Posted on 03/26/2002 6:03:28 AM PST by IncPen
LOS ANGELES--Sting is facing a chattery crowd of several hundred actors and producers and agents and studio executives at the Mondrian Hotel, and he is having trouble getting everyone's attention.
"This is a very tough room," he says. "Maybe if the person next to you is still talking, you can tap them on the shoulder and say, 'Sting is going to do a song now.' Thanks."
With that, Sting begins playing his Academy Award-nominated "Until"--but he never quite captures the room.
Only at a Hollywood party would you see so many people who can't shut up long enough to hear a legend perform.
The Sting mini-concert is at the annual Miramax party, held the night before the Oscars and populated by everyone from Dame Judi Dench to lots of tall models who will probably never have the title of "Dame."
As usual, the party features skits and short films lampooning the nominated films and the industry itself, performed by famous names stumbling their way through corny scripts. This year's highlights: Neve Campbell as "Amelie of West Hollywood," industry bigwigs Harvey Weinstein and Jeffrey Katzenberg dressed as gladiators and playing themselves as they trade obscene insults, and a spoof montage from "Project Greenlight 2," with Matt Damon and Ben Affleck deciding that this year's winner will be some guy named Martin Scorsese from New York. ("Now, Marty must make his movie. ...")
After the Miramax party, I wind up at Barfly on Sunset. At closing time, as a half-dressed lesbian couple grind away atop a speaker and various slickster guys make their last best moves, the DJ plays a medley that incorporates President Bush's words on 9/11/01 ( "Today, our fellow citizens, our way of life, our very freedom came under attack in a series of deliberate and deadly terrorist acts") with Bruce Springsteen's "Born in the USA," which was originally meant as a post-Vietnam protest song, not that anybody here cares.
If this doesn't prove we've bounced back from the attacks, why, I don't know what does.
***
Around 2 a.m., Helen Hunt and friend are smokin' on the dance floor to the tune of "Lady Marmalade" from "Moulin Rouge" (the nearby Kidman ain't dancing) when the lights go out, literally. As the staff scrambles to restore power, I hover near Jim Broadbent in case someone tries to wrestle away his Oscar in all the confusion. He just doesn't look like he can defend himself.
After a few false starts, the house lights go on, and the crowd begins making its way to the door. Ron Howard has an Oscar in each hand and is near the exit when some doofus approaches and says, "I just have to shake your hand, I just have to!," which of course is impossible, seeing as how the Artist Formerly Known as Opie is holding the twin trophies. Ever the nice guy, Howard thanks the guy for his enthusiasm and thanks him again and thanks him again while heading for the door. A lesser star could have been forgiven for bonking the pest over the head with one of the heavy golden men.
Five hours later, I take a stroll over to Hollywood Boulevard, where the cleanup effort is just kicking into gear. A few security guards mill about, unconcerned about a homeless man who is pushing a shopping cart overloaded with black garbage bags. In the very spot where the life-lottery-winner likes of Russell Crowe and J. Lo walked just hours ago, the man picks through the remnants of the occasion, hunting for treasures among the discarded water bottles and Academy Awards fact sheets and half-finished snacks and overturned garbage cans.
He'd be a total cliche, if not for the fact that he happens to be an actual human being whose presence is a poignant reminder that even though we're all sharing the same time on this planet, and that, in the words of Denzel Washington, "God is good," it's a lot easier for some people to believe that than others.
E-mail: rroeper@suntimes.com
" After the Miramax party, I wind up at Barfly on Sunset."
Surely that meant to read, "After the Miramax party, I wind up a Barfly on Sunset."
No it's more like Hollywood Egos. I've neve seen a groop more overwhelmed by their self-importance.
Where the counterparts of the Bert Lancasters, the Jimmy Stewarts, the Hedy Lamars, the John Waynes, the Dean Martin?
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