CHRISSEY ILEY: It’s the Oscar tango
March 28, 2002

Preparation for the Oscars is beyond any festival, religious or otherwise, in Hollywood. It’s beyond Christmas and Thanksgiving, but sadly, this year, resonates with the atrocity of 11 September. Weirdly, Hollywood was preparing to become holy. I don’t just mean the reverential speeches, a tribute to New York, New York and one minute of silence. It’s all about worshipping at that other altar where the benediction takes the form of party, party and a fabulous bag of designer freebies. Maybe the parties this year were even more ridiculous, as if any lingering sadness and vulnerability needed to be stamped out with excess materialism, greed, ambition, one-upmanship and the embracing of face values.

At the L’Ermitage Hotel, top hairdressers had flown in and celebrity eyebrow shaper Anastasia held court. Expensive facials, massages and grooming products were all offered free to the stars, their stylists - even journalists who might be wanting to write about them.

The first big outing for all this free finery was the Miramax pre-Oscar party at the Mondrian Hotel, much to the horror of the people actually staying there, like restaurant impresario Mark Fuller, who was ordered to his room. It was a star-studded affair with Marisa Tomei, Cameron Diaz, Kate Winslet, Judi Dench, Tom Wilkinson and Sissy Spacek present. There was more food here than half of Africa gets in a month and no-one ate any of it. Mini lemon tarts and creamy strawberry cakes remained on silver-tiered platters. As if anyone, pre-Oscars, was going to enjoy eating those and then risk not being able to get into their outfit.

Sting performed a weird medley of songs about the nominated movies. He touched my friend’s head while clambering for the stage in a way that made her feel like she’d been blessed by a tantric pope, but everything else on stage was a fine example of Hollywood up-itself.

So many Oscar-nominated actors onstage, and none able to deliver their "unrehearsed" skit with an inch of comic timing. Most of them couldn’t even read their scripts, and you did wonder whether Judi Dench was, in fact, playing herself in Iris .

After it had all happened, it was easy to say that Halle Berry was wearing a winner’s dress. The tulle top with silk embroidered flowers and massive taffeta skirt was by Elie Saab. It was impeccable, wonderful, the dress of a woman in total control. The dress was in control anyway, even if she wasn’t.

Nicole Kidman fluttered about in Chanel. In real life, the dress was a symphony of pinks that made her look fragile, Moulin Rouge-esque, shimmeringly vulnerable. On TV it just looked scary. Not as scary, however, as the horror show that everyone was talking about.

No, not Halle Berry’s speech, for which she can be forgiven.

Gwyneth Paltrow, though, can never be forgiven. She turned up in what looked like a Morticia Addams cast-off. The see-through top made her nipples look uneven, while the ruched grey fleshy mesh made it appear that she had rolls of fat and no breasts.

Coming second in the dress disaster stakes was Jennifer Lopez, in a pinkish sleeping bag by Versace with quilting and ruching that was supposed to emphasise her curves, but just made her look bulky. The 1960s bouffant hairdo was unflattering; it looked out of place and out of time.

Sharon Stone was looking thin and almost elegant in a black Versace gown that appeared backless but, in fact, had a back made of flesh-toned chiffon. She changed into a black trouser suit to go to the Vanity Fair party, accessorised by her husband and Cybill Shepherd hair.

It’s Vanity Fair’s business to make their party the biggest, and everyone did seem to be there. Joan Collins was spotted wearing very large eyelashes and a lot of make-up. Jennifer Connelly, much more relaxed in her beige Balenciaga dress, was another one who looked stunning in the flesh, but less so on the screen. Kate Winslet’s Ben De Lisi frock spent all night clashing with the red carpet, but looked pretty good on her. She can sometimes make some real frock horrors, often favouring too-small trouser suits. Winslet hadn’t won, but there was nothing about her that said she’d lost.

The only person not spotted at the Vanity Fair do was the party boy himself, Russell Crowe, whose whole demeanour had seemed somewhat shrunken and thwarted, and now the feeling in Hollywood is that that poem was actually a lot nicer and more articulate than some of the Oscar acceptance speeches we heard, and maybe we should have had it after all.

Source: The Scotsman