Jul 19, 2004 02:12 PM
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Hollywood, 5:43 PM
Tue Feb 9
57 posts in the last 24 hours
We'd love to say that we snuck into Thursday's premiere of The Bourne Supremacy at the ArcLight and the after party across the street, but a friend (i.e. not anyone connected to the movie) slipped us a pair of tickets at the last minute. Feel free to invent your own story. Maybe we seduced a cocktail waitress and stole her uniform as she performed the standard shame-driven, post-coital vomiting fit that "friends of Defamer" all seem to suffer? Whatever works for you.
Movie:
We only offer this in the way of a review of the film itself: Shakey-handed auteur Paul Greengrass is a master of the organic cinematographic technique of dropping the camera on the ground at the start of any action scene and letting Nature take its directorial course. After two hours of watching fights and car chases (Supremacy has a great one) through a trembling lens, we weren't sure if our tremors were movie-induced or if our cursed falling sickness had returned.
After Party:
The after party was hosted at the new, geographically-monikered Sunset + Vine shopping complex. Several blocks were closed off between Sunset and Hollywood Boulevards to house something like 25 bars (Ed. note—Free booze.] and 50 food tables, assuring that no one (read: Defamer) had to wait more than ten seconds for a drink. The gift bags were satchel-style, with strings that allowed you to sling them over your back and leave your hands free for the unfettered pouring of free, plentiful, beautiful alcohol down one's mooching gullet. Genius, if you got a gift bag. Sadly, Defamer was not able to secure one and spill its contents for your amusement. So we'll just assume that it was filled with flyaway subscription cards to Los Angeles Confidential magazine, excised tumors stolen from the Cedars-Sinai oncology department, and human feces.
Enjoy the Bigfoot-snapping quality of this mini phone-cam photo essay of some celebrities at the party. Not pictured but in attendance: Supremacy stars Matt Damon, Joan Allen, and Franka Potente, George Clooney, lesser stars from the movie that we were too lazy to look up in IMDb but whom we nonetheless recognized, mactress James King, and the requisite number of appropriately-mismatched Hollywood couples (20ish mactress types with short, 40ish, trollish agent/producer types).
[Ed. note—To the friendly bartendress with the heavy hands: Thank you. We know the booze was free, but we appreciate your admirable attention to detail.]
Even a nifty beard will not save Ben Affleck from recent, questionable career choices.
Bruce Willis likes to wear a baseball cap to deflect attention from the fact that the mother of his children knows what Ashton Kutcher's penis tastes like. Note to Bruce Willis: Please don't beat us up. We are frail and foolishly substitute writing obnoxious things about celebrities for weight training.
Two contributing factors for Serena Williams' recent Wimbledon loss: Spending too much time at Hollywood parties and having sex with director Brett Ratner.
We have nothing nasty to say about Don Cheadle, pictured here talking to Serena Williams, who spends too much time having sex with director Brett Ratner.
We pray that Casey Affleck's mustache is for Ocean's Twelve and not another way of assuring that people know he's Ben's little brother.
Many prayed to the giant tequila bottles carved from ice, but few will be saved when the chilly worm comes at the Alcoholic Rapture.
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