By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
The awards themselves were a colossal letdown, especially since Saving Private Ryan won so few major honors that I never even got to sit on my hands. Also upsettingly, Sir Ian McKellen failed to become the first gay sorry, openly gay actor to nab a trophy, and I hope it wasn't because he'd had a promo party at a Chelsea cruise bar. But I did love Anne Heche's mike not working when she announced the technical awards, the quick cut to Warren and Annette after Whoopi's crack about older men and younger women, and the interpretive dance to the score of The Thin Red Line. James Coburn's wife looked fabulous, but it was Harvey Weinstein who, by the end of the night, radiated so much power that I became desperate to have sex with him!
Everyone looked gorge at this year's Jackie awards because the evening's Ascot ball theme manifested itself in Cecil Beatonish hats and fetching scarves planted delicately atop leather dominatrix outfits. The ceremony honoring performances given at the club Mother celebrated the altogether kooky Jackie 60 family, who come together weekly to act out their goth, fetish, and Deborah Harry obsessions with the fervor of neglected siblings secretly meeting in the basement to put on a show. This event (along with the club's darkly subversive A Very Jackie Christmas) is one of the year's biggies, when all the fashion and performance renegades grab at the spotlight with a scary eagerness to please and be pleased. As usual, the honorees were drag queens, go-go boys, strippers, and women with giant strap-on dildos and they all wanted to sit on my hands. (Oy, I'm starting to sound like Joan Rivers.)
The night kicked off with the Dueling Bankheads presenting a special honor to two beloved people who've transformed nightlife with their endless innovation . . . Screaming Rachael and Michael Alig! (They were kidding it was for Mother's own Chi Chi Valenti and Johnny Dynell.) Sadly enough, Valenti then announced that December 28 will not only be the last Jackie of the century, it'll be the last one ever. They're abandoning the weekly party, though some of the Jackie classics (like the Stevie Nicksathon) will be revisited and Mother will go on to mother all the new 21st-century sickos.
The award for wackiest coincidence goes to Oscar winner Gwyneth Paltrow's ex, Ben Affleck. A while ago, Page Six ran a blind item about an actor whose neighbors wished he'd get blinds, since they'd peeked into his boudoir window and caught him basically good will hunting with a guy. Well, recently, the same column did a blinds item that wasn't a blind item namely that Patrick Stewart told Gwyneth that Affleck's loft needs blinds because you can see into his window! Is this coincidental or what? Even more recently, as I reported, a radio jock brashly broadcast a rumor that Affleck's a friend of Dorothy. Well, I'm still waiting for his publicist to open his blinds and get back to me with a response!
While we're window-shopping: Two weeks ago, I wrote that the fabulously swishy Tinky Winky is mysteriously not represented in commercials for the interactive Teletubbies dolls. Not to worry; the 'Tubbies' marketing people just called to assure me that, though they're only marketing the female characters right now, the other two 'Tubbies will definitely have their day in August. So Tinky isn't a girl?
Girls with giant strap-ons are the target audience for the fun Broadway quadrille Closer, which makes The Blue Room look like a kiddie play area. The show's decked out with all the raunch Giuliani's tried to keep out of Times Square, but because it has the stamp of serious theater and it'll bring in tourist trade, it's no doubt OK with him. The drama's big cybersex scene features two guys exchanging e-mail like "Sit on my face, fuckboy" (a long story), but when they're not hiding behind computers, those blokes are a tad more demure; one of them even hesitates before saying the C-word in front of Natasha Richardson, only to have Natasha gamely exclaim, "I'm a grown-up. Cunt away!" I felt the same way, and was a sucker for all the calculatedly adult talk, like when the stripper shoves her ass in a patron's face and he perceptively asks, "Are you flirting with me?"
You can flirt till you drop at one of the few real deals left in Times Square. It's Stella's not a $75-a-seat lost work by Tennessee Williams, but a male strip joint whose five-buck admission includes access to a lovely cocktail. The upper level is faux glitzy, with Broadway posters and very old queens mixing with very young queens. And the very same generational salad populates the cozy downstairs area, where the Saturday night go-go show has various studs all named Carlos disrobing to the beat, then working the audience with a touching (and feeling) ambition. It's more like cunt, get away!