It seldom takes a seer to divine most of the evening’s big winners, but even those who normally wring drama from dress-watching found the evening drab. Sure, low-backed getups were popular, with such stars as Geena Davis, Marisa Tomei and best actress Holly Hunter threatening to reprise Dan Aykroyd’s crack-up refrigerator-repairman role on “Saturday Night Live.” But where was Cher when we needed her?
The only excitement, really, was keeping tabs on the post-Oscar parties. The death last December of legendary agent Irving (Swifty) Lazar, whose annual bash had been undisputed champ, upset the delicate equilibrium that is industry power-bingeing. Hollywood abhors a vacuum, so the search for a new blockbuster Oscar blowout was on.
Practically everyone who’s anyone-and many who are nobody-swing by the traditional onsite Governor’s Ball, so that doesn’t count. And many of the myriad private soirees simply weren’t up to the task. Shelley Winters partying down with a dish of chicken pot pie at Chasen’s didn’t make the grade. Tia Carrere’s benefit at the Roxbury was a dud, too, although retrocoiffed siren Sharon Stone did pop in before literally stopping traffic by marching into the middle of Sunset Boulevard on her way out. At the party sponsored by human-rights group El Rescate, former dope humorist Cheech Marin and 90210er Ian Ziering twinkled faintly. Also attending was someone named Dante, who astutely remarked that “whenever I’m quoted at a party, it wasn’t the hip one.”
Elton John made a respectable bid for the hosting throne with his second annual AIDS benefit at the Maple Drive eatery. Best director and most valuable guest Steven Spielberg showed with wife Kate Capshaw. Hanks and wife Rita Wilson came too, along with honored rocker Bruce Springsteen and his wife Patti Scialfa. Emcee Whoopi Goldberg also made the scene. Maybe she was funnier there.
The big gig was the joint effort hosted by producer Steve Tisch and Vanity Fair magazine at the newly expanded and relocated Morton’s. The streets around the powertrough were blocked off so screaming fans could gape at couples like Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh, and Liam Neeson and Natasha Richardson. It was a tough ticket. “My father made Steven Spielberg,” barked the notorious son of one movie exec before being summarily denied. Candice Bergen and Whitney Houston got in, as did Nancy Kerrigan, who took every opportunity all evening to mention her corporate sponsors. But despite the prime crowd and revered venue, few were ready to anoint the party as the successor to Swifty’s. “It was a strangely desultory affair,” said one prominent insider. “It didn’t have that snappy energy.” Still, it’s not like your plumber could get in.
