• Day 82: Lindsay & Grace: The Importance of Not Being Sweet

    Date: 2010.05.20 | Category: Uncategorized | Tags:

    Time got away from me the other  night at the Carlton Hotel because I was having dinner with an old friend, Entertainment Weekly movie critic Owen Gleiberman.  Owen is one of those people with whom you start having a profound debate less than 30 seconds after meeting and in a sea of Croisette-inspired small talk, that’s a good thing. Keeps me alert.

    We both said no dessert but the waiter had to bring a plate of pastries.  Owen ate some but fortunately kept arguing with me and saying he wasn’t sure I was right, which I enjoy and keeps me awake.  Boredom is the worst for causing sugar cravings.

    Then I saw my watch -1 a.m. – fuck, I’m supposed to be out scouting Michelle Williams, Ryan Gosling and Lindsay Lohan at a couple of parties: the Weinstein after-party for Blue Valentine at the Palais Stephanie – and Grace Jones at Le Baron.

    I’m about to meet some mean girls!

    I downed a coffee and headed over to the rooftop Palais Stephanie where I’m supposed to eyeball Williams and Gosling and figure out if they’re a couple.  I accidentally walk past three chunky producer types having their picture taken on a faux-red carpet and one calls me “cheeky” as I am still in earshot.

    Ah, an annoying British-ism just when my blood sugar is dipping precipitously. But it’s gorgeous up there; the pool is shimmering from the sliver of moonlight above and you can see the lights twinkling on the yachts in the harbor.  Away from the crowd, a couple makes out next to the railing overlooking the Croisette.

    The party at Le Baron where Grace Jones will perform is hotter.  In a festival short of superstars and trainwrecks, Lindsay Lohan is in the house.  Deep inside the VIP area where she holds court, I buy a sorely-needed 12 euro Diet Coke and the bartender gets mad when I ask for a receipt.

    I have the same reaction every time I am in one of these dens – be they in New York, Los Angeles, Cannes or St. Tropez.  It’s dark, it’s hot, it’s noisy and everyone seems poised for something to happen that never does.  If we’re all in denial what is truly in store for us (death), then being at a crowded nightclub late at night just reminds me of it more.

    All I can think of is, I can’t wait until I can go home and read a book.  I’m sure getting drunk to get through it would be the smart thing, but alcohol makes me sleepy and I’m already enervated enough just being here.

    I think of the soldiers in Evan Wright’s wonderful book about being embedded in Iraq, Generation Kill, and how they sometimes doze off right as they go into battle.

    I’m brushing up actor Dominic Cooper (had no idea who he was until someone told me) who is standing next to Lohan.  I watch her as she flirts with Cooper even though the word on her is that she is with some older lesbian cougar.

    Lindsay’s wearing a black hat, white wifebeater T, short white shorts. She gets her bodyguard to eject a very pretty blonde from her little circle who’s flirting with Cooper.  The blonde, exiled to a corner across the room, protests loudly for the next five minutes.  Can’t blame her.

    Everyone’s forgotten that Lohan is a fairly good actress but she seems so into her deliberate downward spiral that she’s more unlikeable by the moment. A judge is probably going to put a warrant out for her arrest when she doesn’t show up for a court date Thursday in L.A.  She’s supposedly in Cannes to promote a new movie in which she will star as Linda Lovelace but there’s no deal even in place yet.

    But I also get why Lohan sometimes gets into fights at these places. (She threw a drink at somebody in a New York club last week.)  Nightclubs really lack a sense of humor.  Her scary, scowling bodyguard looks as if he’s ready to punch anyone who looks at him.  I leave briefly to go look for the ladies room and unfortunately march straight into the path of fearsome Grace Jones who is flanked, African queen style, by three big, fierce bodyguards, one of whom pushes me so hard out of the way I am shocked.

    I glare at him; he glares back at me and to my amazement, Grace Jones glares back at me.  Did I imagine this? I don’t think so. Grace is quite the fucking diva. Fantastic. Now I’m awake again, got my second wind.

    Grace Jones, she of the fabulous posture, gets onstage and and I stand on a chair to watch her as Lindsay stands on a chair one over from me.  As Grace’s killer set wafts through the club, we’re lifted up into something briefly meaningful.

    Life is sweet.