NY Mirror


As sure as The Pillowman should have used a "vote your fingers" campaign, I'll bet you four quarters that the first show of the new season, ELAINE MAY's triple feature After the Night and the Music, won't get any Tonys next year. It dabbles in dated themes, drops rickety references, and has a lispy quartre-sexual who cries during The Wizard of Oz. What's more, the second playlet owes a shitload to an uncredited Dorothy Parker piece in which a woman desperately waits for a man to call. (But since that was written in the '30s, you can understand her not having call waiting.) On the bright side, the first playlet—a dance-hall fantasia—is a wispy delight, and there's no mistaking May's wry twists throughout. But as sure as BILL IRWIN's life will be hell from now on, forget about getting any Tonys.

Inside the biz: Nicky Hilton, Kevin Dillon, Monique Nguyen, and May Andersen at the after-party for HBO's Entourage
photo: Joe Schildhorn/PMC
Inside the biz: Nicky Hilton, Kevin Dillon, Monique Nguyen, and May Andersen at the after-party for HBO's Entourage

My award for best funnish Wednesday gayish party is BANG! downstairs at No. 1 Chinese, where MATT BELL, JIMMY IM, and BABY C host and LOGO cameras have been shooting it all for posterity. "Even the straight guys seem gay," remarked a guest.

And the best gossip: I hear MAXWELL's CD Black Summer's Night is being held up as the label tries to figure out what to do with his lyrics, which are more sexually revealing than they'd like. I knew he was one of us!

Anyway, I'm Tony Sinclair. Ready to Tanqueray?

Watching each other's backs: Mr. (Brad Pitt) and Mrs. (Angelina Jolie) Smith
photo: Stephen Vaughn/SMPSP


I just ran into the eternal DR. RUTH in a TV greenroom, where we both looked spiffy and a little overanxious. "What we won't do for TV!" she trilled. . . . Or for the stage. If MICHAEL JACKSON really ever ends up performing at Wynn Las Vegas, he'll be in the same casino as the gay-multiculti-stripper puppets of that racy children's show for grown-ups, Avenue Q. Sounds like a fascinating fit. . . . I hear that grown-up musical about kids, Billy Elliot—which just got raves in London—beefs up the miners plotline, so the show's tutu-wearing young lads share equal time with the grimy-faced, striking macho workers. Picture The Boy From Oz (but straight) meets Les Miz.

In the adult world of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, a line that gets a laugh has a couples therapist asking Brangelina, "How often do you have sex?" "I don't understand the question," answers Ms. Jolie evasively. . . . I don't understand Cinderella Man, which is basically Seabiscuit with boxing gloves, and which amounts to a piece of glowingly made cornpone fraudulence that could have easily been propagated before call waiting.

But back to the kids: With two of Madagascar's lead animals voiced by African Americans, am I the only one who feels the plot is uncomfortably reminiscent of a PRINCESS MICHAEL type "go back to Africa where you came from" idea? Yes? OK, I'll shut up now. No, wait. Club goddess CODIE RAVIOLI tells me that, despite murmurs, she's not selling her NAN GOLDIN photos to get anything else. "They're photos of me 15 years ago!" said Codie, sensibly.


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