celebrity (hind)sighting

I am trying to recall if, when my mom and I met Laura Dern at the screening of Meet Ruth Stoops all those years ago, we also met the film’s director and co-writer Alexander Payne.  I have a vague memory of there being other people associated with the film there, other people whom we filed by and shook hands with. But, though I am a huge fan now, at the time the name “Alexander Payne” meant nothing to me. If he was there, I didn’t know enough to log it into my long-term memory.

It makes you wonder how many notable people you have encountered in your life, only at the time they weren’t yet notable so you weren’t paying attention. The now-famous actress who waited on you at a restaurant in Peoria, the now-pro athlete who rang up your purchase at the Foot Locker. No doubt we’ve all had that kind of celebrity sighting—the kind where you would say, “I knew him when . . . ,” if only you knew you knew him when.

It is like that in day-to-day life, too. Of course there are a few people you vividly remember first laying eyes upon: I can still picture my sweetie walking into my apartment 15 years ago, those dark sexy curls and Bruce Willis smirk. But there are many more first encounters where—though obviously I could tell you I met the person at school or work or the like—the specifics are lost to the fog of memory. Could I have foreseen at that initial meeting how significant a role they would later play in my life, I would have marked the details more carefully.

But back to my story. I’ve consulted my journal and found, in January 1996, an account of that screening of Meet Ruth Stoops. There, sure enough, is Laura Dern. And there, too, is the briefest mention of the fact that the “director, writers, and editor were there . . .  so afterwards we went up and met them.” That nameless director, those faceless writers—logic suggests that that must have included him. So there you have it: the time I met Alexander Payne.

Who knew?

meet Laura Dern

Years ago, at the Sundance Film Festival, my mother and I are at a screening of Citizen Ruth at which star Laura Dern is in attendance. At the time, the movie was still called Meet Ruth Stoops. I’m not sure how much the rechristening helped. It wasn’t a bad movie per se (nothing so ripe for comedy as the abortion debate, right?), but let’s just say Ms. Dern and writer/director Alexander Payne have both gone on to bigger and better things.

After the screening the audience lines up to meet the actress. We file to the front of the theater, where Laura Dern greets each person in turn before they are discharged out the rear exit back into daylight. I shake her hand first, followed by my mother. The required pleasantries—the nice to meet you’s, the thanks for coming’s—are efficiently exchanged. We don’t linger. We know how these things work: The assembly line must be kept moving. We are nearly, safely, on our way when Laura Dern decides to mix things up and asks my mom, “How did you like the film?” She seems sincerely to want to know.

My mother is caught off guard by the question. Mothers are so polite; they are the ones that teach us, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” There is a long pause as she searches for a kind reply. The assembly line grinds to a halt. Laura Dern waits. Ah, yes, nothing like an awkward moment between your mom and Laura Dern. Eventually—perhaps becoming hyper-aware of the long line of audience members snaking behind her—my mother manages a smile and an unpersuasive “It was good.”

Am I imagining it or does Laura Dern’s face fall? There’s no time for a second look. We are funneled on out of the theater.

 

celebrity sighting near miss

We were walking into a Barnes & Noble in Marin County, California. This was several months ago.

“Did you see?” my other half asked. “That was Robin Williams.”

“What? Where?”

“He just passed us. Coming out of the bookstore. Did you see?”

No, I didn’t. At that moment I had turned away to admire a burbling fountain, a magpie distracted by a shiny bauble.

big fish

So, a couple nights after we saw Naomi Watts at the Santa Barbara Film Festival, we went to watch James Cameron’s arrival on the red carpet. Like Naomi, he was being presented with some sort of tribute award. We didn’t have tickets to that, but we were eating dinner nearby and thought we would just pop over to see the red carpet walk. (We’re not so much into the Titanic thing, but do think The Terminator and Aliens are two of the coolest movies ever. Plus, I think our brief, fleeting glimpses of Naomi’s back had left us feeling a bit unfulfilled, red carpet-wise.)

So we head over to the theater, but when we get there we almost think we have the wrong night. The red carpet line-up for James Cameron seems pretty sparse. (What? We don’t like directors in this country?) We easily snag a couple rope-side spots and wait.

Then James Cameron arrives and is working his way down the red carpet. Well, “working” seems a bit strong. “Casually meandering” seems more like it. But because there’s not all the paparazzi there, he is actually facing in our direction a good chunk of the time. And because he’s considerably taller than Naomi, he’s not hidden behind a Great Wall of entourage. Finally, as the crowning moment, he seems to bump into some long lost friends on the red carpet and stops to talk to them right in front of us.

I whip out my camera, determined to make up for all my celebrity back photos with an actual photo of a celebrity face. But, at the instant I push the button, I hear—not the reassuring click of the photo snapping—but the disconcerting grinding of the gears as the lens retracts and the camera shuts down. Then, the blinking battery light of doom comes on, and despite all my efforts at resuscitation, the camera cannot be coaxed back to life. Meanwhile, James Cameron fades away down the red carpet, and vanishes into the theater. Sigh.

I guess that’s the stargazing equivalent of a “big fish” story: the one that got away.

Naomi Watts, rear view

A couple years ago, we drove down to the film festival at Santa Barbara where, for his birthday, I got my boyfriend tickets to see a special tribute to Naomi Watts, one of his all-time favorites (for her acting, right?). She sat on the stage and was interviewed about her career, and they showed lots of clips from her films, and finally she got up to receive the festival’s “Montecito Award,” which was presented to her by Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, who had directed her in 21 Grams. True, we were sitting up in the nosebleed seats for all of this, but still my other half got to see one of his favorite actresses in the flesh (And have I ever seen Benicio del Toro in person? Hell, no).

Before the ceremony, we stood out on the red carpet and watched Naomi Watts arrive. We had great rope-side spots (achieved, I must confess, with a wee bit of elbowing), and she passed within feet of us. And yet, even then, we never got a really good look. The media were lined up on the opposite side, and as she made her way down the red carpet she was almost always facing toward them and away from us (We did get a few good glimpses of her back). On top of that, Naomi is a petite little thing, and our view was frequently obscured by a cluster of burly bodyguards who towered over her.

But it’s better that way. For celebrity to work, you need the mystery and the distance. You can’t stargaze in the full light of day, because then all the glitter fades away.

Naomi Watts’s back, working the red carpet

how much is that comedian in the window?

I’ve written about our Parisian encounter during our trip this summer to LA, but she wasn’t the only celebrity we saw. If Paris Hilton was the supernova of our star sightings (or is she the black hole?), this other celebrity could perhaps be described as our white dwarf.

We are window shopping along Rodeo Drive when, through one of the windows—a men’s clothing store, I believe—we spot Jon Lovitz sitting in a chair, almost as if he is a mannequin on display (though he looks as if he is having a better time than your typical mannequin).

Up until now we’ve been staring unselfconsciously through all the shop windows at the pricey items on display, but staring through the window at Jon Lovitz seems a bit more gauche. So instead we cross the street and pretend nonchalantly to inspect some jewels in the window just opposite. Positioning ourselves correctly, we can see Jon Lovitz reflected in the glass.

Others are taking a somewhat less nonchalant approach. Two little girls, who look to be no more than 10, come running up to their parents, laughing gleefully, shouting “It’s HIM!” and dragging the stunned parents by the wrists toward the clothing shop. It’s a weird moment. How many 10-year-olds get hysterical over the sight of Jon Lovitz? How many 10-year-olds know who Jon Lovitz is?

As for us, seeing Mr. Lovitz ranks only 2nd in our list of highlights from our afternoon shopping in Beverly Hills. Tied for 1st? Sampling Sprinkles cupcakes, and recognizing the intersection they always show in the establishing shots on Dr. 90210.

Sir Anthony’s spittle

Several years ago at the Virginia Film Festival, they are screening Silence of the Lambs, with a special appearance by Sir Anthony Hopkins. I don’t have a ticket, but I show up and stand in line on the chance of getting an unclaimed seat.

I luck out and manage to get in. But it’s only a few moments before showtime and the theater is already packed. The only empty seats are in the very back or the very front. “Hell,” I say to myself. “I’m going to sit in the front row.”

My seat, fronting right on the stage, is so close that within seconds I can already feel a crick forming in my neck. But then Sir Anthony walks out, and I find myself sitting right at his feet, eye level with his shoelaces, as he introduces the movie. He seems soft-spoken and a little embarrassed by all the fuss. He doesn’t say much apart from thanking us for coming and he hopes we enjoy the film.

But then, just as he turns to leave the stage, a strange little glee seems to come into his eyes. Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, right before our eyes he transforms for a brief second into Hannibal Lecter and delivers one of the most famous horror movie lines ever spoken, that one about eating the guy’s liver with a nice Chianti. I’m sitting so close I almost think that I can feel the gentle spray of Sir Anthony’s saliva as he intones “fava beans.”

There’s no time to shake off the disturbing moment. The mist is still settling as the lights come down and the film rolls.

I don’t think I’ve been so spooked since that trip to England when on a lark I signed up for the “Jack the Ripper Walking Tour,” then afterwards had to make my way back to my hotel by myself through the dark, deserted streets of London. Creep-o-rama.

doing the Roger Ebert limbo

Several years ago I was attending the Virginia Film Festival at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville. I was on my way to a panel discussion that was to include famed movie critic Roger Ebert.

When I arrive at the conference room where the panel discussion is to be held, Roger Ebert is standing in the doorway talking intently with another person. Roger Ebert is blocking the doorway. The entire doorway. By himself.

(This is back when he was able to do that.)

Ohmygoodness. I can’t believe I’m saying these horrible things. We all love Roger Ebert and think he is a genius and wish him nothing but the best. But we’re just reporting what happened, here.

Where were we? Oh yes. Roger Ebert’s girth is blocking my entrance. Do I graciously interrupt to tell him how much I admire his work and oh by the way would he mind if I snuck by him so I can slip in and grab a good seat for his presentation?

Of course not. I simply say in a timid voice, “Excuse me.” Still deep in discussion, a distracted Roger Ebert shifts, oh, maybe about two inches to the left. Not wanting to further interrupt the conversation, I try to shimmy around him to the right. It’s kind of like doing the limbo, only horizontally rather than vertically and with a wide pole rather than a skinny one.

But I manage it. Grazing Roger Ebert almost imperceptibly, I limbo into the room.

celebrities b.c. (before cell phones)

Once, many years ago, I was catching a flight out of Salt Lake City when I discovered that the Osmond Brothers were going to be on my plane.

So, we’re all sitting around the gate (me, the Osmonds, the other passengers), waiting to board. Suddenly, one of the Osmond Brothers jumps up and heads to a bank of pay phones (this was in the days before cell phones). The Osmond Brother picks up a receiver, then, cradling it with one shoulder and dropping in a dime, he yells to another of the Osmond Brothers, “Hey, what’s Marie’s phone number?”

My ears perk up, but I don’t have a pen on me. Not that I have any particular reason to call her, but wouldn’t it be cool to have Marie Osmond’s phone number just so you could say you have Marie Osmond’s phone number?

Okay, maybe not that cool.

a Parisian encounter

My other half and I are just back from a fun, touristy week in Los Angeles. Did we see any celebrities, you ask? Well. . .

One evening (after fabulous Korean barbecue at the Farmer’s Market), my other half and I go for a walk at “The Grove,” a fancy-shmancy outdoor shopping center. As we are strolling down the promenade, we pass another couple headed in the opposite direction. She is done up in a short, flirty dress and bright red headband. He looks a little scummy in t-shirt and baseball cap (Really, dude? Is that the best you could do for a date?)

The woman and I make the briefest eye contact, but it is not until a split second later that I realize who she is. Or rather, who she looks like. The woman looks exactly like Paris Hilton. In fact, she looks a little too much like Paris Hilton. I decide she must be a professional impersonator.

Meanwhile, my other half is focused on another onlooker with a video camera who is chasing after the couple. Curious about who might be arousing so much attention, my other half asks me,  “Who was that?” I say, “It looked like Paris Hilton, but I think it was just an impersonator.”

Here’s where the story gets a little embarrassing. Do my other half and I have a quick chuckle about our encounter with the Paris Hilton impersonator and continue on our way like two mature adults? Of course not. We decide we must know whether this Paris Hilton is real or faux. We stop dead in our tracks, turn around, and pursue the couple into a nearby movie theater along with all the other creepy psycho celebrity stalkers. 

Inside, I pretend nonchalantly to assess what flicks are playing while my other half strains for a better look at “Paris.” Suddenly, the couple seem to change their minds about the movie and make a quick exit, passing once again within a few feet of us. Definitely just a look-alike, we conclude. Even worse, no good movies are playing.

And now for the epilogue: A few days later in the tabloids we see headlines declaring that Paris Hilton was seen at The Grove with a new man. Oops. Well, what do we know?

When we get home from our trip, we tell all our friends the story of how we saw Paris in Los Angeles. Several of them seem doubtful. I mean, who actually goes to Hollywood and sees Paris Hilton? Isn’t that a little, well, clichéd? Besides, they point out smugly, isn’t she in jail?

Well, she is now. But doesn’t every condemned heiress deserve a final night on the town with a t-shirted boy toy . . . a last meal, so to speak?