Gossip Central

Friends with Benefits

Somehow the chessboard with opposing pieces, white against non-confrontational white does not add up to a recipe for world peace. It does, however, make a cerebral platform for dance, as conceived by Yoko Ono for Jack Lenor Larson's birthday celebration at the Long House Reserve Benefit the night of July 21. Looking much like a wedding cake in large brimmed white hat and layered white dress, she showed a sample reel of the documentary she is making about her life. Yoko Ono's parents are shown, a modest couple. The film segues to their flamboyant daughter in fox, in her John Lennon days, seated, a table between them. They could be playing chess but instead as the ill-fated Beatle looks on, Yoko gets up and provocatively spreads her leg, putting her foot on the chair.
          “I'm supposed to loosen up your inhibitions at opening your wallets,” she said to the tony Hamptonites at the outset of the auction where a $30 bottle of Grey Goose sold for $150. “Do you want to see me do a sex act?” she asked coquettishly and then quickly modified her query to include a key word. “Do you want to see me do a sex change act?” she asked. The crowd did not go wild, except for a few admirers at the front tables. Then she peeled off the layers of skirt to reveal slacks, her jacket exposing a vest and tie, and threw off the froufrou hat donning a fedora. Given that she is now well into her '60's, this seemed prudent.
           Playwright Edward Albee donated a Henry Moore etching, providing its provenance: he had seen it at Elizabeth Taylor's; she then gave it to her good friend Roddy McDowell who left it to Albee in his will. “It goes to a good cause,” said Albee, pleased to support the unique sculpture garden, currently featuring the work of Miguel Barcelo.
          Meanwhile, in another part of East Hampton, some truly beautiful bodies glided across a silver stage designed by David Salle in an apt setting for a new piece choreographed by Karole Armitage to the music of Gyorgy Ligeti. The occasion was an art auction to benefit Guild Hall in Tony Ingrao and Randy Kempner's sumptuous sculpture garden. Calvin Klein, Richard Price, Judy Hudson, Russell Simmons and family were among the crowd watching the performers in black leotards by Peter Speliopoulos in a modern dance evocative of Robert Wilson's work.  The stage, bare save for a silver tree, could serve as well for the staging of Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot. And befitting Beckett, the auction was silent.

                                                                             Regina Weinreich

Grass, Mailer, and Irving

You have to give the Germans credit for their post-WWII mea culpas. Among Europeans who willingly, and sometimes gleefully, took part in the murder of the Jews, the German guilt trauma has been most keenly felt. Perhaps it is that Germans, with their   intelligence and sophistication could live with the dubious honor of having started it all-bringing to power one Adolf Hitler-there is a power to that. Negative, yes. But power after all. Novels by Gunter Grass and Heinrich Boll, The Tin Drum (1959) and The Clown (1963), respectively, brought home an idea of another kind of suffering: Witnessing, tolerating, aiding and abetting in genocide has its own misery.
          And so Gunter Grass's belated disclosure of participation in the Waffen-SS in his memoir, Peeling the Onion, at this late date in his life (he is 80) feels like he has crafted his career around his guilt, accepted a Nobel Prize, even though, had he told all before, he might not have qualified. (Boll, the first German writer to receive a Nobel Prize since Hermann Hesse in 1946, was so honored in 1972, and he had resisted joining the Hitler Youth.) In his own country, some say Grass should be stripped of his award.
          Grass came to these shores in June, to celebrate the American publication of his memoir and an exhibition of his art at the Steven Kasher Gallery in Chelsea. At the opening, on the 25th, he was surrounded by his drawings and a bevy of German-speaking women. When I asked him about the upcoming conversation with Norman Mailer at the New York Public Library, he shrugged, “What do two old men have to say?” Indeed. Mailer had just written a book about Hitler, so there's some commonality of subject. In a brilliant 1959 essay, “The White Negro,” Mailer had identified the post-WWII ethos, defined the hipster/ American existentialist as a logical outcome of the barbarity of this war that could now add the phenomena of genocide and the bomb to its arsenal of shameful inhumanity.
          In short, some time ago Mailer had guts.
          Among his many talents, Mailer is into boxing and so maybe he would spar with Grass, verbally of course. Paul Holdengraber, announced as he always does and often succeeds, that his aim for the program, Live at NYPL, is to make the lions roar, referring to the stone ones at the gate. After announcing that he is nearly deaf, Mailer ended up in a compassionate embrace of his German fellow octogenarian, “You had to live with that all these years,” he said meekly to Grass of the most cataclysmic, defining event of the 20th century. Writers are mixed on the Grass question. Novelist/essayist Cynthia Ozick refuses to share a stage with Grass, maintaining that the only Jews with whom Germans can empathize are dead ones. She would have been the best contender for Grass, if she would deign to share a stage with him. John Irving, in a recent NY Times Book Review front-page essay, claimed his indebtedness to Grass for years of personal artistic nurturing. An attitude of victims all passes for civilized response. But, why aren't those lions in the coliseum, tearing apart the gladiators? At least that popular pastime, however barbaric, had its cathartic pleasure. Where is the challenge, the real debate? The crowd at the forum is simply too polite to cry for blood.

                                                                                                   Regina Weinreich

Grey Gardens/Prince at le Flirt

The bathroom had the famous poster for the Maysles' Brothers' film, of Little Edie, vamping in her turban in front of the old house. Otherwise Grey Gardens was redone to old specs with tasteful blue walls and white trim in the dining room, and plush chintz couches, and book lined rooms. You strain to imagine how it was: mother and daughter here, amidst the hedges, home to cats and bugs, a place like its inhabitants, gone to seed. Now, both Edies are famous after the Grey Gardens hit on Broadway, and thanks to Christine Ebersole's Tony winning performance in both roles. And now, owned by Ben Bradlee and Sally Quinn, Grey Gardens is the home all year (except August) of animal advocate Frances Hayward, founder of BeKind.org. Houses in East Hampton in magical neighborhoods such as this one, winding off Georgica Road, with lush gardens, where nooks and gazebos are nestled for discreet chatting, serve as perfect party places; this soiree featured the Humane Society of the United States' president Wayne Pacelle who addressed the crowd, including the attending animals. R. Couri Hay had his Cornelia (Guest) and Brooke (Astor). Designer Joanna Mastroianni brought her furry ball with red bow in a carrier.
Funny to see Patrick McMullen snapping away after reading a cheeky piece by Bob Morris in the Sunday paper about a photo exhibit featuring the guests at a zillion parties-- minus the New York Times Style section's most cheeky writer. In his “Age of Dissonance” rant, Morris posed as pissed. Soon Patrick snapped a shot of me with Frank Cilione and Ina da Silva. They were recovering from the night before: Prince had a private party at Cilione's new place, le Flirt, the former Tsunami on Three Mile Harbor; he arrived at 1:30 and stayed till 6:30, after his concert at the Ross School. Seems he had the place emptied, even of the deep pocket who had ordered Cristalle, and spun his own disks while the ladies in his posse danced up a storm. He is alleged to have consumed 4 Long Island iced teas, a lethal concoction of rum, vodka, triple sec, tequila, and something else. Even the bartender cringed when I asked for the recipe. This for a Jehovah's Witness! Upon hearing the news, a former girlfriend of Mick Jagger confided that the Rolling Stone played Prince in the bathroom. Russell Simmons, among the guests at Grey Gardens enjoying the sea bass, risotto and the most amazing sherbet bombe I have ever tasted, might know more about the mix of cocktails and faith and what that does to you on Sunday morning. Seems that Prince was staying with him.

                                                                                                  Regina Weinreich

Milos, Saul and Javier

Critics are supposed to be detached, sanguine in viewin g art. So it came as a big surprise when I had nightmares after seeing “Goya's Ghosts,” the latest film by Oscar winning Milos Forman. “I'm sorry,” he said in his smoky voice after I complained, and left it to me to sort out what had inspired this severe reaction.  Perhaps it was seeing Natalie Portman (or a body double) as a teenager strung up naked, tortured into confessing that she was Jewish or possibly Jewish or observing some archaic tribal Jewish ritual when, on a particular evening having dinner at an inn, she ordered chicken instead of pork. (Spies are trained to sniff out such criminals, including men who are shielding their private parts.) The time is the Inquisition, when the rigid church could and would take this confessed infidel and throw her, shackled, into prison where her innocence is again violated in a number of ways. That alone could account for some sleepless nights. But as the movie makes clear, I am not alone. It is Goya's own nightmares recorded in his art, his response documenting a particularly hell on earth historic moment that gave Milos Forman the inspiration to attempt a back story to his drawings, etchings, and paintings. And perhaps this was Milos Forman's way of dealing with his own personal history during the Holocaust-his biological father (a Jew) was murdered-and the violations of living under a Communist regime, as he did in Czechoslovakia in the post-war period. Javier Bardem plays an especially amoral man of the church. “How does it feel to be a villain,” I asked him. “My character is not a villain,” he corrected me. “He's a survivor.”
          An artist making a movie about an artist, Forman paid careful attention to Goya's techniques in making paintings and prints. Saul Zaentz, the producer, thought some cuts could be made but went with whatever Milos wanted. His collaborations with Forman on the films “One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest” and “Amadeus” resulted in two of his three Academy Awards (the third was for The English Patient, directed by Anthony Minghella); Zaentz knew, “Whatever is important to Milos, stays.”

                                                                                       Regina Weinreich

Goya's Ghosts (trailer)