I bumped into Steve Martin dining with Eric Idle at a Beverly Hills boîte, as one does. ‘I really enjoy your Spectator diaries,’ said Steve. ‘And I,’ said Mr Idle. ‘And you and the roller-skating nuns were the best thing in the Olympic finale,’ I chirped back. Hollywood folk love to give each other compliments. I buttered up George Clooney at the Carousel Ball, where he was being honoured for his charitable work in Haiti and the Sudan, by telling him how much I adored Argo, which he co-produced, and that same night I told Shirley MacLaine how much I liked her in Downton, even though I’d gladly have maimed her for the part. I was impressed by my self-restraint.
At an Academy screening of Hitchcock (in which Anthony Hopkins was brilliant) some patrons sitting behind us told me how ‘great’ I looked. A few minutes later a very haggard-looking actress, much past her prime but trying hard, was hailed by these same punters with cries of ‘Great to see you again’ and ‘You look sooo beautiful!’ After she left they turned to each other and hissed, ‘God she looks terrible.’
We hurtle down the winding track on the elegantly streamlined Acela service from NYC to Boston.
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