High life
Celebrities •
squared
Taki
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New York h dear. Just as I sat down to write yet again about the ghastliness of Hollywood — this is Oscar week and every other subject is taboo — the telephone rang and a lady who described herself as a casting director asked me whether I was interested in playing a bit part in The Bonfire of the Vanities, the Tom Wolfe novel which will soon be a major motion picture.
This was the good news and I im- mediately said yes. (Even the briefest of appearances means one is sure to meet a blonde or two, according to people in the business.) Then came the bad news. I had to go downtown to a studio to audition. Don't worry,' said the lady, 'there will be other friends of yours there.' When I inquired as to which friends, it turned out they plan to shoot a Mortimer's scene, and all the regulars were getting a try-out. First on the cameo list was none other than the Fiihrer himself, Glenn Bernbaum, the benevolent proprietor of the gin joint, plus Sister Parrish, Anne Slater, and it is rumoured Nancy Reagan and Henry Kis- singer, although I've never seen either of them ever pick up a tab in the place. (Probably name-dropping on the part of the publicist of the picture.) Well, I thought about it for a while, and even though it was Oscar night, I still had to decline. My reasons were quite correct, however. The lady said they needed people to play themselves. So why audition? I've been playing myself for 52 years, I told her, and the last thing I need is an audition in playing Taki, whatever that means. But I guess Hollywood is make-believe enough to have a man pretend to play himself.
Nevertheless I was sad to have to say no. But one thing is for sure. I could have been an Oscar contender had I tried. And speaking of contenders, just before they all accepted their prizes with Demosthenes- like oratorical skills, Ms Barbara Walters presented her Oscar-night special. And for any of you who don't know who Babs is, not to worry. She is the daughter of Lou Walters, a night-club owner, not to be confused, however, with Mark Birley. Far from it. Babs is a great celebrity in the USA, and her speciality is interviewing other celebrities. Her style can only be described as the type that forces one to reach for the emetic tablet tout de suite; otherwise she's quite a pro. Babs says things like, 'What kind of tree would you be if you were one?' to Katharine Hepburn of all people, to which La Hepburn did not answer, 'The kind that dogs don't pee on.'
On Oscar night she told Arnold Schwarzenegger how surprised she was that he, a body-builder, managed to marry `into an intellectual family like the Ken- nedys'. Arnold, no dummy, just smiled. I guess it was the first time anyone had called the family that.
Needless to say, the Walters style is the dominant style of the glossies in America, as well as that of the chat shows. The stars have managed to have control of the interviews by refusing to give them to magazines that won't play ball. And as the only thing that sells and draws advertising dollars is celebrity, the hacks have in reality become PR flacks. Take for exam- ple Vanity Fair. Tina Brown turned a losing proposition into a great money- maker by featuring advertisers on the cover — people like Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein — and other intellectuals like Madonna, Michael Jackson, Jane Fonda and Al Pacino. And to call the VF profiles puff jobs would be like calling Roy Hatters- ley anorexic.
But I shouldn't complain. Perhaps get a second chance in films, and then it will be my turn to be interviewed. Eat your heart out, Jeff Bernard.
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