Tales of a Tuxedo's Night on the Town

Well, all good things must end but the Hollywood Film Festival saved
the glitziest for last in their closing night awards gala dinner.
The festival has built its name and reputation around its ability to
attract the crème to the annual event, billed as one of the earliest of
early indicators of Oscar season, handing out its awards before most
of the year’s prestige films are even released, the HFF Gala has
positioned itself as a legitimate run-up to, or dress rehearsal for,
Award season.

The event is held at Merv Griffin’s Beverly Hilton Hotel, site of
the Golden Globes and at least a few other galas of the season.
Inside the lobby approaching the event, the red carpet area is
compressed into an abbreviated 30 or so foot lunge past a scaffold
filled with approximately 18,000 photographers and reporters. The
sheer physical weight of the assault upon this brief strip is hard to
understate; every five feet or so some barely recognizable actress
pirouettes while the mob bellows, “You! Walk along the back!
Jonathan, you’re in the way.” Chastened and rattled, you emerge
at the end in the ballroom, grateful for the open spaces and free-
range walk-up bars.

Billed as a black tie event, I have, I quickly notice, showed up in
the stodgiest old-persons’ tux on the premises. Surveying the room,
it appears “black tie” in Hollywood means exactly one-third of the
men will be wearing tuxedos, the remainder show up in their business
suits, comedic felt suits, or just jeans and t-shirts.

Standing by the door, I run into my old friends the Britzes, the
elders back from a Palm Springs golf weekend for the event. Son
Robert, who does have upon inspection, movie star range looks, was
stopped several times on the carpet and ordered to pose for photos.
Joaquin Phoenix enters and Sharlene proclaims him to be “much
shorter than I thought.”

I take my seat at table 109. I am seated between Portugal’s
Honorary Consul to Los Angeles (Festival Director Carlos de Abreu’s
countryman) and his wife and Beverly Hills Dermatologist Dr. Letania
Bussell and her charming young daughter Lisa, who made most
interesting guides to the proceedings.

The orchestra rose. The show began. As Carlos promised he would the
other night, he kept his moment in the spotlight extremely brief,
(needlessly in my opinion because I’d rather have seen him at the
mike than half the stars who came up.) And now, the highlights of
the festival closing festivities:

--Mary Hart hosted. Performing her hosting duties entirely in Mary
Hart voice, managing to read the teleprompter with the highest level
of synthetic enthusiasm the human body can muster. At no point
during the night does she give even a shadow of a hint that she ever
speaks like a normal person and doesn’t punch the end of every
second. I wonder: If there are no cameras rolling, does Mary Hart exist?

--Paula Wagner, Tom Cruise’s producing partner, presents the Film
Preservation award to James Billington, Librarian of Congress.
Wagner looks a bit grim. Insert your working with Tom Cruise joke here.

--Dinner is a green salad, chicken in cranberry sauce with
vegetables, and for desert a very worthy chocolate crème mousse tart
concoction.

--Mary Hart scolds the audience for talking during the James
Billington presentation. But she grins maniacally as she does so.

--Halle Berry misses her cue, the band goes quiet and then she comes
running in from the back of the room. She says, “I just got
here,” and then gives the Hollywood Leadership Award to “my friend
Tom Ortenberg” President of Lion’s Gate Films Releasing. Ortenberg accepts
saying “Even though Halle and I don’t get to see each other very
often, from the first time we met, I’ve called her my friend.”

--Quentin Tarantino introduces Hollywood Make-up Artist of the Year,
Greg Nicotero and manages not to be too annoying about it. Jodie
Foster presents to Casting Director Avy Kaufman. Rob Marshall to
Costumer Colleen Atwood, his “soul mate.” Colin Hanks to
Production Designer Grant Major. There is something kinda nice about
seeing these Hollywood stars and big shots make speeches in honor of
backstage folks.

--A blonde Rachel McAdams getting the Breakthrough Actress award
seems remarkably nervous and looking down at the podium, keeps having
to brush her strands of her complicated hair-do out of her face while
she speaks.

--Before Paul Haggis receives his Breakthrough Director of the Year
award, clips of “Crash” are shown in which the swear words are
bleeped out. When Haggis takes the stage, he thanks the young man who
carjacked him at gunpoint five years ago, inspiring “Crash.” ‘You can keep
the car,” he says.

--The ceremony is a solid march of awards presentations – no song
and dance numbers, no comedic bits. Just presenters, clips and
acceptance speeches.

--Pawel Edelman accepts the Cinematographer award from Kerry
Washington. As he greets her, Dr. Bussell points out that the new
European way of greeting is now to kiss three times, one-upping the
previous two, and two-upping the American one kiss.

--Keanu Reeves gives a very deep, languorous introduction of
screenwriter Akiva Goldsman, noting his “affection for humanity.”
It is unclear whether the Goldsman clips reel is a tribute or a
warning, featuring as it does, clips from Goldsman classics “Batman
Forever” and “Batman and Robin.” However, when Goldsman accepts
he notes he placed those two films in the reel to warn “It’s
important to remember that just because you’re something today,
doesn’t mean you were anything yesterday. And if you’re nothing
today, you could be something tomorrow.”

--Standing ovation from the crowd as the cast of “Crash” gets the
ensemble award.

--Jennifer Aniston presenting Breakthrough Actor to Jake
Gyllenhaal, “I like to think of myself as his Mrs. Robinson.”
Gyllenhaal gives a rambling nervous speech in which he thanks
everyone he ever met, except Dr. Bussell’s daughter Lisa, who knew
him in high school.

--Charlize Theron receives Actress of the Year award from “North
Country” co-star Jeremy Renner, who hugs her for an uncomfortably long
time. Charlize says in her speech – “Jeremy, I liked the sexual
harassment scenes secretly. But I liked harassing you back more.”

--“Walk the Line” Director James Mangold gives a very long speech
for Joaquin Phoenix in which he calls him “Joaq.”

--Sam Mendes (whom the Portuguese consul points out is a son of
Portugal) accepting Best Director for “Jarhead” says, “I’m very
fond of giving awards to movies you’ve never seen. To those of you
who’ve seen the movie, thank you very much. To those who
haven’t – it’s perfect.”

--The Best Movie of the year is announced based on the votes of
70,000 people at the HFF website. And no surprise…the best film
is…the prestige favorite, “Revenge of the Sith.” More
remarkably, George Lucas is there to accept the award. He says,
“After 30 years of trying, believe it or not, this is the first
award Star Wars has ever won.” He goes on to make a dumb joke about
how good Sam Mendes new film is and gives a full-fledged acceptance
speech saying the award belongs to the thousands of crew members who
worked on the films.

--Goldie Hawn presents the Career Achievement Award to Diane Keaton,
who you’d think after all the trophies she’s taken home in her
life is pretty blasé about them, but gets touchingly choked up as she
reads a long, very personal speech she’s written, at the end of
which she talks about how much Judy Garland affected her and signs
the last two lines of “Over the Rainbow” bringing down the house
in a confused but tearful standing ovation.

The show ends and thus draws to a close my week at the Hollywood film
festival. It’s been a journey to remember, and I’ll always recall
with fondness the friends I’ve made along the way…The Britzes of
Winnetka, Kyle the autograph hunter, the Portuguese Honorary Consol
and at least a dozen more. On the way out, I see Joilene Britz who
seems both giddy from the event and sad to see it ending. But next
year’s only 51 weeks away, I note. Until then…?

C'mon, Everybody Knows Brenda Fraser

File photo of the Arclight Lobby.

I went up to see "After the Sea," an Argentine film described in the program as "Fragments of a love story at the end of the world." And it was that. This was the movie that Carlos, the festival director, had circumspectly described to me yesterday "very artistic, if you like something artistic." Whether that was a review or a warning, it turned out to be correct. Before the film however, a couple of very lively animated shorts screened, "The Mantis Parable" and "Pulcinello," the stories of a praying mantis and drunken gondelier respectively. I poked my head into "The Chef" which seemed a competently made thriller set on a sea-going freighter, a backdrop which made me wonder why there weren't more films made on sea-going freighters. Off the top of my head, I couldn't think of any and if the movie-going public is anything like me, they could stand at least five freighter films a year.

I venture out on into the courtyard, which is still nearly empty by Arclight standards with a few lone people scattered around the concrete and glass chasm. On closer inspection however, there is something a little strange about the people out here — something stilted and nervous about their movements, they glace nervously about. I notice many are carrying either leather portfolios or FedEx envelopes. I realize I have walked unknowingly into an autograph hunters stake-out.

I approach one man sitting on the concrete ledge that wraps around the theater's exterior and ask who he is waiting for. "Dakota Fanning," he mutters, not looking at me. She is apparently, half-expected (no one seems to be absolutely sure she's coming) for the screening of the newly English-dubbed version of Hayao Miyazaki's "My Neighbor Totoro." I ask my new friend how much a Dakota Fanning autograph is worth. "I wouldn't know," he almost spits at me. "I don't sell them. I'm a collector." He tells me that he spends his weekends going out in search of celebrity autographs and the festival presents a rare opportunity where you're not behind a protective line, that is, if she doesn't go in through the secret underground entrance through the garage. "However," he concedes, "I can be a little weird running after a ten year old."

Proving his point, a few minutes later, I see from a distance a woman and a young blonde girl walking into the theater. All of a sudden someone yells, "Dakota" and pivoting on a spring action, ten middle-aged men leap half a step towards this little girl before they realize it is not Herself. The young girl and the woman, extremely freaked out by the moment, hurry inside.

After waiting a few minutes more, I walk up to a group of three twentysomethings, a slightly Goth-ish young man and two women in windbreakers. I ask if they are waiting for Dakota. "I don't give a damn about Dakota," the young man who later tells me his name is Kyle (and prefers to keep is last name secret). "I'm waiting for ----." I thought he said Brenda Fraser. "Who is she?" I ask.

"You don't know who Brendan Fraser is?" I am fearful we are about to come to blows when I assure him I do know but misheard him. Kyle tells me that he only collects autographs from two celebrities — Brendan Frasier and John Travolta. Kyle is here because the former is receiving a HFF award tomorrow night and he hopes he might show up at the screening (that hope will prove to be in vain.) He gives me a bit of insight into the various strata of signature/picture seeker society. "I'm not a collector," he says. "I'm a fan." Both collector and fan however, see themselves several rungs on the moral food chain above the paparazzi, a couple of whom they point out across the courtyard. "They are all garbage," Kyle says.

Melissa, one of Kyle's friends, points out that the inherent difference in what autograph seekers and paparazzi do is in the fact that celebrities must actively cooperate with, and therefore give tacit approval, of the autographing process for it to produce any results, whereas paparrazi just grab a picture without any cooperation or consent. Kyle points out, at another level, across the courtyard someone they call "Red Bull." "He's what we call a True Fan," I'm told. "He's at the premieres, the clubs, the restaurants. He's everywhere."

I go inside for the "Totoro" screening. Neither Dakota, nor her younger sister Elle who also provides a voice for the film appears. The screening is to a full house. Of the four Miyazaki films I've seen, I rate this second, which is to say it was totally engrossing. (The newly dubbed version is being released on DVD next year, with no theatrical run planned.) In the Q and A afterwards, I learn about what sounds like an agonizing process of trying to write translations of Japanese lines where the English will match the mouth movements of the animated characters and then making the actors read them at the same speed. Makes me glad I'm not an animation translator. I also hear from the producers that Miyazaki now prefers that his films be dubbed rather than subtitled, saying that people miss too much reading sub-titles. And, according to the director, Elle Fanning was a "real pro."

In the after party, where some sticky but not-bad-at-all pecan bars were going around (along with still-good-but-a-tier-below lemon bars and chocolate-and-raspberry bars). I meet Josh Staub who made the animated short I saw earlier, "The Mantis Parable." Josh is carrying around a oversized HFF golden trophy that must weigh close to 20 lbs. having won the festival's Best Animated Short Award. He tells me of his journey on the festival trail having won awards recently in Seattle, Winnepeg, Rhode Island and Palm Springs. A Seattle-based Art Director for Cyan Games, Staub spent 18 months creating "Mantis" at nights on his home computer. He says that for the maker of an animated short, to get into 15% of the festivals to which you submit is generally your hope. When "Mantis" was accepted to all of the first five, he trimmed back his list, only submitting to the 30-45 festivals, which, if you win, qualifies the film for the best animated short Oscar, the career making nomination for an aspiring feature film animator. Having won a serious number of awards now, up against people with gigantic budgets and huge credits behind them, Staub now awaits word of the Oscar category short list, to be announced in a month or so, while, traveling budget depleted, he'll be sending the film onto festivals without his personal escorting of it.

And thus ended the final screening night of the Festival. Tomorrow — it is on to the Gala Awards Banquet. My tuxedo stands at the ready.

Turkey and Doritos? Count me in

After a fairly slumbering Friday night, the Hollywood Film Festival
roared or at least shimmied back to life Saturday afternoon with a
full, diverse and sporadically well-attended daylong slate of
screenings.

In describing what is the focus of the Hollywood Film Festival, Fest
Director Carlos De Abreu, a hyper-charged, Portuguese transplant who
looks something like a Euro-jet-setting version of Eugene
Levy, speaks of the HFF as a meeting of worlds: European cinema meets
commercial Hollywood movies meets shoestring DIY indie films. Going
through the schedule with me to point out his favorites, Carlos’
recommendations frenetically veer across these chasms. “This one is
very artistic,” he tells me pointing out an Argentine romance, “I
don’t know if that’s what you like. Now this one,” he points out a
local indie production, “This is more a fun film. And then maybe you
like horror…”

The all-over-the-mapness of the HFF makes for an interestingly hard-
to-get-a-feel-for-what-exactly-it-is vibe during the Saturday
screenings. On the upper deck of the bustling Arclight cinema, three
screens become a little HFF village with this hodgepodge selection.
Shuttling between them, and pushing through the “Shopgirl” crowds, I
feel a bit like I’m pin balling around through the electric currents
of Carlos’ kinetic impulses.

I arrive a bit after 2 PM; the Arclight already doing its Grand
Central station impersonation. I head upstairs and catch a couple
foreign shorts: “Last Days” an earnest German WWII remaking of the
“Enemy Mine” theme, and BV-01, a five-minute show-off of some CG
effects of a robo cop running around and shooting things.

Out in the hall, “24” star Reiko Aylesworth (head of CTU in the
second half of last season), has just emerged from a screening of her
indie film “crazylove” and signs autographs for a long line of fest-
goers. Back down in the lobby, a massive crowd has formed by the HFF
check-in desk. I push through and see the cast of the shortly-to-screen
indie film “A Couple of Days and Nights” posing for a group
photo while no fewer than nine photographers snap them. I wonder if
staging a group photo shoot in mid-Arclight lobby is their cunning
plan to create buzz for the low-budget film. If it is, I am clearly
Sucker No. 1 as, drawn in by the hype, I head up to their screening.
On the way in, I stand behind one of the film’s stars on the candy
line, very personable actress Allison Munn, who tells me that she
will be playing Tequilla, a rich girl/wanna-be Latina rapper. I
note, impressed, Allison’s candy order: large Diet Coke, popcorn and
black coffee. “You don’t want to come to my house for Thanksgiving,”
she tells me. “You’ll end up eating Doritos with your turkey.”

The screening is nearly full, although many to most present seem to
be associated either with the film or the short that screens before
it, “Crown Heights” a pantomime about racial tensions in a Brooklyn
grocery store. “Days and Nights” director Vaughn Verdi intro’s his
film, calling it a tribute to Billy Wilder. While he speaks,
the “Crown Heights” cheering section behind me argues that someone
should go up and say something on behalf of their film. Apparently,
the director is not present and his brother is “seeing another
movie.” A young man finally gets up and strides to the front, taking
the mike from Verdi and explaining the Crown Heights director
couldn’t be there because he is out shooting another short. “Go USC!”
he says before sitting down.

After these films, I poke my head into “Champion” a documentary which
tells the story of character actor Danny Trejo, (whom you have seen
as the really scary looking Latino gangster in every movie of the
last ten years that has needed a really scary looking Latino
gangster) and his fall and rise from drug addicted San Quentin inmate
to the hardest-working character actor in showbiz/mentor to legions
of screwed up young men. As the movie ends, I see the younger
generation of Britzes there, Juliene (who informs me I’ve been
misspelling her name) Dawn and Robert Jr., now joining the group.
They again offer big thumbs-up to “Champion,” citing its
inspirational message. “I hope it gets shown more,” Juliene says.
“I think this would be a wonderful movie for a lot of kids to see.”
They also tell me that Robert and Sharlene have taken the night off,
worn out by the week of hard festival going, but they’ll be back on
the circuit tomorrow.

MY final film of the night is “The Sisters,” shown in the smallish
but festive, alcohol-permitted Cinema Nine. The film is a modern
adaptation of Chekhov’s “Three Sisters” starring Maria Bello, Erika
Christensen, Mary Stuart Masterson and Rip Torn. The crowd coming in
looks strangely much too shiny and polished to be mere theater goers
looking for a good modern Chekov-retelling, but then I am informed
that one of the film’s co-stars, Eric McCormack, is a “Will and
Grace” star and the cast of the show, including Grace herself in a
Black-and-white leopard-patterned wrap, are on hand to support him.
Thanks however, to the TV rif-raff filling up the theater, it looks
like the young Britzes are unable to get tickets for this screening.
Without offering too much opinion on the film, I will only say it was
tremendously well-received by the crowd and the kind of
stagey-languaged film you don’t see much anymore these days.

I consider moving on to the screening in the after-hours horror
festival, but with two days still to go, I decide to preserve my
energies for the hard days of theater sitting still ahead.

We Interrupt This Programming...

Your Hollywood Film Festival blogger was forced to miss one night of the excitement. Thursday night's screening, "Bullets Over Hollywood," was a documentary about depictions of the mafia in Hollywood and Richard reports having a terrible, uncurable gangster phobia.

Your humble blogger will return tomorrow with all the lastest from the Festival.

If it's Angelina, hold all my calls!

'North Country' Theron and Frances McDormand star as women pitted against their fellow miners in small-town Minnesota when times get tough.

After the red-carpeted hoopla of the Hollywood Film Festival's opening night, Night Two is a bit of a return to Earth. This eve the fest offers two simultaneous screenings at Hollywood's Arclight Cinema, a "Special Screening" of Charlize Theron's upcoming sexual harassment drama "North Country" and a "Centerpiece Premiere" of "Fierce People" an independent film directed by Griffin Dunne, described in the festival schedule as a story about a troubled young man and his troubled mother (played by Diane Lane) who take refuge one summer at the estate of the mother's rich friend (Donald Sutherland), where "things spiral out of control when both see that wealth and friendships come at a price."

Once again, even with glacial traffic on the 101, I arrived embarrassingly early. I am reserved to attend "North Country," but with time to kill, I watched the crowd checking into the two movies,
trying to gauge which screening is the truly red hot ticket of Night Two. As I watch, hyper-watted festival director Carlos de Abreu swept across the Arclight lobby shouting into his cell phone at full furnace blast, "Yes, I understand if Angelina says yes..." Studying the entering crowds, I decide the "Fierce People" audience looks to be slightly higher octane than the "North"erners and that in screening lingo "Centerpiece" clearly must be superior to "Special" and trade in my ticket.

Before the film, there is a pre-party in the little balcony bar upstairs. Griffin Dunne and Diane Lane are greeting guests, posing for pics taken by a trio of photographers. I'll say this for the Hollywood Film Festival, while you don't exactly see celebs letting their hair down like they were in their private hot tub, the events do seem to give ticket holders pretty unusual proximity to our national treasures.

While I stake out the circulating hor'devours (little scoops of mashed potatoes and steak on tortilla chips, breaded chicken skewers and the inevitable but always welcome crabcakes), I chat with Joel Michaely, actor and noted fixture at any Hollywood party worth its name. Michaely, (who tells me he's been killed in three horror movies in the past three months) is at his second party of the night, having just come from Jamie Pressley's fashion show at Smashbox. (He still has one more to go before he sleeps.) Asked if he is on the Hollywood Film Festival circuit, he tells me he didn't make it to the screening last night, but did go to the after-party at Shane Black's house, which lasted until 4 AM and included a late-night pizza delivery and "dancing, dancing, dancing."

Tonight, he says he is here to support "Fierce" distributor Lion's Gate who "really treat people like family." We part as Donald Sutherland sweeps in, managing as few others could to pull off a black wool blazer with a red sweater tied around his neck.

The screening commences an embarrasingly close-to-on-time 15 minutes late. Before it starts, event staff fuss hugely about the red Xeroxed "Reserved for Lions Gate" signs which have been taped to about a third of the theater seats and are ripped off by helpful attendants before members of the Lion's Gate family sit down. Once again, I will refrain from offering my unworthy review of the film. I will merely mention that a plot twist about mid-way through the film veers us down a much darker path than the festive pre-party prepared us for. I suspect while watching, that the festival's bon vivant spirit might be a little tamped down post-screening, although the folks across the way watching Charlize fight off unwanted attentions are sure to come out ready to party.

After the film, a reporter moderates a Q&A session with Dunne, Lane, three of the film's young stars and novelist Dirk Wittenborn who wrote the script and the book upon which the film was based. Donald Sutherland, for reasons unexplained, does not participate. Dunne speaks likably about what drew him to the material ("I like sons of f-ed up mothers.") and the diffficulties of shooting on minimal budget, explaining that one of the key scenes was actually shot at two separate locations. Lane, who's participation we are told, got the movie made, says she liked that the film was "multi-layered in terms of the tapestry it creates." She also uses the word "insouciance" which is enough to win me over. The three young stars mostly stare adorably at their feet like kids forced to eat at the adults table. Wittenborn says he was inspired to write the film by growing up a poor kid hanging out with rich kids. He also warns, appropos of the film's theme, "The people who run America disseminate this fantasy that they are ineffectual but they are not. They are very smart and tenacious." We stand warned.

Coming out of the theater, I run into my visiting-from-Winetka friends from last night, the Britzes, who are coming out of "North Country" just as a Presidential motorcade-sized security cordon sweeps Charlize to the elevator. Once again, the Britzes reviews are extremely positive, all offering big thumbs up. "An amazing movie. Very nicely done," says Sharlene. Daughter Jolene, the lawyer, however, speaks out for her professional interest group and opines that the film skimped on its courtroom scenes. Robert, also weighs in that, as a business owner, while he doesn't approve of the way Charlize was treated, he can understand the mens' fears about losing their livelihood to female competetion. They also report that Charlize was charming, a true star, during the Q&A. But she also apparently showed a human side, joking when her mike picked up some interference that it was her stomach growling. Jolene weighs in that she seems like someone "you could see yourself going to drinks with."

Before leaving, I chat with Carlos, the festival director, who's enthusiasm for the event bubbles over. The mixing of people from Hollywood with people from the outside world is what it's all about he says: "To have Charlize in one room and these independent people across the hall." He tells the story of Director Craig Brewer who came to town years ago when a film he made was screened. "I got him an attorney. I got him a manager." And that Craig Brewer went on to sweep Sundance last year as director of "Hustle & Flow." I ask De Abreu if he is planning to make much of a speech at the black tie gala coming up on Monday but he shakes his head vehemently. "I hate speeches. When I see these other people making them, I get so tired. It's our guests night, not our night."

A night under the stars

PHOTO GALLERY: 'Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang'

The Hollywood Film Festival kicked off with a giant screening at the classic Grauman's Chinese Theater that captured the magic of Hollywood premieres circa last weekend. The film was "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang" the return of notedly MIA screenwriter Shane Black, one time master of glib-talking buddy shoot ’em ups like "The Last Boy Scout."

Tonight, the Chinese sidewalk was the familiar throng of freelance Chewbaccas, Zorros and a Spider-Man in denim shorts posing for snapshots with tourists. I was shepherded to the side of the red carpet, stepping clear of a pair of not-even-slightly-familiar-looking celebs mugging for the photogs.

Entering the theater, thanks to my Hollywood Film fest badge, I was gifted with a coupon for complimentary VIP popcorn and soda. In the cavernous lobby, the VIP line to redeem these coupons stretched almost out the door. I stood and waited to cash in, noticing the non-VIP popcorn line was almost empty. The Zegna-quotient of the crowd in general was far less than at most premieres, with plain-clothed, casual, brazenly non-industry types running wild with the gaggles of hair-sprayed men in crisp, tailored black suits, colored shirts and no ties. After securing my heavily-buttered bounty, I attempted to loiter in the lobby, swearing not to leave until I spotted at least one celeb. A roving tuxedoed usher, however, announced repeatedly into a wireless mike, "Once you have your popcorn and soda, please take your seats." Translation: "Stop gawking like some tourist from the Arctic Circle, sit down and behave like the seasoned hanger-oner you’d be lucky to be."

I attempted to ignore him until he stood directly in front of me, and not making eye contact, made the announcement into the mike three times. Then I took my seat.

Sitting down at 7:05 PM, five minutes after the film was scheduled to start,I saw immediately that the theater was only a third full and cursed my naïveté for showing up on time.
In Hollywood, arriving at the scheduled start time for a premiere is like calling a woman, or worse yet, an agent the day after you get his/her number — the most desperate, pathetic mark of Cain. I settled in for the wait, my popcorn disappearing much too fast.

On my right, the most elegant, formally attired, older couple in the house pointed out a well-composed pair of young Hollywood damsels, and tut tuted in sympathy as the pair found their way to the worst seats in the house, fifth row, along the wall. I introduce myself. The couple is Sharlene and Robert Britz in town from Winetka, Illinois. They are there with their daughter Jolene, a local attorney, and sister-in-law, Dawn. Jolene bought the tickets after being emailed info about the festival. She is not sure why she is on the list, but thought it would be fun for her parents to attend a movie premiere and they flew out for the event. Just last Saturday, Sharlene and Robert drove to Sound Bend, Indiana to attend the USC/Notre Dame game. (They are SC alums.) I asked them if they expect this event will compare to that and they shake their heads, "It’s not fair to compare. This is fun, but that was once in a lifetime," says Robert.

At 7:30, we see stars Val Kilmer and Robert Downey Jr. finally enter. Jolene with remarkable acuity spots Corbin Bernson. Downey and Val (who not a year ago I saw on stage next door at the Kodak Theater as singing Moses in Max Azaria’s musical production of "The Ten Commandments") come up front to introduce the film. Val attempts a very half-hearted bit of humor, hiding behind the curtain, and then leaping out, getting Downey to explain "He thinks he’s getting an award." Val then gives a completely awkward mock acceptance speech, saying "I’d like to thank Joel Silver. I’d like to thank..." and breaking into tears, until Downey intercedes, taking the mike back, and very briefly intros the film. Val breaks into a run up the aisle back to his seat. It makes me wonder what obscure corner of reality one’s self-image would be occupying when Robert Downey Jr. serves as your down-to-Earth straight man. I ask Robert Britz what he thought of the speeches. "Adequate" is his politic reply.

I will not comment on the film itself, leaving the official LA Times verdict to our august film critics to deliver in due time. I will, however, quote the reactions of the Britzes, who give every sign of being a tough crowd, speaking out vigorously against the last film they saw, "War of the Worlds." On "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang" however, the feeling amongst the clan is unanimously positive. Robert, for who Sharlene later notes that it says something if he stays awake for the whole film, proclaims it was "marvelous. It was unpredictable and that’s what I need to keep me interested." He singles out Downey’s performance as being particularly compelling. Sharlene agreed, "Very entertaining and quite funny." Her reviews however repeatedly note the flashes of nudity in the film which she approvingly says, "was just enough to be titillating."

Escorting the Britzes, I walk with the crowd across Hollywood Blvd. to the legendary-after-only-several-months-in-existence Tropicana Club at the Roosevelt Hotel. I explain to the Britzes that this poolside is the most fabulous nightclub currently going in Hollywood. "Don’t the people in those rooms mind the noise?" Sharlene asks, indicating the doors hovering inches above party central. "I think they come here for it," I tell her. She nods approvingly.
The crowd is packed closely between the bar and the pool. Walking in, I see a pair of Endeavor superagents holding a confab front and center. I recognize "Sideways" producer Michael London off to a side. The Britzes go in search of drinks and to find a little space out of the crush. I brazen my way through, observing the heroic efforts of a few event staff to save the central couches for the men of the hour, despite the crowd tumbling from the bar over the upholstery and trying to perch on every corner. "Sterling!" one calls to a suited-man across the room. He motions towards the couch. "This is for him. This is for HIM!"

Leaning against a covered pool table, I see Kilmer clutched in deep conversation with none other than Vincent Gallo. I ache to know what they could possibly be talking about but can’t get nearly close enough.

In another corner of the room, “Kiss-Kiss”’s legendary producer Joel Silver pontificates to a mob of people who gaze adoringly, looking like they want to lift his significant mass onto their shoulders and carry him around the room in triumph. Two waitress bearing trays of snacks are urgently diverted from their route and re-directed towards Silver, who moves away before the delicacies (crabcakes, California rolls, tandoori chicken skewers) reach him.

Back across the poolside, the Britzes are enjoying themselves but not overwhelmed by their first glitzy Hollywood party. "It’s not as wild as the party in the movie," says Sharlene referring to a bacchanalian fete depicted in "Kiss Kiss." Robert is more forgiving, commenting on the decent drinks and both agree it is a lovely setting, lack of orgy aside. "It’s a hotel party," he says. "It’s alright."

Jolene and Dawn, however, return from a rather unpleasant encounter with fame. Jolene had approached Downey’s couch and asked a woman in his entourage if she might get an autograph. Although Downey was, they say, barely inches away, the woman responded, "I’ll have to ask his publicist." The woman spoke to another woman, who whispered something to Downey and then returned declaring, "He’s not signing autographs tonight." Jolene and Dawn now mark themselves as somewhat less enthusiastic fans of the star than they had been an hour earlier.

Later, I notice the Britzes brush with greatness continues. Gallo and his entourage have taken up the empty seats at their table. Gallo is in deep mind meld with one young woman, while three others, all at once, unaware of the self-parodic target they are offering any photographer with his wits about him, scroll in unison through text messages on their cell phones. I try to explain to the Britzes whom Gallo is, but soon give up.

Looking around, I notice the superagents have largely vanished and bidding good night to the Britzes, regretting that I will have to go through tomorrow night without their consol, I take my leave.