Not
too often but sometimes, things work out even better than expected.
M
and I eventually pick our outfits… all black for both of us. We arrive at the Gone Girl premiere and already the
crowds have gathered. We soon spot some
of the actors in the press area and are able to get up close for some
photos. I pretty much care about only
one.
Seats
are all reserved, and ours are exactly where we would have picked had we been
choosing. Middle of the theater, middle
seats, and no heads blocking our view.
Since
this film is opening the New York Film Festival, a few people involved in the
festival make some speeches, and then the cast comes on stage, followed by
Gillian Flynn (the writer) and David Fincher (the director). I have to admit, I am more than a little starstruck.
 |
| Neil Patrick Harris |
 |
| Gillian Flynn, Ben Affleck, Rosamund Pike |
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| David Fincher, Gillian Flynn, Ben Affleck |
The
film is great, the performances excellent.
It follows the book closely, so there are no big surprises if you
are familiar with the story. But still, it’s
thrilling to watch, even knowing the sick twists.
After
the film, M and I have dinner at Telepan, a nearby restaurant. After one glass of prosecco M says,
“Let's not stay too long at the party. I'm happy to just go back to your apartment and hang out."
The
meal is great, and around 11 we leave the restaurant and walk (I hobble) over to Tavern on
The Green. I pop a couple of Advil to
help my throbbing toe.
Tavern on the Green has been closed for the past four years, and just reopened in
April. The $20 million renovation shows;
the place is gorgeous. As we are handing
over our silver invitations (like almost all the other guests), we hear one of the staff say to someone, “You can enter here
if you have a gold invitation.” Hmmm. Gold is always better than silver. We wonder what we won't be getting.
But
once we enter, we are dazzled by the night.
The crowd is both young and old. There are food stations everywhere. The
bar serves anything you want, including signature drinks like Gone Girl Gimlet with tequila, courtesy of Patron, one of the sponsors. M and I uncharacteristically have two each.
The
temperature is perfect, but there are space heaters just in case. The party is both indoors and out. There are no lines for anything, despite a big crowd. There are ample places to sit. The bathrooms are conveniently located. And there are
sparkling lights everywhere.
Oh, and we
are among the best dressed. People have
come wearing everything from long evening gowns to scruffy jeans to hideous patterned pants to sneakers.
There
is a booth set up to have professional-looking black and white photos
taken. People are going in groups of twos and threes. I try hard but can't get M to come with me. She hates being photographed. I think she's being ridiculous, but don't want to push it.
So I go alone. I tell the photographer I am a blogger, and he poses me with my camera.
M and I quickly concur that this event is too good to leave quickly. But
we still haven't seen any stars. For no good reason, we decide they'll show up around midnight. But they don't.
Later we realize that the VIP area — the one for gold invitation holders — is
where the real party is. But the observant guards at every entrance are doing their jobs well.
We watch as guests try to lie or flirt their way in.
"I have a gold ticket but now I can't find it."
"My father is in there so can’t you please
let me and my friends in?"
"We’ve come all the way from
LA," say three spectacular-looking women.
The guards patiently listen. They are very professional. And they turn away everyone who tries.
M
listens and comes up with a novel strategy: honesty. She approaches the head security person. “We don't have gold invitations but I do have a very special birthday coming up (so what if it's in March — it's still special and it's still coming up) and this would mean so much to me if my friend and I could go in for just a
little while.” Miraculously the guard
says, “Wait here awhile; I’ll see what I can do.” We
hang out at the door for maybe ten minutes and watch as well-dressed, hip young
people in tiny dresses and high-heeled shoes get turned away.
And
just as we are about to give up, the head security guard emerges from behind
the closed door, and motions for us to come in.
Unf***ing believable!
More
food. More drink. And a gigantic table of Melissa’s mini
cupcakes. We walk through a large room,
to a beautifully lit outdoor garden, and within a few feet of entering we see
Ben Affleck. We stand next to him and
listen to him be gracious and talkative to whomever approaches him. I get too nervous and don’t know what to
say. We’ll come back. Besides, M is more interested in meeting Neil Patrick Harris.
We
walk by Rosamund Pike, the lead actress in Gone Girl, who looks gorgeous.
M tells her how much we enjoyed her performance. I’d be surprised if she isn’t nominated for
major awards. In a corner off to the
side we see the author of Gone Girl,
Gillian Flynn. We
approach her.
The
thing most striking about Gillian is how friendly and normal she is. Her book is the barometer against which all
thrillers are now measured. This movie
will undoubtedly be a major hit. It is
sure to be up for some Oscars. And here
we are talking to her about the controversial ending and the dark humor in an otherwise chilling tale.
M says to Gillian, "You look like such a nice Irish Catholic girl yet some of your scenes are so twisted. Did you go to Catholic schools?" Gillian laughs and tells us she did go to a Catholic High School, and her writing is "how I get it all out of my system." Had someone not interrupted us, I am sure our conversation would have
gone on longer than the ten minutes she shared with us. Before leaving, we ask for her photo and she
readily agrees. (This is the same time that my non-iPhone camera runs out of batteries).
We
try to find Neil Patrick Harris, but can’t.
The two guys we ask say, “We don’t think he’s coming. We just tried texting him and he hasn’t
responded.” M is majorly disappointed.
We
go back to where Ben is standing and hang around him. I am still searching for an opening line. We are both from Boston doesn't feel strong enough. Then I think maybe I'll tell him that my son loves screenwriting. M's verdict on this approach is not good. "That'd be a sure conversation killer. He'll think you want him to give Alexander a job."
When there is a break in his discussion with some guy, I
jump in and say, “Ben. Hi, I’m Lyn,” and
shake his hand. I have no idea what to say next so I say something inane like, “I know Casey was born in
Falmouth (where my mom lives). Did you
spend any time there?” I see M rolling her eyes and I almost start laughing.
Ben looks as handsome as he does on the screen, but in person he is more
imposing. Tall and well built. Gracious.
And friendly. When we ask if we can take a photo with him, he says, “Of course,” and puts his arms around us both and
smiles.
We
leave around 1:45. The party is showing
no signs of slowing down.
While
everyone outside is competing for a cab, we call Uber. Four minutes later our car arrives. $10.10, including tip. 40% less than it cost to get there via yellow
cab.
M and I are up until three, rehashing the night.
I’m like a little kid. That’s
when M says, “I can’t believe how excited you still are. It was a phenomenal night. But Ben Affleck doesn’t excite me nearly as
much as seeing Princess Diana would.”
Unfortunately,
I am not expecting to be invited to any events where Diana will be the star.
