Tuesday, January 18, 2005

Black Tie Formal

By: Ben Tiernan

This story, which is a story about the Golden Globes, requires a brief but very important introduction as a matter of background. Some months back, Jill and I broke up. As breakups go, it was relatively civil. We even made an attempt at being friends until I failed to return her cheese plate and failed further to return her calls. Immature and inexcusable on my part, but I can’t beat myself up forever.

Shortly after Jill and I broke up, by a stroke of smashing good luck, I met a wonderful, beautiful and talented young lady named Jill. Note that this is not some extended metaphor where the author uses two people to represent two aspects of a single character, or split our perception of one person. Nor does this represent a rebirth and rediscovery of one Jill. This is real life, and two totally separate but identically named Jills.

Please make yourself acquainted with Jill, and know that from here forward any reference to Jill refers to the new Jill. I will refrain from any pejorative nomenclature that may appear to decrease the previous Jill because it is not fair to her. She was a very nice person, with a lovely heart, who had, until just recently, a very nice cheese plate.

Jill is a journalist. She works for Variety, a trade magazine that covers the entertainment industry, and she was recently promoted to editor of the V-Page. We are all very proud. The V-Page covers industry parties and events, so now more than ever Jill receives invitations to hobnob with the A-List.

Last night, for example, I accompanied Jill to the Golden Globe after parties at the Hollywood Hilton. I live in LA, so star sightings are frequent occurrences. I’ve seen Danny DiVito eat ice cream in Santa Monica. I’ve seen OJ Simpson change a flat tire on Sepulveda. I’ve seen Sidney Pollack fold a napkin and put it under the leg of his table to stop it from jiggling at Starbucks in Westwood. I’ve seen a lot, but I’ve never seen such volume of celebrity. You couldn’t spit without hitting an icon.

Our arrival to the event was inauspicious; the cab driver we’d hired to take us from the restaurant refused to wait in the lineup of town cars and limos inching forward and dropping people at the main entrance. Rather, he dropped us in a park across from the Hotel, and we had to walk - Jill and her two friends all in gowns – across Wilshire Blvd to the 76 gas station and then into the Hotel from the side entrance. Jill’s friends had their invitations, so security let them through, but our invitations were at will call, so we had to enter from the other side of the building. Getting there involved crossing over Wilshire Blvd. twice and Santa Monica Blvd. twice - a minor hassle made infinitely more difficult by our formalwear.

The final stretch took us through a sea of news vans. We stepped over wires and around satellite uplinks, until at last we arrived at the main entrance. The jaunt through the news vans did give me the opportunity to show Jill my name on the blue boxes, the ones my father made, that TV stations use to send remote signals from these kinds of events. I brag shamelessly when I pass a news van, but fuck it – my name’s on a blue box.

Once we got past security, that’s where the famous people were. We passed Kevin Spacey as we entered and that was plenty for me, but in the enormous vestibule lingered a sea of recognizable faces. It was quite neat. I felt, somehow, very comfortable, almost like I was at a family reunion. I was a stranger among hundreds of people I recognized but didn’t feel comfortable talking to. They’d been in my living room for years and they had never made me tense before, so among them on Sunday night, I felt oddly at home.

People gathered in the entrance hall before they went up stairs to the parties. Each of the studios rented out a banquet room for the people associated with their projects. Jill and I were going to the Warner Brothers/In Style party, and the Universal/NBC party. I’m not sure how it all works, but it seems that every major media outlet is owned by another major media outlet. I think, in the end, they are all one company held together by a convoluted web of ownership deals and partnerships controlled entirely by Rupert Murdoch and Ron Howard.

Jill, who is relatively connected, introduced me to a few people she knew, and then we got in line to head up stairs to the parties. The line was ridiculously long, and I thought that they had a lot of gall to make real life celebrities que up like common rank and file. Further, the hotel guests had gathered at the bar and they were yelling at us…well, not me, but other people…famous people. Regardless of our collective celebrity, the line only grew longer.

It started as a rumor, a myth constructed to articulate our discontent. This line must indicate a larger crisis. How could it be that famous people were forced to stand around like Russians? Perhaps the Fire Marshall had shut the doors and they weren’t letting anyone else into the party. That must be it. The word spread like wildfire. Many people didn’t even need to be told. The myth had already surfaced in their subconscious. Turns out, it was true. We were locked out by the Fire Marshall – at least for the time being. The onset of this news was very exciting for me because I got to watch the short girl from 7th Heaven problem solve.

She decided to try her luck in line, but Jill, who had to cover the event, opted not to risk the line and pulled a man with a headset from the crowd. She introduced herself. The man introduced her into the ether of the headset, and in short order he took us to the front of the line. I can’t imagine a good way to describe the feeling of being pulled from a line of rich/famous people and pushed to the front. It was uncommon.

The front of the line, however, was a place of conflict. There stood century a security guard so devoted to his position that no force of nature and certainly no snotty events person would sway him. This guard would not let us in even at the pleas of our guide. The events person called for backup and a fast walking, fast talking young woman who also donned a headset came from inside. She beckoned us to follow her with ease and grace until the guard stretched out his arm, physically blocking our entrance.

The young woman yelled at the guard and insulted him, but he maintained that he would not let anyone pass until the Fire Marshall personally told him that it was OK to let people inside.

The pore little girl was despondent. She left us in the company of the guard for a few minutes and when she returned she pulled us away from the line and took us to a secret door around back. She was frustrated, angry and apologetic. I was impressed that Jill could cause anyone so much stress.

We were met at the back door by two more guards – now this is where it got good – and the guards reiterated that they could not let anyone in. While negotiating the terms of our entrance, the events person heard something truly very disturbing through her headset. She turned to the guards and said “Clint Eastwood is coming to this entrance. You are going to let him in, right?”

The guard said, “I’m not letting anyone in.”

The various levels of horror that I saw manifest on this woman’s face were rich and beautiful in their complexity and depth. At first I thought she might throw up, then I though she might faint, then I was certain that she would die. She clutched her radio and yelled into her headset that Clint was coming and they weren’t going to let him in. Terror rang clear and strong in her voice. She said, “Get Syd here now. Clint is coming. We need Syd. We need Syd!”

Just then, from around the corner came Clint Eastwood and four of his distinguished friends. They were engaged in amiable conversation. They meandered down the hall – a distance of about 40 feet – slowing occasionally to gesture or make a point.

As they approached the door, the young woman was nearly in tears. “He’s here. He’s here. Where the fuck is Syd?”

A man with thick black hair and a black suit appeared at the far end of the corridor behind Clint Eastwood’s entourage. He rounded the corner at full sprint, jacket flapping, hair tossed. He ran straight for us, and in a matter of seconds he passed the entourage and met us at the door. In the moment it took him to catch his breath, Clint Eastwood arrived at the door. They stopped their conversation for a half a second and looked at Jill, the two events people, the two guards, and me. The runner said, “These guys are ok.” The guards stepped aside. The Eastwood party continued their conversation, and Jill and I rode in on their coattails.

The party was wonderful. It was a lot like prom with an open bar.