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An awarding scene on 42nd
National Board of Review, first of the big annual awards, names its winners in December, but gala came Tuesday. Last arrival, DiCaprio. I didn’t recognize him. He sped in. No model around him or attached to his various parts. Maybe she was at the table. Maybe elsewhere. Maybe actors even sometimes have an off day. Or night. Or weekend. Or crappy audition.
Leo nabbed best actor for his thriller “One Battle After Another,” where he’s playing a counter culture activist. He told me last month that his hippie dad informed the character, but Leo himself “can’t live off the grid for more than a few days. I get bored.” Right.
National Board of Review Gala is always at Cipriani 42nd Street. Each female behind was smaller than a baseball. Only waiters had stomachs. Bosoms extended to Alabama. I personally saw more boobs than they sold at La Perla. Shoes were black, closed, high heels, no ornaments.
Came British actress Emily Blunt. Her newie’s “The Smashing Machine.” About a fighter. Her film history’s “The Devil Wears Prada.” You know who that was about. Her romance came with her — John Krasinski. You know him.
Producer Sophie Mas of “Call Me by Your Name.” Her pants had “Chanel” written all over her behind so we’d know they weren’t from the just closed Saks Off.
Wunmi Mosaku sailed right past my charming smile. She was in the HBO thing “Sinners.” I didn’t know her. She didn’t know me. So, like, neither of us cared.
The org’s confident organized president Annie Schulhof — wearing a custom-made, “four fittings,” velvet pantsuit that possibly cost more than the dinner — said, “I became interested in acting at age 5 when family took me to the movies. I knew then that to walk in somebody’s shoes was to tell a story.”
Peter Sarsgaard was there as part of NBR’s Board of Directors, which began 1909. In between snuck Benicio del Toro, Peter’s wife Maggie Gyllenhaal and Ann Dowd, who lost 40 pounds since “The Handmaid’s Tale” series ended.
Each star came with a minder — a p.r. type. Each p.r. type wore a black puffer coat. Each star arrived smoothing his/her various parts. No one — except a waiter — had a large behind. Each stood behind a large curtain awaiting a turn to stun the camera people.
Agent Jason Weinberg kept reinforcing his people before they faced the cameras. Australia’s Rose Byrne nabbed best actress for “If I Had Legs I’d Kick You.”
I learned from the human circus that nobody always gets the parts they want. “Sophie’s Choice” author William Styron had hoped that vamp Ursula Andress would nail the title role that eventually won an Oscar for Meryl Streep.
This story also got handed around. Cher once recalled — she wasn’t at the awards evening but someone remembered this — how actors just aren’t like everyone else. When Cher was 4 her parents took her to see “Dumbo” and, as she has told it: “I was never quite the same afterwards. I was so captivated that — fearful of missing anything — I actually deliberately peed in my seat.”
Listen, not such a really bad evening. And thanks to p.r. gal Shawn Purdy for pointing out those faces I couldn’t make out from their tweezed squeezed perfect TV faces.
So this guy had a long talk with his broker. He says: “Now I feel better about the market. We set up an all-encompassing strategy designed to reach certain investment goals during the next five years — like getting even.”
Only in New York, kids, only in New York.