Still in infancy, Hollywood parties sloppy

By STEVE PERSALL, Times Film Critic

© St. Petersburg Times, published December 17, 1999

Who are all of these people? Click to see a larger version of this illustration. [Times art: Don Morris]

JAN. 1, 2000 -- Those Hollywood types don't know how to clean up after themselves.

Nobody brings maids to parties to make sure Jack Nicholson tosses his paper plate into a garbage can or Carole Lombard's martini spillage gets wiped up. That's why I'm here on the backlot of Twentieth Century Fox studios at 7 a.m. on New Year's Day playing custodian to the stars.

Normally, the studio would take care of such matters, but Fox laid off everybody until a decision is made on what to do with the company name. Laurel and Hardy offered to help at 5 a.m., but they only wanted to move the piano.

Everybody else is sleeping off the Dom Perignon, so that leaves me. Not even Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland stuck around, and they were the ones who said: "Hey, kid, let's put on a show!"

That pile of rubbish over there used to be a Busby Berkeley extravaganza, a tribute to the only century popular American filmmaking has known. Then those darn fool New Hollywood brats crashed the party and acted like they were at Woodstock '99. Somebody should remind Brad Pitt that Fight Club is just a movie.

Watch your step through those peanut shells on the ground. Spielberg and D.W. Griffith were comparing notes on staging battle scenes with casts of thousands and got a little carried away. Johnny Weissmuller walked through barefooted and took a few stitches. He said I'll never work in this town again. Right now, that seems like a blessing.

Before I get back to work, a few people need to be thanked. I really wasn't prepared for this, so I'm sure somebody will be left out.

I'd like to thank Robert Altman for handling the guest list, since he always does such a wonderful job of mixing personalities and conversations into a rich, cerebral stew.

I'm especially grateful to Spinal Tap for coming out of retirement to perform during dinner, and the Buena Vista Social Club for our dancing pleasure afterward.

Special thanks go to Wolfgang Puck for creating the evening's menu. I never imagined so many uses for sun-dried tomatoes and pizza crust. The gold-covered chocolate millennium clocks were a nice touch.

And, George Lucas, if not for you, our fireworks display at midnight would never be so memorable. Strapping Jar-Jar Binks to the final exploding skyrocket was a stroke of genius.

Most of all, I'd like to thank the tens of thousands of filmmakers and actors who showed up, icons and bit players alike. Where else could you watch Charlie Chaplin, Jerry Lewis and Jim Carrey swapping tips for the perfect double-take? Or hear Marilyn Monroe advising Angelina Jolie on coping with celebrity? Or see the expression on Katharine Hepburn's face when she was handed Audrey's name tag by mistake?

By rights, another millennium should provide ten times the rapture that one century of American cinema has given us. That probably won't happen, or can't, but somebody will know better when they party like it's 2999.

Maybe movie stars will learn some manners by then.