For the love of the stars
Hotels love to celebrate celebrity
Looking out from the Belmond Splendido’s grand terrace, across the infinity pool to the boats bobbing in the harbour and the castle atop the pine-covered headland and pastel dusk sky beyond, the hotel in Portofino sold itself. Even still, the host rattled off names and pointed to signed photographs of royalty, and especially Hollywood royalty, who had come to stay before us.
My first thought was, ‘‘do stars carry around portrait photographs of themselves to sign so that only their best angles show?’’ My second thought was, ‘‘oh, this again’’.
Guests nodding politely, as the host chalked up the who’s who of the Golden Age of cinema: ‘‘Ava Gardner vacationed here for several summers. She loved the place. So much so we named one of our suites down by the water after her.’’
All of them were there at the Splendido, it seemed. ‘‘Yes, Grace Kelly [I thought she would have preferred Monte Carlo?], Clark Gable and Humphrey Bogart all stayed here. Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton rekindled their romance here. More recently we’ve welcomed Rod Stewart,’’ she said, as she pointed to a very 1990s portrait, signed.
‘‘And Madonna celebrated her 50th here.’’
When I later fact-check this point, I see Madge popped into Portofino on her 51st birthday for an elaborate dinner, but you get the gist.
A quick scroll through Instagram, basically a celebrity magazine in the form of a smartphone app, reveals even some Kiwi links: John Key and his son Max stayed here. And Sally Ridge. Well, there we have it. The trifecta. Old Hollywood, ageing rockers and C-list New Zealand celebrities. Sign me up.
It was the same at the Belmond Copacabana Palace, the famous bolthole in Rio de Janeiro already itself name-dropped in the Barry Manilow 1978 hit Copacabana. This time, our host at least shared stories and ridiculous requests of his celebrity clientele, many of whom stay during the Rock in Rio concerts on the beach.
The best (or maybe worst) request came from a ginger-haired piano rocker for whom a room wall had to be knocked down so that they could have their beloved instrument in their suite – allegedly.
As we sip caipirinhas by the pool, our host tells the group the tale of Janis Joplin falling in it.
I got lost on the way to the toilets while staying in Edinburgh’s Waldorf Astoria Caledonian, the wood-panelled walls framed by photo after photo of celebrities and dignitaries who had slept – if only briefly – at this grand restored train station.
It happens all over the world. The Beverly Hills Hotel and Chateau Marmont have built reputations on their links to celebrity clientele, the latter being famously described as ‘‘populated by people either on their way up or on their way down’’, although they both lose points for their proximity to Hollywood.
Further afield, it was the combination of Riviera glamour and the Hollywood Golden Age that put holiday locales like St Tropez and Capri on the map.
But still, why does that matter to a basic, nonceleb like me? When they waltz in with partners half their ages and a billowing entourage, regular guests are shooed away. Discretion and privacy are paramount. Until they check out at least, then the stories come out.
Surely the hoteliers are aware that A-list highrollers, who barely go to the bathroom by themselves, aren’t the ones organising their five-star itineraries. They aren’t hunched over a laptop on Expedia trying to score the best flights+hotel deal.
Do these luxury hotels need the A-list links? Certainly not in Belmond Splendido’s case, it had ‘‘la dolce vita’’ in spades. So why the photos, the signatures, the rooms, dishes and drinks named after privileged people who may never remember staying in luxury after a lifetime of luxury?
‘‘Well, Mr Martin, these people could stay anywhere. But they chose to stay here,’’ the host says.