..Gary Dretzka
..Noah Forrest
..Leonard Klady
..R.J. Matson
..David Poland
..Douglas Pratt
..Ray Pride
..Michael Wilmington

May 13, 2003

T-T-T-T-Touch Me: I Wanna Be Dirty
Tribeca Film Festival, Part Two

Bob Evans touched me on Thursday night. OK, so maybe it’s old hat to some of you, but this guy is my new hero. I felt anointed somehow, now that he’s called me “Kid”; and, forsooth, it is as though all of that fabulous, sordid Hollywood history could be conveyed in one convivial lean on my shoulder. Or perhaps he was just going to fall: he is about to turn 74 in June -- but I don’t think so.

That would largely be because his newest wife, Leslie-Ann Woodward – she would be the sixth, I believe – all six feet over, beautiful boobs, and flashy white southern smile of her, towered above the original Kid and gently cuddled his permatanned, pancaked face as flashbulbs sparked. “I’ve broken every rule, and then some,” he intoned in his celluloid-torn voice. “When I met her,” Evans said, hugging Leslie-Ann closer to his natty blue wool pinstriped side, “she told me her last two boyfriends hadn’t worked out right. So I said, “Yeah, kid, but did they make you glow?” We were married three months later.”

Even if he was a master of the emotional fraud so rampant in the film business, Evans himself has said, “I was a half-assed actor, and I knew it.” No reason to think he’s improved since The Sun Also Rises; this guy is happy, and with a big blonde to prop him up, why wouldn’t he be? All the best, Bob.

Evans wasn’t the only talent from the old days with a young, pretty wife hanging around the city this week. 83-year-old Tony Randall was out promoting his cameo in Down With Love, the silly McGregor/Zellweger take on sixties-era Pillow Talk type movie, which opened the Festival. Randall walked the carpet with his blonde spouse, Heather. Asked if he approved of David Hyde Pierce's treatment of his signature style, Randall said dryly, "They didn't ask me."

Randall remembered meeting young Heather some years back: "She was an intern in my theatre, and I thought she was a real hard working little one." "I didn't like him,” Heather mused. “I think he was eating a sandwich, and I asked him if I could have a bite, and he said "No, but you can get me some coffee." I went home and called my dad and said, "Dad, Tony Randall's a jerk!" But the second day, he was nice. He never gave me part of the sandwich, but I ended up liking him." I’m no ageist, but ah, that sweet cranky octogenarian love.

Renee Zellweger was also there, shivering in a vintage black silk shift, visible goose bumps appearing on her tiny forearms. Though she complained that the “wool thing” she wears in the film – a 1960’s narrow dress – was itchy, she was probably wishing for it just then. May is cool in New York, a fact often overlooked by stylists who cram their female clients into tiny frocks on all the coldest nights of the year. It can be said that the more nipple that shows, the better. This was embodied not by Zellweger but a young Asian siren that walked the carpet in beige, translucent crepe.

Nonetheless, Renee did appreciate the clothing of the era: “It added so much to the day to have a Daniel Orlandi original waiting for me first thing in the morning.” Better than breakfast, even: on those shivery nights, you just want to hug her and pump her full of fortified oatmeal, poor dear.

After the screening, guests walked several blocks to the Winter Garden pavilion in the World Financial Center, located near the gaping hole where the World Trade Center used to stand. There's something eerily beautiful and strong about seeing it at night: a bright halogen symbol of what was, and what might yet be. Quite creepy, that big pit, though hundreds of people tried to bring it warmth by filling the next-door glass atrium, where a DJ spun too softly and open bars lifted spirits.

Also famous for lifting spirits is Ashtanga yoga. Ashtanga, NY, a documentary about yoga focused on yoga master Pattabhi "Guruji" Jois, features interviews with yoga-practicing stars like Willem Dafoe and Paltrow. Dafoe, fresh from play rehearsals, said you don’t talk about yoga – you just do it. For her part, Paltrow cheerfully flanked the directors, Caroline Laskow and Mary Wigmore. What better way to square yoga’s benefits with the unavoidable recent commercialism (yoga mats are now $16.99 at Kmart: it was only a matter of time) than a film about an 87-year-old ascetic who comes to New York after 9/11 -- bringing calm to Tribeca and the big, gaping hole left by intolerance and avarice? I can’t actually think of one.

Our city heaved under the weight of new downtown commerce, restaurants and theatres, bustling with the importance of art. We inhaled and took in the sights and sounds, the meaning of it all.

Come Sunday, screaming children with scary wax likeness of Whoopi Goldberg at the giant Tribeca street fair returned to New Jersey. Upper West Siders hiked back to their prewars. Breitling-wearing bankers drinking $200 bottles of Burgundy settled their Gucci honeys into CLK Cabriolets and downshifted towards Great Neck. Life as Tribeca knew it began to return, but something was different downtown. It was better: settled on its sitz bones, the city said a “shanti,” and, very slowly, relieved of the song and dance of a film festival but maintaining an expectant hush for things to come…it exhaled.

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