Every time poor Farrah Fawcett opens her mouth, the whole world gathers to see if the result will be as damaging as Courtney Love‘s exposed scabby arm. Well, I’m thrilled to report that the little lady didn’t disgrace herself the other week on a panel about “Love” at Michael Jordan‘s steak house, proving way more coherent than anything in the Charlie’s Angels movies.
At my table—along with pre-prepared plates of not steak—was Tom Wiggin, who played opposite Farrah in the doomed play Bobbi Boland and who even more notoriously co-starred with yours truly in Twelfth Night at Columbia. When I related this fact to the assembled, author Rona Jaffe exclaimed, “I didn’t know you went to college!”
Anyway, the onstage discussion—hosted by The Week—was lively, especially when Farrah revealed that she meets a lot of younger guys, one of whom told her, “You know, I could go all night.” “I’ve never been with a man who couldn’t go all night,” Farrah shot back. Me-ouch! To perhaps elevate the discourse, moderator Harold Evans got Bernardo Bertolucci on the speakerphone, though Evans strangely didn’t mention the guy’s current sex hit, The Dreamers. “When you made Last Tango in Paris. . . ” he said. “I am in Rome,” answered the director, confused. “What was the question?” Things were sorted out and Bertolucci admitted that when he met Jean-Luc Godard, “I was so emotional that I vomited on him.” Hubba-hubba! “Was the love for Godard erotic?” asked Evans, un-nauseatingly. “What?” said Bertolucci, doing a Farrah. “The connection is quite bad.” Evans put the Oscar winner on hold and never got back to him!
By the way, Tom Wiggin’s take on Bobbi Boland? “Farrah and I had a good time. I don’t know what happened. Everything was fine until it wasn’t.”
Everything was everything at Paper‘s Deitch Projects dinner for Tilda Swinton, where it turned out Tilda is a warm soul—our connection was quite good—not at all like her glamorously remote screen persona. I told the Scottish star I’d seen Teknolust, in which she plays a biogeneticist and three automatons, and she said approvingly, “It makes John Waters look like Merchant-Ivory.” Her favorite movie this year? “School of Rock,” she decided. Sorry—I didn’t say best movie of the entire decade.
At my table, it was the school of caca as we discussed our delightful experiences with sexual kinkmeisters, which stopped short of vomiting on people. Justin Bond (of Kiki & Herb) told me, “This guy in a cab in London was wearing a Helmut Lang suit and took my hand and put it under his ass. He peed all over my Westwood.” That’s probably where we should all draw the yellow line.
Rivers of orange juice and vodka led to Limelight legend Fred Rothbell-Mista‘s sceney new Apocalypse Lounge, an East Village artists’ hangout with cute, sick touches, like furniture marked “Gas Masks” and “Morphine,” and a hidden cabinet filled with bottles and tubes labeled “Jacko” and “Gest—Apply locally to bruised areas only.”
To christen the joint, I helped throw a party there for Stephen Saban, the club columnist turned World of Wonder blogger who could have probably used the gas masks and morphine for his stay at the Howard Johnson’s. Onstage, Antony Zito uncannily painted Saban’s visage on a found object, while in the back, a photographer was snapping Boy George, who kept doing his famous sideways slant. “It has to be frontal,” said the photog. “Don’t you tell me how to pose, honey,” deadpanned George, who stayed sideways. As ’80s Warhol “It” girl Maura Moynihan took over the stage to do nutty modern-dance moves—frontal—a thief ran out with some decorative items and had to be chased down the block by Fred, who impressed everyone with his sudden butchness. Don’t worry—the next day we were all complete girly girls again.
And I stayed that way for the Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen premiere, which I attended because Lindsay Lohan rocked in The Parent Trap and Freaky Friday, though as she does more and more remakes, the nouveau Hayley Mills is getting remade a little too much herself. This one isn’t a remake, but it feels tired—a sort of Clueless meets The World of Henry Orient wannabe with an irritating bitch character, weak observations about Gotham (“Soho is New York’s artistic soul”), and a weird title. (Lohan’s character’s not even really a drama queen; she stirs up obstacles, but blithely sails past them all.)
At the premiere, she blithely sailed past me thanks to her flack, but that’s OK; I already know she rooms with Raven-Symone, fights with Hilary Duff, and has an ex-Rockette for a mom. But what about that drama queen title? Didn’t that expression start with, you know, drama queens? Isn’t it gay? “I suppose. I have no idea,” answered Lohan’s screen mom, Glenne Headly, sounding Bertolucci-mystified. Something was clearly in the Kool-Aid because I posed the same queery query to the film’s male lead, Adam Garcia, and he said, “The expression is not from New York?” “From certain parts of New York,” I informed him, “like Chelsea.” “Well, maybe it’s queen as in royal queens,” he noted, going off course. “They chop off people’s heads. And we all want to do that.” I know I sure did.
To check out some drama dykes, I finally watched an episode of The L Word in hopes of seeing who that kooky concoction is really for. The show started with two hot women making out as a guy peered through a window, jerking off. I rest my Birkenstocks, your honor.
I strapped on my Adidas for that hip-hoppy Chekhov update, Drowning Crow—a/k/a Anton in the Tropics—which makes fun of Raisin in the Sun retreads and even “Puff Diddly Dee.” (Offstage, co-star Anthony Mackie has even trashed Combs’s casting as disrespectful to the black community.) But this often pretentious, name-droppy work, which is mad at so much of African American culture, adds so alarmingly little to it that the first half rivals Bobbi Boland, and overall, it’s even less stimulating than the hip-hop version of Pygmalion in Drama Queen!
Meanwhile, back in the shtetl, how great is Barbara Barrie? I hear that after the veteran actress was axed from Fiddler on a Hot Tin Roof—I mean Fiddler on the Roof—the producers wanted to announce a mutual parting of ways, but she insisted that, rather than sugarcoat things, they should admit she’d been flat-out fired. This way, younger actors will know this can happen and you go on. Tradition!
As for perdition, you’ve heard those denied murmurs that David Gest is locally applying Diana Ross to his bruised areas. Well, at the Museum of TV & Radio’s Tom Brokaw tribute last week, Dominick Dunne told me, “I hope it’s true. It’s beyond.” Onstage, the evening’s emcee, Conan O’Brien, was busy with his own harrowing agenda, saying, “A world without Brokaw is like Sam Donaldson without that thing on his head.”
Finally, here are some other things Mel Gibson‘s father swears never happened: Lethal Weapon 4, Mel’s hair plugs, the drama queen being thrown out of the window in Braveheart, Mel’s gay remarks, The Patriot, and this column. Anyway, I could go all night.