NY Mirror

Nelson Sullivan, the obsessive documentarian who used to follow me and other downtown freakazoids around with a grin and a video camera, has finally nabbed the recognition he deserved back when he was feverishly roaming Manhattan, his lens serving as a magnet for the flamboyantly needy. Nelson died of a heart attack in '89, supposedly after being romanced by a young stud with cocaine on his schlong—what a way to go—but he left behind his own stimulating legacy, which is now being unspooled at Gavin Brown's Enterprise in all of its kooky, bemused glory. Nelson got off on capturing club creatures being self-indulgently annoying and totally free—this was pre-Giuliani—his camera making him privy to the finest of New York nightlife at its sickest. The show serves up a Rabelaisian history of colorful cutups—everyone from RuPaulto Leigh Bowery to my wanton, debauched parents—all clutching at stardom, and buffets.

At the opening, a gaggle of club survivors came to see if they'd pop up on-screen, then ran for their lives when they did. Rock legend Jayne County fled the room in horror when she turned up in a video. "My hair's awful," she shrieked. "The wig looks dead. They'll start calling me Deadwig!" That remark was a play on the fact that Jayne feels Hedwig and the Angry Inchripped off—sorry, drew inspiration from—her life story. It's enough to make you want to fuck somebody with coke.

To bring my own legend up to date, I moderated a fashion panel at the Gay Center, where, once again, the conversation quickly soared to a genital level. We esteemed panelists deep-dished designer Randolph Duke, only to have an audience member, as it were, raise his hand and say, "I'm Randolph's publicist and he was neveraccused of sexual assault—just sexual harassment." Interestingly, the remarks we'd made about Duke's alleged bragging about penile implants were not addressed at all!

Lee Ann Womack "a little past Little Rock" at Cowgirl Hall of Fame
photo: Cary Conover
Lee Ann Womack "a little past Little Rock" at Cowgirl Hall of Fame

Moving on to the next course in ding-dong school, I'm still reeling from the wedding of Diane von Furstenbergand "confirmed bachelor" Barry Dillerand the coded coverage of it in the Times, which hinted around the bush by saying the happy couple was thought to have had a platonic relationship. (Well, at least they alludedto those doubts; hardly any of the other goo-goo-eyed write-ups went near them.) All sorts of unmarried people turned up to celebrate the "merger," no doubt throwing Judy Garland records instead of rice, and with attendees like Calvin Klein, David Geffen, Sandy Gallin, Joel Schumacher, Fran Lebowitz, and Annie Leibovitz, it was practically like a night at the Ramrod. A jubilant Calvin was quoted as saying about the wedding, "It's been 26 years. It's about time!" (I guess he pinned down hisfag hag much quicker.) And that gigantically gay fashion editor André Leon Talleygushed, "It's everything that's romantic, everything spiritual, and everything that it should be . . . " Couldn't you just vomit, darling?

At least Barry and Diane really like each other—not all legal twosomes do. And at least they're adding to the roster of marrieds now vacated by Tom Cruiseand Nicole Kidman—yes, the balance of nature goes on. (Oh, what did you make of that Post interview with an attractive male friend of Tom's, who said, "Nicole wants all of him. He's not able to give that much. She gets hurt"?) But getting back to the quease-making, let's move on to Hannibal, which is effectively creepy and way better than, say, Halloween 2, but so contrived you suspect the material's been cannibalized one too many times. Amazingly, it still manages to appall, as The Silence of the Lambs did 10 years ago with its stereotypical queer killer, though this time it's Hannibal himself who's got a gayish tinge. (Mercifully, he's not married.) In one icky scene, Hannibal has an s/m rendezvous with a guy who loses all control after one whiff of our star psycho's poppers. (Funny, the last time Idid poppers, I didn't cut my face off with glass and serve the flesh to the dogs on command, but hey, I'm not one of those kinkygays.) There's also a homophobic FBI bigwig tossing off biased remarks, though they're quickly squelched by Julianne Moore's righteous Clarice Starling, who never seems to have any love interests, by the way. We could start protesting again, but it's just so absurd you have to give in to the ludicrous camp value of it all.

The film's premiere was crawling with celebs, and they were all buzzing, schmoozing, and networking as part of the evening's true suspense thriller. Two seats over, Lorraine Braccocornered Francis Ford Coppolaand boomed out, "I have to say hello. Lorraine Bracco." Later, when the softer-spoken Ron Eldardand Julianna Marguliestried to get past me to their spots in the same row, Julianna smiled and said, "Sorry to bother you. We're those obnoxious people from TV." (And I'm Michael Musto.) At the after-party, there were no fava beans or Chianti, but a reasonable buffet—not that anyone was eating it—and plenty more obnoxious people from TV. Leaving, intimidated, I stumbled down a stair step, only to have a British lady behind me say, "Are you all right, darling?" It was Emma Thompson! My heart pounded with terror—she's nice!

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