RICHARD RUSHFIELD: THE KUDOS CRASHER

Aglow at the Globes

Where there’s smoke, there’s a star. And other tales from the trenches at the Beverly Hilton.

Richard Rushfield

The Kudos Crasher

January 17, 2006

Since shaking loose the dust of the Zadora era and taking its place just off-center in the award heavens, the Golden Globes have reigned as the Oscars' quirky, unpredictable stepbrother. With its meeting of film and TV stars, the show delivers the season's highest octane celebrity spectacle.

At the Beverly Hilton, the size of the event has exploded. The Beverly Hills PD seals off the surrounding blocks. A multicolored blimp parks overhead. Fans by the thousands line up for the most fleeting glimpse of stars' limos.

The hotel itself becomes a Hollywood amusement park, with every square inch remade into party, planning or holding rooms.

Even a tiny plot of the lobby was reserved six months earlier by an Israeli man hell-bent on capturing a front row seat.

Into this melee, the Kudos Crasher descends.

The walking red
In contrast to other awards shows, where all is chaos atop the red carpet, the Globes' setup reveals that, when it comes to putting on an event, these people are undeniable pros.

The carpet emerges at the limo drop off, winds past the fan bleachers and the photographers' pen before making a leisurely wrap around the hotel's circular driveway. Trees line its path between little gazebos housing "Access Hollywood" and "The Insider."

There is plenty of room for each of the hundreds of reporters to find lean space on the railing, like visitors at a very plush zoo. Stars stroll calmly down the line, picking and choosing their interviews.

Nonstars, the mere guests also walk the line at an abnormally slow gait, seeming to savor the phenomenon of those hundreds of eyeballs and camera lenses fixed upon them, even if it's just for the moment before the owners ask, "Who the hell is that?"

Random observation No. 1
Considering you never see anyone smoking in L.A., every single celeb seems to smoke. All of them were out on the smoking patio puffing away at one point or another during the night. I won't even list the names, because it was truly every last one.

The rings of fire
Forty-five minutes before showtime in the International Ballroom; people are filing in and slowly occupying the tables. In these moments, with plenty of good red carpet time still available, the steerage outer rim tables fill first; the more important guests wait until the final minutes to take their seats. The seating chart is roughly divided as follows:

— Pit in front of the stage: Movie stars and moguls.

— First ring around the pit: TV stars and producers.

— Second ring: TV supporting stars and others not part of any heavily nominated project, and members of the Hollywood Foreign Press Assn.

— Outer ring: Journalists, hangers-on and other flotsam who somehow conned their way in.

Random observation No. 2
Johnny Depp seems to occupy some other-worldly tortured artist stratosphere that makes the rest of Hollywood look down to Earth. He was the only star I saw who had a bodyguard escorting him around the room. When he came out to smoke, the guard warded off a couple of thrill seekers approaching him by saying, "Can we please leave him alone for a minute."

The countdown
True to legend, a cocktail party atmosphere prevails as the room fills. Producers, execs and other muckety-mucks greet each other. Donald Sutherland stands at a table in the center of the room, seeming to hold court. Nonheavyweights in the outer rings attend to the tandoori shrimp appetizers on their plates.

In the near empty lounge off the main room, the cast of "Will and Grace" have their first drinks of the night — champagne for Debra Messing; beer for the gentlemen. Nathan Lane greets one with, "Hello, Sean Hayes."

Heath Ledger and Michelle Williams cower with endearing nervousness and discomfort in a corner.

Fifteen minutes to air and the waiters hover nervously around the tables, willing everyone through their meals in these final moments so the food service can be completed before the show starts. Waiters leap to swap devoured shrimp plates for platters of steak and fish with asparagus, carrot and tater tot main course. With eight minutes to go, a flood of celebrities gushes down the aisle onto the floor. Near pandemonium erupts as people struggle to find their seats amidst waiters flinging dessert courses — vanilla ice cream topped by a hard chocolate gold dome — into place at the tables.

Over the P.A., an announcer begs people to be seated. "It is six minutes to curtains. We need all celebrities in their seats for opening shots. Security, publicists, producers, please help us and bring them inside the ballroom!"

Celebs tumble in faster than I can identify them. Pierce Brosnan, Mel Brooks and Natalie Portman race past in one eyeful.

Five minutes away and the "Lost" table gives themselves a big toast. One minute left and total chaos reigns. The announcer calls out: "Waiter! There is a serving tray by Mr. Sutherland." He does not say which Mr. Sutherland, Donald and Kiefer both being present.

Ten seconds to air and it seems impossible that things will get started on time. The room looks like it is in the midst of a civil insurrection, with little sign the National Guard is due anytime soon.

"Lost" star Dominic Monaghan desperately looks for his table, a search made harder now that the table numbers have been removed. As the final countdown begins, he throws himself down at the table in front of me.

And suddenly, the lights go dim, the opening montage and song appear on the big screens. Miraculously, the room has seated itself and the show begins.

Random observation No. 3
Party boy-director Brett Ratner must think that if he shows up at every awards show, sooner or later they'll have to give him one. Last week, he was the only non-nominee at the People's Choice Awards. Tonight, he roams the Globes ballroom. Most telling quote overheard, to him from an exec type, "You went gambling in the Bahamas with my brother."

Manic Monday
While there is no denying that the atmosphere inside the Globes is looser and far less constricted than some stuffy old awards shows, inside the ballroom this looseness does not necessarily equate to a relaxed atmosphere. The feeling one gets sitting at a dinner table is more like being at a giant Hollywood cocktail party — while a marching band stomps across the floor as people make speeches from a stage.

On one hand, there is the sheer whiplash of seeing stars out of every corner of your eye, joined together in unlikely combinations — Drew Barrymore talking with Paul Giamatti, Steven Spielberg and Ziyi Zhang. One woman tells me of her thrill of seeing Scarlett Johannson and Mandy Moore simultaneously "adjust themselves" in the ladies room.

On the other hand, it's impossible to overstate what a noisy zoo the hall is. The back third of the ballroom is filled with tables that have almost no view of the stage.

Accordingly, about 90 seconds into the ceremony, the people at those tables get up and begin milling around the room and spilling onto the smoking patio and cocktail lounge (where a buffet is served throughout the show) creating a din that at times overwhelms the stage.

Quiet, somber speeches like Anthony Hopkins' sound very strange amid the din of this huge party going on in the back. By the time Felicity Huffman gives her weepy speech, it sounds as though a riot in the back of the room is about to race forward and attack her.

By the second commercial break, the people in the front of the room are ignoring the announcer's admonitions to race back to their seats. "We're back in 15 seconds. Please take your seats." People stand and roam, wandering to the patio and to the bathrooms freely.

Halfway through the show, stars are typing at their Blackberries and making phone calls, not just at the breaks, but during the presentations.

An hour in, the smoking patio is the center of the action, with stars making extended visits. Russell Crowe and Brian Grazer commandeer the central lounge area and lean together over the railing for most of the night. The cast of "Entourage," keeping the act going, hangs out together — acting very much like an entourage.

Random observation No. 4
Natalie Portman is the smallest person on earth. She is tiny. If she weren't a movie star, she would be considered some sort of endangered species she is so small. But her head is the size of a normal person's and in that combination I realize, lies the key to her stardom.

The (celebrity) wedding table
At the table in front of me, the arriving guests meet each other. "Nip/Tuck" star Julian McMahon sticks his hand out to "Deadwood" honcho Ian McShane. Luke Wilson's date introduces herself to Emmy Rossum; her date greets Zach Braff and his date Mandy Moore. Luke Wilson and date say hi.

For the most part, the mood at the table resembles an awkwardly mixed group at a wedding. Rossum and date seem to hit it off with Braff. But the rest of the table spends the night in their own worlds, mixing little with each other.

After Luke Wilson presents an award, it takes him more than an hour to return to the table, stranding his noncelebrity date, who sits quietly by herself, scanning the room for Wilson, largely ignored by the others.

The table receives visitors. Evangeline Lily drops by to chat with Rossum. Scarlett Johansson sits down with McShane.

But one can't help but notice, here are a group of moderately humongous names, attending the second most glamorous event on the Hollywood calendar, and they are spending it sitting in awkward half-silence at a table with strangers, just like you and I have done at every oversized event we've ever attended.

Something about the alienation of grand events haunts me as I watch the table.

Random observation No. 5
Producer Jenji Kohan, creator of "Weeds," can barely contain her mock anger. After being passed over for best comedy series, she rants, "Damn you Hollywood Foreign Press. I put on stomach controlling underwear and you don't even give me a prize!"

Going down with the best of them
Later in the night, coming down from the rooftop NBC-Universal/Focus Features Party, I experience my closest-ever power schmooze. In a packed elevator, Jeffrey Katzenberg is pressed against the back corner. A woman in front shouts, "Jeffrey, I really want you to meet Isaac."

Jeffrey reaches over several heads to shake hands with designer Isaac Mizrahi. "Whacha doing, whacha doing, whacha doing?" Katzenberg asks.

"Oh not much. I've got some projects."

"I'll bet you do."

"What're you doing?" Mizrahi retorts.

"Oh, you know. Riding the Geffen Express. Trying to keep up with it."

"That's a wild ride."

"Just make sure you don't get in front of it," Katzenberg quips.

"Where's the big party tonight?" Mizrahi wants to know.

"In my bed," nods Jeffrey, before stepping off and calling it a night.