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| The Bond Premiere Party,
Special Report |
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Darlings, the Bond Premiere (to which I was invited by my friend the Wardrobe Supervisor, John Scott last night) was so completely, unashamedly GLAM.
Let's start at the beginning. John picks me up at 5pm, looking very dashing in his ever-so-tactile black Prada suit, black shirt and black tie. My dress is deep plum velvet, with a cotton brocade empire-line bosom bit that ties with a ribbon, and is gathered both above and below the breasts. The straps are lace and ribbon, so it's sort of slip-dress meets evening dress, if you can imagine. Nowhere near the dressiest thing there, but I love it. Then I have my funky goldy Italian clod hoppers and plum tights (I am the only person wearing such chunky shoes, I note later) and - most crucial - the bunchies. I was delighted to note that there was not another bunchie in sight at the whole event - my hunch that there would be numerous size 10 glittery dresses and sleek locks was verified - but there are no size 14 East Village-y types to speak of at all.
We arrive at Leicester Square, which is all cordoned off, and crowds are pushing up against the barricades. We sweep up to the police-guarded entrance and show our tickets and then glide down the walkway round to the Empire Leicester Square. For once London has more oomph than New York, I think. And a flash goes off as one person takes our picture. Most gratifying.
We are ushered in through the film crew door to stalls (there's a celebrity door, by the TV camera, in the centre, and a for-those-paying-through-the-nose-for-tickets door) and take our seats. Which are leapardskin, to my delight. And as we wait, they project up everyone arriving on the screen, so we too can star spot and watch the interviews on tele as they happen, and we see Lee Majors (the Six Million Dollar Man) first, looking rather the worse for wear, Serena Scott Thomas (who is in the film), Emma Thompson and Greg Wise (swooooon), Desmond Llewelyn (that lovely man who plays 'Q' and has done for my entire life, literally; he is VERY witty), Judi Dench and Michael Williams, Robbie Coltrane and Robbie Carlisle, the Bond girls including Sophie Marceau (super dress - 'it's Chanel I think', John whispers) and Maria Grazia Cucinotta (who has a splendid pair of bosoms I must say, and, apparently, very Carroll Gardens style Sicilian connections - I say no more...) and Denise Richards (who has over-done the glitter on her face, if you ask me and John), Goldie, Colin Salmon (he was that lovely black guy in Prime Suspect - more swooning), Samantha Bond (who plays Moneypenny), Vinny Jones (thug footballer turned thug actor) Michael Apted (the director), John Hurt and more. And finally, of course, Pierce himself. He is not wearing the suit John choose for him, but some other fancy-dress cravat and waistcoat. We do not approve. His partner, Keeley, the American newsreader (whose surname I've forgotten) looks ever so voluptuous. Either she is on the same diet as me - I think I'll call it the 'too-many-parties-with-not-enough-drugs-at-them' diet - or she's pregnant. Given I am sure there are lots of drugs at the parties she goes to, my guess is she's up the duff.
Finally everyone is there, and then they all troop into the stalls to our left and onto the stage, and it is odd, having just been watching them all 50' high on-screen, to see them suddenly all a tenth of that size, or so. And they are all introduced (the ones in the film, that is) to the audience, and Pierce B. does a little very nicely-spoken speech, and then we watch the movie. I will not spoil it by giving away the plot (as Sophie Marceau did in her interview - grrr) - just go and see it. It's one of the most fun Bond movies to date; to add to the non-stop action and glamour, there are lots of silly puns and opportunities to London-spot. I thoroughly enjoyed it, even though I got completely lost at some points (but then I always do!) and Pierce B. and Sophie M. are especially good. I could skip Denise do da, I must say. Can't act for toffee, and her tits have an implant-give-away hugeness and hardness that Maria the Sicilian beauty's do not have...
Afterwards we go to the party.
It was FREEZING walking from Leicester Square to the marquee in St James's Square.. My 87% metallic yarn/13% silk wrap offers little warmth in the London-in-November night-time temperature. We have to queue for a few minutes while our tickets are checked, and limos are pulling up left right and centre, and more stars are getting out and being ushered straight in. Some rather nice-looking man sneezes on my shoulder.
Inside the marquee we go down a long, long black tunnel, lit only by huge ultra-violet cubes, and then into the marque itself. Now I have been to some posh parties in my time, but this...this... Blimey! It must have cost a PACKET. My guess is a million dollars (£600,000) - the drink will have been sponsored. The 'marquee' covers the entire square, but is divided into three different, huge main rooms, with flat water features as you walk in and incorporating the horse and rider statue in the middle. There is a full bar made of ice for the Smirnoff vodka being served and a food bar, a live orchestra (complete) - another tumbling water feature with, what? probably 1000 candles all gradually being put-out (by mistake) by the water, and that's just one of the rooms! There's also the dancing room (where the paying-through-the-nose guests seem to gravitate) and the celebrity room, where each star has their own table.
John and I leave my program on Colin Salmon's table where John knows everyone and then we spend the next three hours gliding around schmoozing and celebrity-spotting. We met lots of the crew; the casting
director, John's partner-in-crime, costume designer Lindy Hemming (who admired my ample bosom I'd have you know and said I had genuine Bond-girl assets as she pulled my ribbon tighter) and a few of the actors, (not Pierce, but his son)...
After a couple of glasses of champagne, I ate - I had to! It was splendid - there were numerous beautiful waiters/waitresses wandering round with little nibbles, then a full on buffet meal complete with runny, runny, runny yes-I'll-have-some-more-fuck-it cheese. John nobly picked on about three lettuce leaves, but I made up for him.
We do a bit more star-spotting, and see Boy George and that groovy Capital DJ whose name escapes me, and then this guy stumbles into me, looking definitely tipsy and a bit lost for someone to talk to, so I introduce myself, and John, and we ask who he is. He says he is 'a gatecrasher', so we say 'how on earth can you gatecrash something like this?' and he says, sounding slurry but definitely pretty well spoken, that it might be something to do with his surname. So we say 'so what is your surname?' and he says 'Mountbatten'. Ha ha! We talked to him for ages (until he staggered off to get us more booze and mingle with his Sandhurst chums); he was called Simon and 'worked' in the city at something very imprecise, and lived, very surprisingly, in Brixton. (I bet he has one of those huge Georgian houses on the Brixton Road). But he undoubtedly was a Mountbatten, as we got his card, which was simply - dig this - a swirly monogram of S something M, with no address or anything. He was 31 and looked older than that; we reckon he imbibed a few too many intoxicants in his time. Not least last night.
Finally we talk to two guys from Saatchis, one of whom sneezed on my shoulder on the way in, and then my feet started hurting and it was gone 1.30, so we decided to head home.
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