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Inside the Vanity Fair Oscar party
"[Expletive] best picture," agrees a friend.
"Listen to your mother and you'll be fine," a woman advises "True Grit" nominee Hailee Steinfeld, all of 14 years old and looking like a princess.
"And I'd wake up every morning and NOT KNOW," Charlize Theron says to Jason Bateman, a pairing that would arouse any fan of "Arrested Development," the TV show in which they co-starred.
"Whoa whoa whoa!" shouts Sacha Baron Cohen as a purveyor of mini red-velvet cupcakes skirts past him and his conversation partner Larry David. The cupcakes are frosted with the names of nominees. JEFF. NICOLE. HELENA. Eat your faves.
Taylor Swift and Jake Gyllenhaal, recently broken up, huddle in a nook by the bathrooms, under the forlorn gaze of a portrait of Greta Garbo. Gyllenhaal is using words like "care" and "feel." It is not a good spot to linger.
Around the corner, Natalie Portman, chatting away with her fiance-choreographer by her side, absent-mindedly runs the head of her Oscar back and forth over the curve of her pregnant belly, as if to coax her fetus into the profession before it takes its first breath.
News: Matthew McConaughey has a shirt on. AND a tuxedo jacket.
More news: Gwyneth Paltrow has (mercifully) not gotten her hands on a microphone yet.
In a room where everybody is somebody - Colin Firth swarmed by women demanding photos, Anne Hathaway giddy as a gazelle after hosting the show - is it possible that everyone's just nobody?
Harvey Weinstein, once again king of the Oscars, is begging Matthew Morrison for a photo. Brendan Fraser demands a moment with the "Alice in Wonderland" art-direction winner who had fashioned a top hat for his new Oscar.