It’s over. Eight events and one underwhelming awards show later, we are alive.
Oscar week started with the Envelope’s Hollywood Museum bash last Wednesday and closed last night with the late-late-late secret Prince concert at Avalon. Yes, I got into the Prince party. And it’s OK to be jealous.
After a very long day at the Independent Spirit Awards, where we interviewed Darren Aronofsky and Dustin Lance Black, among others, we hit up the tre-exclusive Miramax party on Saturday night at the London Hotel courtesy of the Carpetbagger a/k/a David Carr of the New York Times, who was nice enough to put us in his pocket and carry us in as a plus one.
On the rooftop of that swanky hotel, we swayed to the eighties greatest hits, (we might have heard “Careless Whispers”) and walked by a table when we noticed that four of the stars from the Oscar-nominated movie Doubt were all huddled together. Philip Seymour Hoffman (kind of homeless chic with a skull cap, long hair and a sweater), Viola Davis (totes gorge), Amy Adams (wearing a bright purple dress), and Meryl Streep were all rightthere. (Oh, and Meryl! Sigh.) Because we are new to the actor/Hollywood life, we’d never interviewed any of them, and were a bit starstruck.
A reporter for the Chicago Tribune was hanging with us while Mr. Carr wandered around talked shop with the Hollywood bigwigs in the room. Our new friend noted that strange awkward space of a journalist being at a party for the fabulous where there isn’t anyone else he really knows: The only people he could talk to were the famous people he interviewed, which is kind of funny when you think about it.
The big event was upon us. After stopping by a friend’s Oscar viewing party, we headed to Hollywood Life’s own Oscar viewing party, filled with a extraordinary amount of very young, very hot Hollywood types. Supersize Me’s Morgan Spurlock and Traffic’s Erica Christensen (where’s she been?) were two of the notables we saw, and during the commercials, the DJ played 80s. It seems that 80s is the defacto genre/time period of choice for all parties. You can’t go wrong.
There was a rumor that Penelope Cruz, who was staying at the hotel, would stop by, and that Mickey Rourke was a 75 percent possibility. It turned out that we were have to be happy with the young and the beautiful, and Rick Fox.
Around midnight, we gathered the last of our energy reserves and poured ourselves into the car and headed to Avalon, where one of the most exclusive parties of the night was being held. This would be Prince’s Oscar party, an event that is as notorious as the Purple One’s fondness for weird symbols. Apparently doors were supposed open around 10, and didn’t open until midnight, for which we were glad that we were fashionably late.
Turns out we should have been fashionably later, because his Princeliness didn’t deign to show up until 1:40 in the morning, an hour during which we are normally fast asleep.
Sucking at Red Bull as if it was a life force, we stood and powered through the set–which included a ton of covers: “Crimson and Clover” was a favorite, so was the Beatles’ “Come Together.”
Because we were lowly press and not actually Very Important, were weren’t allowed up in the area where there is seating, so we couldn’t see and didn’t know were were amongst a bevy or pretty high profile celebs, including Cruz, Queen Latifah, Alicia Keys, and Oscar nominee Taraji P Henson, among a buttload of others.
Prince, strangely, barely didn’t any Prince stuff–save for “Cream” and a few other bits—but later, he delved into the Prince extended family back catalog. He offered up fantastic rendtions of Time’s “Jungle Love,” Sheila E’s “Glamorous Life,” and ended the night with Chaka Kahn’s “I Feel For You.”
Prince, darling, I would have felt more for you if it wasn’t four in the morning.