Bonjour! Last night, we attended the premiere party for the new film Guest of Cindy Sherman at the last minute request of C-Monster, who was temporarily indisposed. Lucky for you, we happened to be in town and tore ourselves away from our favorite local haunt (a place where you can enjoy a delicious Vesper cocktail and are still permitted to smoke!) to cover the proceedings.
The premiere party for GOCS was held at Tailor, in the mythical land of SoHo, which at one time was synonymous with glamour, art and fashion and is now akin to power walking through a suburban mall, replete with food courts and Z Galleries.
We arrived promptly at 8 p.m. to guarantee a minimal wait at the bar. The party, unfortunately, was co-sponsored by a “vodka” brand that shall remain nameless. Let’s just say we were forced to drink several Cape Cods in order to feel even remotely interested in the proceedings…
It certainly wasn’t for lack of interest in the evening’s raison d’être, Paul H-O –- the subject and co-director of the film, who was recently interviewed and profiled by C-Monster on this very blog! He was decidedly the most interesting person in the room, working the press, basking in the flashbulb glow, bussing his female friends and fans…and genuinely appearing to be enjoying himself.
Would that we could have enjoyed the setting as much as he! The celeb turn-out the media alert had promised us, was — how shall we say this — non-existent. And while we kept hearing rumors of hors d’oeuvres, they clearly didn’t make it past the kitchen door.
We looked forward to seeing the promised celebrity attendees — especially after the press release had thrown out names such as Oscar winners Philip Seymour Hoffman, Anna Paquin and Chris Cooper. Not to mention John Waters, Chloe Sevigny, Michael Stipe and Miss Universe Dayana Mendoza!
What did we get instead? George Whipple, on his cell phone.
Needless to say, our attention wandered.
Let’s start with the décor: A palmed down mix of Weekend-Cabin-Getaway and Pottery Barn-Retro-Chic-Stolen-From-Parisian-Flea-Markets. There was something eerily familiar about the motif, but we couldn’t put our well manicured finger on it.
On the back wall, next to the bar (a location we became intimate with), we found a curio case that would make the Kevin Spacey character in Se7en proud: an agglomeration of bric-a-brac and tacky tack, completely lacking in irony.
Above our well coiffed heads, glimmered a trio of crystal-artichoke lights that screamed recherché.
The far wall was lined with booths, sparingly decorated in a symphony of earth tones. The pussy willows in a rectangular planter were the sort of objet one would find in a Fire Island summer share of A-List Gays. The leather-like placemat under the tealight, however, was too reminiscent of Buffalo Bill for our tastes. (Sidenote: We once knew a hat check girl in Montmartre who went by the name Pussy Willow. It didn’t work for her either.)
And speaking of the A-List Gays…we do love how they instantly migrated to the artichoke light fixtures. Exposure. Exposure. Exposure.
By now, we had downed our sixth Cape Cod, and were on the verge of rummaging through our vintage Hermès Kelly bag for our Pez dispenser, since the aforementioned grub was clearly a myth…when it dawned on us! The Urban/Weekend Cabin motif, the amber glow and odd mixture of attractive and less-than-attractive was something straight out of an episode of Twin Peaks. We could practically hear the opening strains of Angelo Badalamenti’s memorable score. It was a perfect setting for what could have been for one of Cindy Sherman’s famed film stills!
Which led us to wonder: Could La Sherman be lurking in our midst, completely unbeknownst to us?
Could this gal on the far left be Cindy incognito? It would be a clever disguise and cunning tribute to Twin Peaks. She was certainly rocking the whole Peggy Lipton/Mod Squad vibe and as any fan of strong black coffee and pie knows, Peggy dished it out with sexy aplomb on Lynch’s creepy soap.
Or would Cindy opt for androgynous drag? Working the whole disaffected Billyburg denizen vibe demonstrated by this candidate on the far right? The glassy eyed stare, the slack jaw, the brand new vintage shirt… Could be.
Is it possible that our favorite chameleon would push the gender bending one step further and opt to go as frat boy-out-of-water? Clearly, Joe Boxer here was our prime candidate for our Where’s Cindy scenario.
Seeing that our job was done — after all, we had imbibed, schmoozed, spotted Cindy, paid our respects to the filmmakers (movie opens this weekend in limited release) — and were by now, shaking from starvation like an orphan about to be adopted by Brangelina, we grabbed our faux fur and strolled to the exit like Peter Lorre contemplating a crime.
While our evening could have ended on a more glamorous note, we somehow felt the slice of pepperoni and black olive en route to our nearest metro station was the perfect topper to the evening’s festivities. Greasy, but satisfying…à bientôt!