Setting standards
Taki
SNew York ir Tom Stoppard is our greatest living playwright or my name is Hillary Clinton. Last week I had the pleasant surprise of listening to his voice inviting me to tea prior to the opening on Broadway of The Invention of Love. On my way in, when I greeted the great man, I mentioned our brief conversation earlier in the week. He looked nonplussed. 'I haven't spoken to you since last summer,' he told me looking surprised. It was that damn one more for the road, to put it mildly. I have finally learned how to pick up my telephone messages, and in a dreamy state I had a long conversation with him, or so I thought.
The New York production of The Invention of Love has received great reviews, and Sir Tom's poignant portrait of erotic loss is playing to enthusiastic audiences. Arcadia, The Real Thing and The Invention of Love confirm Stoppard's genius, three hits in a row within five years. Oh well, it's not as hard as writing 'High life' once a week, but I guess it will do.
Later I went on to Le Cirque for Alexandra de Borchgrave's book launch of the biography of her great-grandfather Henry Villard, the railroad magnate. In 1853, Henry Villard arrived in New York from Germany, penniless and speaking not a word of English. Born Heinrich Hilgard, and descended from a centuries-old line of theologians and high-ranking magistrates, Villard changed his name when he escaped his 'noblesse de robe' in favour of a new life in the land of opportunity. Within five years he had set up the first news syndicate in the country and catapulted himself into the presidency of the Northern Pacific Railroad. He became the toast of New York society, supported a man called Thomas Edison, and was instrumental in consolidating dozens of small electric corn panies into the giant that would become General Electric. Not bad for a young Kraut who spoke no English, almost as good, in fact, as writing a weekly 'High life' column in The Spectator.
This is Alexandra's first book, and it's a magnificent achievement. The Villard House, on Madison Avenue and 51st Street, is a Bagel landmark, and it now houses both Le Cirque as well as the Palace hotel, which rises from the original, untouched edifice. Arnaud de Borchgrave, the author's hubby, is the big chief of UPI, and is known as the last of the great foreign correspondents. He is responsible for getting the poor little Greek boy into journalism, which may or may not be such a good thing. I could have, for example, been writing plays all this time, or could have started another General Electric. Never mind, I do not hold it against him, although there may be others who feel less compassionate than I do.
After drinks we sat down to a dinner given by Gail Heyman, a new Speccie subscriber and a very kind hostess. Alas, I had too much firewater and started to talk gibberish, but I did manage to stand up and toast the author without losing my dinner.
The Bagel is fun right now. The only black cloud is the grotesque Hillary Clinton, Noo Yawk's junior senator. Slick Hilly is accreting power and preparing her run for vice-president in 2004. Hear me now and believe me later, as they say, and you read it here first. By going for the second spot she will get into the endgame without the fully focused exposure, in her case an exposure that would disqualify Mother Teresa. What she will concentrate on for the next four years is fund-raising and campaigning, the two things the Clintons excel in, lying, perjury and quid pro quo pardons aside.
What amazes me is that Bagelites and upper-New York state denizens have accepted her level of corruption, dishonesty and all-round sleaziness. In the five months since she was elected senator, Slick Hilly signed a tainted $8 million book contract, saw her corrupt brothers involved in a clemency deal for a drug trafficker, and she herself sat in on a meeting held with a Hasidic leader who sought pardons for four members of his community who had been convicted of embezzlement and fraud. (The $4 million which they embezzled was meant for poor children. But the pardon was granted.) La Clinton obviously broke the law by promising lenient treatment in exchange for the Hasidics' support, but such quid pro quo is almost impossible to prove. The only other person present was the man who swore he'd never had sex with Monica Lewinsky.
And speaking of disgusting people, Monica Lewinsky was at the Vanity Fair party at Morton's for the Oscars. While chatting to a friend of mine, a photographer asked her to pose with Denise Rich. Lewinsky freaked out. Never, she blurted out, and if she comes near me I'm outta here. It's nice to see some people still have standards, but what were those two slobs doing there in the first place?
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