La dolce vita
Taki Rome rr hey changed the name of the most famous city in the world, and renamed the place Valentino, or so it seemed last weekend in the Eternal City. What can I say? I know nothing about fashion, except that I know a beautiful dress when I see one, but I do know a lot about parties, and this one took the cake, all three days of it.
Valentino's blend of elegance and sexiness has always attracted brand names. I suppose Jackie Onassis was among the first to spot his rare talent, but, to his credit, Valentino never went the way of Lagerfeld and other snooty seamstresses. In fact, on the contrary. The bigger he got, the nicer he became. Mind you, I have always known him to be incredibly generous and considerate of small-timers and big shots alike, and this in the cut-throat world of multibillionaire chancers and fashionistas, a world which makes Hollywood look like the von Trapp family in The Sound of Music. The festivities even upstaged the Rolling Wrinklies, who were in Rome performing on the same nights, Mick Jagger being among the first to show up at the Valentino parties.
The extravaganza was made possible by the city, which turned over some of its most historic sights to Valentino and the Oscarwinning film designer Dante Ferretti, who proceeded to put up 40 classical columns illuminated from within in the Ruins of the Temple of Venus, adjacent to the Colosseum. We were driven up by electric carts and then walked on red carpets into this vast space, where more than 2,000 years ago Aphrodite ruled supreme. The place was jammed with bold-faced names, fantastic-looking models and Hollywood actresses, yet it felt cosy and almost intimate, the Colosseum serving as a reminder of how fleeting beauty and power can be.
Then came the surprise. As the moon rose against the inky, starry sky, high above the Colosseum came ballerinas pirouetting to opera arias by Callas, suspended by invisible wires — a scene so hauntingly beautiful I actually saw some people burst into tears. I could hear the roar of the Roman crowd watching from below, and then came the spectacular fireworks which bathed both the temple and the Colosseum in a phantasmagoric light worthy of the 2,000 years of Roman history. I doubt if any of the 300 guests of that first night will soon forget the spectacle.
Next evening there were 940 of us, all seated by one man, Giancarlo Giammetti, Valentino's long-time partner and business right-hand man, whose taste and Roman charm is legendary among those in the know. The setting this time was the Villa Borghese, a 16th-century palazzo which houses Bernini and Caravaggio treasures, not to mention Titians and Raphaels. A tent in the gardens of the villas resembling a Chinese pagoda with ceilings over 50 feet high almost overshadowed the setting, and then came Annie Lennox and her cabaret. And the biggest mistake of my life. I got drunk instead of trying to meet the love of my life, Miss Anne Hathaway, of The Devil Wears Prada fame. I had been told that she was there by the son of a friend, but, as young Caspar is always pulling my leg, I didn't believe him and continued with the vodka. By the time I spotted her I was in no shape to make sense and wisely decided on passing up the opportunity in order to be able to fight another day. Ditto for Uma Thurman, Sienna Miller and Jennifer Hudson, all in Valentino and all looking as if the last thing they needed was an introduction to a 70-year-old drunk.
Mind you, Rome, Valentino parties, beautiful women, and meeting up with old friends was an impossible combination to beat. As dawn broke, I sat in the gardens watching some of the young laughing and having a good time. It was Gattopardo time, as in the film version of the novel, when Prince Salinas, played by the great Burt Lancaster, watches the young dancing and thinks of his youth and the passage of time, and the changes that have taken place and it's all there, in his eyes, the eyes that have seen so many things ... And for a moment, as always after a great time has been had, I was a bit sad and nostalgic and thought of my youth and the times I had in Rome, especially during the 1960 Olympics, but then it passed and I went home.
Good times have streaks. After the worst Wimbledon ever, things began to look up midweek. Poker night at Aspinall's may have ended disastrously, but Lady Luck was with me in the name of Rosie Hanbury, 22 years of age and as beautiful as they come. The next day I took her to the Speccie party in our new digs. I wanted to introduce her to the new Prime Minister as the future Mrs Taki, but never managed to get near him (I did show her off to Ephraim Hardcastle, who called me a chancer and a plumed character.) Then, at my dinner at Wiltons, Boris Johnson was about to announce his mayoral intentions, but chose to bicycle away into the night instead. The new sainted editor looked amused at my state of drunkenness, but for once he was wrong. It was lust for the beautiful Mary Wakefield and Rosie, but then lust and inebriation are one and the same. The next day I flew to Rome and now I'm off to my boat for some badly needed R&R. What a way to end a bad beginning to a week.
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