The staircase too scary for Bruce Willis, and other Oscar party stories

From a wedding to an awards ceremony, no self-respecting Los Angeles beano can take place without endless fixtures around the main event. The Oscars barely get a look in between a clutch of warm-ups and afterparties. The Friday night (Oscar night being Sunday) is traditionally the preserve of the agents, the most high-profile of whom throw open the doors of their Hollywood homes to their clients — and no one else. It was a rarity, then, that at the party given by the super-agent Ari Emanuel, stars (‘Talent’, in the argot) schmoozed and ate macaroni cheese with a certain number of the not-so-famous (‘civilians’). Marooned somewhere between Dustin Hoffman and Wales’s most glamorous export, Catherine Zeta-Jones, I felt horribly conspicuous. Every level of Emanuel’s garden, including the swimming pool, had been reconfigured as party space. There was a huge sign to the last floor reading simply ‘MORE’ — always an apt slogan in Hollywood, unless you’re trying to get into a dress.

Even with constant blue skies and sunshine, Los Angeles still finds ways to make its inhabitants neurotic. I’d only been here a matter of hours when, at my hotel, I took delivery of a large bag full of modern-day corsetry: pants, vests and bras designed to suck everything in (breathing is for suckers). It had been sent as a slightly disturbing promotional stunt by an American brand called Maidenform. It wasn’t so much underwear as non-surgical liposuction. No need to ask whether your bum looks big in this — if you’re female and you might be seen near a red carpet, the town has already decided you need help.