This was an Oscar party to write home about
BEVERLY HILLS, CALIF.— No host. No problem.
After the first DIY Oscars in decades, both Freddie Mercury and Queen Anne having been summoned, courtesy of the Best Actor and Actress wins, it was officially Vanity Fair o’clock on Sunday night.
Held once again in a custom aerie designed by Basil Walter in the inside-outside space that is the Wallis Annenberg Center for the Performing Arts in Beverly Hills, the whole party — which did come with a host in the form of editor-in-chief Radhika Jones and this year an 80-foot chandelier made of moving motorized spheres — was, as always, an ever-cresting wave, encompassing everyone from Marilyn Manson to Mindy Kaling to Rupert Murdoch.
There’s Lady Gaga on a stool on the terrace, smoking a stealth cigarette as her Oscar statuette sits next to her: the portrait of an almost postcoital exaltation after a long awards-season hustle. There is Richard E. Grant jettisoning his suit blazer and bowtie, fully untucking his shirt to dance madly, first, with Marisa Tomei, and then — to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’” — with both Amy Adams and Melissa McCarthy (who, incidentally, arrived at the VF party wearing hilarious his-and-hers Adidas tracksuits with her husband). There is the one-time homebody-turned-Harlequin stud Jeff Bezos, crossing paths — only in Hollywood! — with William Morris co-head Patrick Whitesell, whose wife just left him to be with Bezos in that great, ongoing soap opera of 2019.
Chris Evans stalks the room. Tom Ford gives good Tom Ford. Joni Mitchell is frail — but there! Big smile. Miley and Priyanka and Liam and Nick: say hello to the newlyweds!
The absolute fun of the party, as I have long said: watching stars watch other stars and seeing different factions of fame intrude on another. It all reminds me of what writer John Updike once said when he mused, “Celebrity is a mask that eats into the face.” Or, likewise, when that other great oracle of our present age, Cardi B, declared, “Fame isn’t art, but the person you become when you’re famous — your alter ego — that’s art.”
See the ticker tape: Paris Jackson. Anita Hill, of political scandals past. Ronan Farrow. Serena Williams. Jon Hamm. Twitter’s Jack Dorsey. Tiffany Haddish. John-and-Chrissy. The names came from all over; it only mattered that they were names.
The only one missing? Possibly the only true party “get” in our age and time: Robert Mueller!
Alas, what a difference a year in Oscar makes, this party being an annual weather vane of the culture. A year ago it was inconceivable that Karl Lagerfeld would ever die, Duchess Meghan Markle was not yet a thing, and Arianna and Pete Davidson had not yet engaged so they could eventually become disengaged.
Time-stamp: midnight- ish. Tina, Amy and Maya are making the rounds. (The latter lets out a gasp when I tell her Joni was at the party.) Out of one corner of my eye, I watch Frances McDormand talking to Adam Driver, gently touching his cheek with her palm, while I also note Alfonso Cuaron chatting with Beck, Jeff Goldblum holding forth with newly inducted hunk Henry Golding, and J. Lo and A-Rod laughing with Trevor Noah.
Back in Lady Gaga-land, I witness one of the cap-wearing servers who are circulating with trays full of In-N-Out burgers put down her buns so she can nervously sneak a pic of the star. It is endearing.
Did I mention I also watched Barbra Streisand squeeze a lime in her Coca-Cola? I am seriously considering adding that detail to my Twitter bio.
In fact, when I first arrived at the party, making my way into the more clubby, circular back room in the space, I clocked Babs in one booth, Caitlyn Jenner in another and finally, Glenn Close, in a third. And if you might be worried about Glenn losing her seventh bid for Oscar, don’t. A good sport, she not only came to the party (I wondered if she would), but was also up and dancing at one point. Either she is wonderfully zen about the whole enterprise or she really is that good of an actress!
One thing I did notice about the party under this new regime at VF: there was a hell of a lot more dancing in that back room (I can now officially announce that I have danced with 80 per cent of the cast of Riverdale) and the party looks, and reads, more diverse than it used to. It is palpable.
The conversation flowed as freely as the champagne, often — naturally — about the telecast. You know, the important stuff, such as “Wow: Charlize Theron looks not bad as a brunette,” and “Remember when Bradley Cooper dated Renée Zellweger?” (OK, that quote is from me, uttered when Renée was spotted at the party.) Yes, there was a U in the movie title The Favourite (deal with it, Americans) and, yes, Cuaron just gave Mexico its fifth directing win in six years. And, yup, oh dear: Rami Malek really did have a tumble from the stage after winning his Oscar, as was reported by People (he was treated by paramedics and said to be OK, but it was notable that he skipped the VF party).
Civil rights icon John Lewis made it in Malek’s stead! I watched him talk to Jennifer Hudson … and a long slew of other well-wishers. And, indeed, when I left the party, the 79-year-old was still holding steady. Last man standing?
“Let’s go to Madonna!” went the chorus, rising up from the din of the crowd, a reference to one of the famous after- afterparties that occur on this night. The glittery cavalcade was ready to move on.
The whole party was, as always, an ever-cresting wave, encompassing everyone from Marilyn Manson to Mindy Kaling to Rupert Murdoch