Oh, the for the days of the Golden Globes parties.
We used to say, even if the Golden Globes are corrupt and the members were weird, the parties were great.
Especially the parties at the Beverly Hilton after the show on Sunday night. It was like the Comic Con of celebrations, with parties all over the hotel and even across the drive way in tents — or in the old days, the Robinson’s May store.
It used to be that the minute the Globes broadcast ended, A-listers galore would tumble out and go directly downstairs where HBO tossed a splashy mega gathering in the Club 55 restaurant that spilled out around the pool. That’s where I met Ricky Gervais two years in a row after he eviscerated the Hollywood Foreign Press as acerbic host.
The HBO party is also where I met a 25-ish Taylor Swift one year, with Selena Gomez. You’d have all the top nominees from TV –especially HBO stars from “Sex and the City,” “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” “The Sopranos,” and so on. Plus movie stars who needed some refreshment immediately after the four hour plus experience in the Hilton ballroom. (This is not to be confused with HBO’s now retired gigantic Emmy night three ring circus at the Pacific Design Center where we stalked Mick Jagger one night, egged on by Julia Louis Dreyfus!)
But all that’s over now. HBO no longer throws a party of any kind, and the soirees at the Hilton are over. While HBO was an anchor event, the sprint across the hotel campus to the Miramax/Weinstein Company extravaganza at Trader Vic’s (and later, a massive tent) was mandatory because that’s where the action was for movies ranging from “Shakespeare in Love” to “The King’s Speech” and so on. That’s where I stood in a buffet line with Steven Spielberg and George Lucas and asked about “Indiana Jones 4.”
Shazam!
All that’s gone — the studio, the restaurant, all of it. No party.
In between, as you traversed the hallways of the Hilton, fighting to get on elevators, you had Warner Bros (where I saw Prince play!), Columbia Pictures, Universal, and so on. Random A-listers snaked through the crowds. I was once at the tail end of a twisty samba line that led with Sting and ended with his glowing wife, Trudie Styler, wearing a magnificent Christian LaCroix gown with an actual garden planted on its flowing train. (It had to be carried.)
One year, a famous musician nominee for Best Song and partner emerged in the hallway and asked me to have the winner “killed.” I think they were serious.
In early years, 20th Century Fox took over the now demolished Robinson’s May department store. In later years, Netflix set up shop in a tent across the Hilton driveway. Wrists would be covered in various laminated bracelets, or there’d be a back up at the check in desk as guys in rented tuxes could be heard pleading, “I know I’m on that list!”
Alas, no more. The Hilton is under construction, and the massive buzzing beehive of events already stopped after the pandemic, then the Globes being hit with lawsuits and investigations.
Now, according to various sources, there are few small events scattered around town, which is bad news because of traffic, waiting for valet service, Ubers and limos stacked up in driveways like United at Newark, and so forth. Places like Spago, Sunset Tower, and always some “new” club that “used to be” something else are too small, and the celebs are so diffused that you know most of them have gone home or to private dinner parties.
Last night, The Hollywood Reporter — owned by Penske, which also owns the Globes, Dick Clark Productions, Variety, and the fruit stand on Pico — had an event sponsored by Spotify. From the photos, two minor nominees showed up, plus John Legend and Chrissie Teigen (who were probably paid hosts), and pages and pages of pedestrians who were either completely unknown or needing a red carpet photo op. (I was amazed Amy Poehler went — I would have stopped in just for her!)
What I will miss today is the annual AFI luncheon at the Four Seasons, still going on like a meeting of Skull and Bones for stars. Ten top movies and TV shows have tables in a small conference room where they get little certificates of honor. AFI chief Bob Gazzale produces a surprise legacy Hollywood star — like Shirley Maclaine — who presides over the event. That was where I realized Meryl Streep and Martin Short — cuddling at the “Only Murders” table — were a couple even though they denied it.
And tomorrow, there’s the perennial BAFTA tea — also at the Four Seasons — in which a thousand people congregate standing up and eating a vast buffet of crustless cucumber sandwiches and mini chocolate eclairs like it’s a classy version of Black Friday at Walmart for the famous. Every year I used to run into the amazing actress Diane Baker (from “Silence of the Lambs” and premium 60s and 70s TV), which was so much fun. One year Elton John was there. Marty Scorsese, Cate Blanchett, and Leonardo DiCaprio worked the room for “The Aviator.” Foreign actors — like Isabelle Huppert — would look dazed. Character actors — my favorites — stocked on smoked salmon and caviar. I had a great talk one year with Wayne Knight aka “Newman” from “Seinfeld.”
(But stay away from the dreaded brunch for Independent Spirit Awards nominees, this year at the London formerly Bel Age Hotel. You go, hoping to see someone interesting, and disappointment flows like cheap wine from every catering station.)
Also tonight, I will miss Lynn Hirschberg’s swanky A list party for W Magazine in a suite at Chateau Marmont. Celebs are stuffed like pimentos into olives through the few small rooms, a tiny main area, and out onto a terrace that feels like it’s going to collapse at any moment. Look, it’s Warren Beatty! There’s Tom Cruise! I hung out with a Jonas Brother one year, who was dating a Stark from “Game of Thrones.” Lynn, the real power in Hollywood, always serves Cronuts, which no actress would dare eat in public! So there were plenty for the rest of us. There’s nothing like a good Cronut!
By the way, you might wonder what’s going on in the back of the Hilton ballroom while the awards are being dished out on stage Sunday night. The answer is: plenty. There’s a huge bar that’s always filled with nominees who’ve lost and can’t escape, dining on very scant finger food, lots of little chocolates, and loads of liquor. There’s also an outdoor space over looking the pool where the smokers congregate like they’re in high school. You can always hear someone say, “What time is it? Is this thing still going on?”
As “Newman” would say, “Oh, the humanity!”
PS So what’s left for the Oscars? Maybe a ping pong tournament!
