Will Smith’s palm. When you’re covering Oscars parties, naïve friends and family will tell you to “look out” for certain stars for them, not realizing the weekend isn’t about celebrity sightings and selfies, but a grueling yet glamorous slog of sleepless nights, slippery scoops, PR provocations, hors d’oeuvres and anxiety.
You become completely un-star struck. Even when you’re at the Sunset Tower sitting at a table between Dua Lipa and Robert Pattinson, with Orlando Bloom, Riz Ahmed and the cast of “Euphoria” partying around you, you’re panicking you might be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Then again, it ain’t exactly reporting on Ukraine — the pressure to cover the events usually comes with a waiter offering sliders at the end of the night.At a string of Oscars pre-parties last week, I was yelled at by WME superagent Ari Emanuel — who accused me of trying to be “provocative,” and said he didn’t “suffer fools gladly,” when I innocently asked him why his agency wasn’t throwing its annual bash — and I had an amped up chat with Quentin Tarantino in which the director pooh-poohed the Oscars altogether and said he couldn’t wait to see Tom Cruise’s “Top Gun” sequel.By Sunday night I was at an Oscars screening party put on by Neon, the studio behind the Kristen Stewart film “Spencer” as well as other titles in contention.
As we all watched the ceremony, I was panicked: In a few hours I’d be at the Vanity Fair Oscars Party — truly the world’s only FOMO-free zone since everyone who’s anyone is there and you are finally, definitely in the right place.
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