Oscar Night Celebrity Diary with A‑List Party Details

glasses. I greeted each of Lara’s interviewees as if they were coming to my house for dinner. I never tire of the overwhelming excitement, throngs of eager press, and screaming fans. Everything boils down to this moment of mass hysteria. It’s always humbling to stand among the entertainment giants, wish them luck and have them nervously smile back. Its the bittersweet finale when all of the campaigning is over and you think you won't see them until their next movie. It’s like the last day of camp. I was now dateless and alone as Lara Spencer went home suffering from a sore throat. Those in the know always hang out at the downstairs bar during the broadcast where the sound is turned up on the flat screens. This year, Cate Blanchett’s husband theater impresario Andrew Upton bought me free drinks. I hung out with Cate, her CAA agent Hylda Queally, the adorable skinny Sally Hawkins in a heavily beaded Valentino gown, Julia Roberts, and Tom Bernard and Michael Barker who have 140 career nominations and 32 wins. After that her stupendous pale beaded Armani Privé gown reassuring Blanchett was the best of the other girls’ pale dresses and that her Oscar would pop against it, she went on stage to win. While I was at the Oscar broadcast, 160 VIPs at Graydon Carter’s annual Oscar viewing dinner were getting ready for the rush of a thousand more party guests. Five hundred limos were on the way. Those who watched the awards from the beige, circular dining room were Graydon’s friends including: Sofia Vergara, Tom Ford, Carolina Herrera, Bruce Weber, Allen Grubman, Bob Colacello, Judd Apatow, Jeff Klein and John Goldwyn, Rupert Murdoch, Steve Newhouse, Les Moonves, and Jimmy Buffet. I ran through the Governor's Ball and found Bryan Lourd and Fox’s beloved leader Jim Gianopulos, ushered by Fox Searchlight’s Michelle Hooper, sitting at Brad Pitt’s empty 2 table because everyone else was still in the COM press room doing interviews. AND BFANYC. I arrived at the Vanity Fair party at its new = location, 8680 Sunset Boulevard, a parking lot & that was transformed into an airy glass dome. al stood in a corner, ravenously inhaling my z In-n-Out burger with ketchup dripping down z my chin and of course, Graydon—the adored 8 maestro of the week—came up and so sweetly % wanted to know how I was doing. It’s a little z difficult to respond with a mouthful of food 6 behind dark glasses. Anne Hathaway and Jared Leto The stars were huddled together in groups, air kissing and congratulating each other. Bill Murray, Lupita Nyongo, Jennifer Lawrence, Naomi Watts, Idina Menzel, Sarah Paulson, Bette Midler and Lady Gaga owned the dance floor; Jared Leto passed his Oscar around so much he dropped it and it now sports a little dent in the head; pregnant Kerry Washington ate for two; and the Janes— Fonda and Buffet—huddled on a couch, while The Great Gatsby’s production and costume designer, and wife of director Baz Luhrmann, Catherine Martin and I posed with her two Oscars. (Including the two she won for Moulin Rouge, she now has four). Even Madonna has sponsors now. The material girl—blinding in 1,000 carats of Neil Lane’s diamonds—hosted her seventh annual awards bash at her manager Guy Oseary’s home with Gucci. Originally super secret, the party is now a headline on Page Six. Madonna made her best effort to cream off the stars from Graydon’s party. In attendance were Paul McCartney, Tom Brady and Gisele Biindchen, newly engaged Ashton Kutcher and Mila Kunis, Serena Williams, Prince, and Pink. Madonna closed out her own party by breakdancing with her kids and Miley Cyrus, and spinning records until 7 a.m. for Matthew McConaughey. Madge, short for majesty, would rather die than entertain press, let alone an adorable publicist like moi. Last year, ever so curious, Charlize Theron I was brought as a guest of a guest only to be frogmarched to the door by Oseary, the host readers, I did this for you. It has furious himself. Dear taken me a year to admit—I was too socially traumatized to report my investigative failure. I now realize that I was just a pawn for Oseary’s A-list purity for the night. His own rock status had been boosted by signing Bono and U2. Thank God my social stock is still otherwise intact. The week before the Oscars, the real Oscar—de la Renta—had invited me to his beachfront paradise in the Dominican Republic with Lord and Lady Astor. In June, the Duke and Duchess of Marlborough are expecting me at Blenheim Palace. So much for not making the cut at Madonna’. Once again, I scored a ride home on a friend’s plane where my dark glasses fit right in. Passengers received an email that morning requesting “no jeans.” I thought this was a bizarre fashion edict, only to find out the indigo dye in denim bleeds onto the jet’s white leather chairs. Asa closing to my 10th annual Oscar diary, I can sum up this year’s race as one of intense emotions and euphoric pride for our love of what Americans do best: making the most wonderful and culturally enlightening movies that entertain the world. On to Cannes!+ APRIL 2012 * AVENUE MAGAZINE | 59 HOUSE_OVERSIGHT_010722