By Albert Samaha
By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
Every inch a queen, co-star Mamie Gummer popped up, gushing, "It was stepping back in time and working with Ang Lee. It was a big fucking deal for me!" Does she have any more fucking theater lined up? "Not right now," admitted Meryl's daughter. "If you know anybody, have them call me."
Jonathan Groff—who has The Bacchae lined up—told me he liked doing this film back-to-back with the equally hippie-dippie Hair in Central Park. "I could research for both projects," he said, with penetrating eyes. "I felt lucky to be living in this world—my own personal summer of '69." But Groff stopped short at actually doing acid.
Another intense young thing from period pieces, Emile Hirsch, earnestly told me, "If there's any overriding message to the film, it's the power of good vibes. When I go to a concert, I'm so paranoid, thinking, 'This is going to break out into violence or a stampede or something fucking like that.' " But Woodstock simply ended with fucking garbage-collecting.
On the gay club scene, where they do want queens, I was recently rebuffed by a friend who didn't want to go to Beige, moaning, "Oh, yeah. I'm going to go two miles out of my way to get snubbed by a bunch of uppity twinks." Works for me.
Meanwhile, hairier types have had it a little rough lately. A mass e-mail from a promoter just went out saying, "We're so sorry about last week's last-minute cancellation. The Star Lounge had to turn over 200 of you away due to a double booking last week. We felt it best not to mix hip-hop and bears." I guess gangstas and chubs don't complete each other. The consolation was a two-hour open vodka bar if you came the next time, though I think offering free beers at the White House would have been way more gracious.
And finally, lift your finest champale for the first show of the Broadway season: Burn the Floor, a sweaty revue made up of calisthenics, smoke machines, and waxed chests, though the relentless boy-girl pairings are odd considering that some of the shirtless guys up there don't exactly look like Dustin Hoffman. Even weirder, there's not a single Afro onstage! What is this, Dancing With the Mormons?