- fame so fleeting, life so sweet and short, ohmigod, is that Naomi Watts?! So we rush to the bar and tell the overworked staff of actors slumming as waiters to pour us a tumbler of Veuve Clicquot and hand us a pack of smokes.

We pan left. Steven Tyler of Aerosmith. He has a very wrinkly neck. Perhaps that explains the scarves. Nicolas Cage, ramrod-straight, listening to a studio biggie. Yes, sir. No, sir. But does his eye wander?

Yes. Because it's Oprah. Cutting a wide wake, trailed by what appear to be . . . bodyguards?

"That's so tacky." This is Patricia Hearst Shaw talking, the poor little rich girl and newspaper heiress kidnapped a lifetime ago by the clueless goons of the Symbionese Liberation Army.

Patty is here with her husband, who was . . . her former bodyguard! Anyway, Hearst is doing indie movies these days, and she is hunkered down with director John Waters, of "Pink Flamingos" and "Hairspray" fame.

Waters, with his trademark pencil-thin mustache. We ask the campy auteur: Are the Oscars not the ultimate camp? "Oh, it was so conservative this year," he says. "Everybody's afraid to do anything."

But he tips his hat to the winners and nominees. "This year," he says, "Hollywood gave good competition to the independents."

We press past Uma Thurman, the muse of Quentin Tarantino, on-screen the samurai assassin, but tonight a vision in blonde curls and pale luminescent skin.

Uma, you looking forward to the release of "Kill Bill, Vol. 2"? She smiles and says, "Yes, I can't wait!"

Like she means it.

Kim Cattrall boldly pushes her way to the bar (how did we end up back so quickly at the bar?). Cattrall is now living in post-"Sex and the City" reality, but her admirers keep telling her how much they'll miss her character, the very naughty but nice Samantha. Purrrr. What we always liked about the "Sex/City" gals was that they played single New Yorkers in their thirties -- except, up close, you sort of think, "Wow, that is a good-looking 47-year-old woman!"

Chevy Chase appears. We think about buttonholing him, but then panic and think: not.

Hilary Swank is swaying to the pumped-in techno house by DJ Steve McMahon. "Come on!" she calls. "Let's dance!" But she has no takers.

Speaking of music, there's Elvis Costello embracing Beck, who then hugs Sting, who grabs Steven Tyler. Rock on, dudes.

The bar denizens erupt, "Sofia! Sofia!" as Coppola, an Oscar winner for her "Lost in Translation" screenplay, wanders up. Later, we sit with her father, Francis Ford Coppola, and ask him about his wine business. "Going great," he says. We inquire about Bill Murray's not winning an Oscar for "Translation." "But he was so good. He'll be remembered for that film," Francis says, and we nod sagely, and remind him that next time we're in Napa Valley, we'd love to come by the vineyard for a taste of the good stuff. "Anytime," he smiles.

Off to our left is Donald Trump. He is accompanied by a raven-haired model-type named Melania Knauss. She is about seven feet tall and very healthy. We compliment the Donald on the success of his "reality" TV show, "The Apprentice," and ask, so what would you do if George W. Bush were in the boardroom with you right now.

"I'd fire his ass!"

Pure Trump.

We're tempted to ask about The Hair. But this isn't the moment, because rapper hyphenate LL Cool J is in the house. He tells us he's in town to begin filming a movie with Morgan Freeman.

His thoughts? Mister J was "disappointed" that "Seabiscuit" didn't win anything.

Oops, gotta go. Literally.

In the back restroom facility, a couple of slacker indie types are huffing on a joint.

"You're not a cop, are you?" one asks.

"Nope, we're DEA and we got the night off."

Stoner laughs all around. It's like an outtake from "Dude, Where's My Car?"

Inside the loo, we bump into Jim Sheridan, director of "In America," nominated but, alas, passed over in several categories. We tell Sheridan, after you, and he is effusively thankful in his Irish brogue. As he is relieving himself (remember, we're professionals -- don't try this without years of training), we ask for his take on the night.

"Bloody awful," he quips, and then he starts talking about Tom Cruise and we'll have to stop right there. Some things are meant to stay in the men's room. Like when we were talking with Jeff Garlin of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" and momentarily spaced and called him "Harvey," as in Miramax heavy Harvey Weinstein, also in attendance.

Sir Ian McKellen is chatting up Oscars host Billy Crystal, and we insert ourselves, gently. Sir Ian is going on about how great Crystal was, but Crystal is harrumphing and saying, well, thank you, I tried, but was it okay? Was it okay?

We finally track down VF editor and party host Graydon Carter, who is lounging near his incredibly good-looking children. The Carters sent us and 12,000 other people a Christmas card.

"Best year ever," says Carter.

And was it not so.

But, oh boy, we almost forgot. We did go to the party for the hobbits before Vanity Fair.

It feels like an age ago.

Up near Melrose Avenue, we wander into the lobby of the boxy, cobalt-blue-lit Pacific Design Center, which is basically a glorified architectural office building (we used to think it was a glorified Best Buy), where triumphant New Line Cinema is congratulating itself with a victory party for all those colons and dashes and Oscars that come with a 10-hour trilogy that's earned . . . what, now, $3 billion?

There's some we-were-on-the-list fuss atop the escalators at the third floor, where those in ball gowns and those in blue jeans (can these CGI mouse-clicking grunts ever dress up?) are made to wait together. Security guards let us in eight or 10 at a time -- unless "Lord of the Rings" cast member Sean Astin and his mini-entourage barge in and squeeze past us, which they do. The scruffy Astin heads right for the antechamber where television crews and photographers await. They practically eat him up, since it's after 11 and nobody's seen a hobbit yet.

Astin answers questions about the night's events, the trilogy's impact on Hollywood, and the by-now-tedious inference that he and others from the Fellowship wuz robbed in the acting categories. (Everyone now seems convinced there needs to be an "ensemble" acting category, as in some other award shows. This is the lesson of Fellowship.)

All we want to know from Astin is when "The Goonies" sequel is coming. Sean, baby, we've waited 19 long years for Part 2 of the movie that made you, when you were just a boy. Get out the asthma inhaler and start spelunking!

He shrugs, pretends not to know what we're talking about.

We then venture further into the New Line party, through a maze of orange plexiglass walls and white leather modular sofas. The food has mostly been scarfed up, but there's still some dessert: chocolate souffle with whipped cream, and tiny teacups filled with raspberries, and small portions of creme brulee. Lots of people are drinking coffee. We're bored.

Doopty-doo, we hum to ourselves, over the thumping bass line. We wander out back, past the patio with its view of the Hollywood hills, and into an exhibit of Annie Leibovitz's advertising portraits of American Express cardholders. Now we're super-bored.

New Line honchos Bob Shaye and Michael Lynne make the rounds, now richer than a couple of Midases, congratulating everyone who's congratulating them. Howard Shore, who won for Best Score and Best Song for "LOTR," carries an Oscar in each fist.

What we have here, kids, is mostly a trade show. It feels too much like an office party, and it's painfully clear we don't work here. An Entertainment Weekly reporter is on the scene too, quite fetching in her faux-leopard wrappy-thingy, and she's as perplexed at the lack of star quality. She enumerates her finds thus far, saving us heaps of time and squeezing past the riffraff: "I talked to one hobbit" -- the really short one whose name we never know -- "and one orc and to John Noble, who kissed me!" (John Noble is . . .? Oh yes, Denethor, Steward of Gondor. Of course you know. We'll be so glad next year when these kinds of movies aren't around.)

A commotion up front: Could it be that the film's director, Peter Jackson, has finally arrived? (A nervous-seeming New Line publicist promised people he would be here any minute, but it's now verging on 1 a.m. It seems Jackson was less taken with the studio's party and more delighted with the idea of spending time at the Tolkien-inspired costume party at the Hollywood American Legion, with 1,500 or so rabid fans who flew in all over the world to celebrate the trilogy's pop-cultural crowning moment.)

It's not Jackson, but more New Zealand guys with beards, each wielding an Oscar. Sound guys, effects guys, hairy-feet appliers, etc. Did they really hand out that many? Or is this some kind of joke?

Carson Kressley, the queerest eye, would really have his work cut out for him when it comes to Jackson and his shabby collaborators. (Jackson, made over: Layer the hair, trim the beard down to stubble, and for God's sake, wear some shoes.) But Kressley, dressed in a red velvet dinner jacket, has come and gone with his own camera crew (he's apparently a TV correspondent now), clutching a microphone as big as a baby's head.

The party has grown dangerously thin by the time Jackson finally arrives. His camera-shy collaborator/lover, Fran Walsh, makes a beeline for the emptied nether regions of the party. (Shyness is all the rage this year: Renee Zellweger, still scrunchy-faced and humbly fretful about all of this. Sean Penn, visibly neurotic about praise and attention. Bill Murray, coaxed out of the elaborate personal shell designed to guard him against all this unseemly show business.) Jackson is quickly shuttled off to another room where he has urgent business with Charlie Gibson and the camera crew from "Good Morning America."

It's so late now, we're starting to worry that this interview will be on "GMA" live. Jackson, sitting on a sofa, looks sweaty and tired and bewildered at this point, and as he balances two Oscars on his knees, you start to wonder if a Middle-earth kind of nerd really needs this much revenge.