So, which party had the best-dressed attendees?

She’s the nicest John Hughes villain you’d ever meet.

The last time we got together, as she stood to hug me, she left her iPhone on the table. I looked down at it. I wasn’t snooping. I just didn’t know that Lily Pulitzer made iPhone cases. And then, as I stared at the little pink shoes on a lime green background, I noticed something out of character.

“Bebe,” I asked her, “why are you searching ‘threesome’ in the App Store?” Though perhaps the better question would have been why the term results in a tool to help your golf game.

“Have you ever had one?” she whispered. “You know, a ...”—and here she held up three fingers and mouthed the offending final syllable. It took me a minute to put this rebus together. Apparently it was too shocking to say, though not to do.

“Well, you know,” I replied, “the opportunity has never really presented itself!”

“Would you want to?”

Oh, God. The opportunity was presenting itself.

I’d be terrible at a threesome. I wouldn’t even know how to cuddle afterward. Would there even be cuddling afterward? Would there be breakfast?

“I … no. I don’t think so, but thanks! That’s really flattering.”

“No!” Bebe exclaimed, “no, no! I didn’t mean you!”

That was a relief. But why not me? I would have made pancakes in the morning.

“It’s just,” Bebe explained, “I promised John we could have one for his birthday. But I have no idea how you make one happen. Do you? Know how to?”

When was it exactly that women stopped giving men books and bow ties for their birthdays and started giving them breast implants and swinging sex? Probably sometime around 1963. And it had all led up to this—confused WASPy girls with pink-and-green phones desperately typing in various risque acts. Philip Larkin must be turning over in his grave.

“I thought there might be an app for it,” Bebe explained. “There’s that one for gay men. Where they can find each other. I thought there would be one like that.”

“You thought you’d find a bunch of bisexual girls at Bryant Park Grill?” I scanned the room full of rather bored, beautifully dressed women eating identical cobb salads. If the threesome-seeking app existed, Bryant Park Grill would be a really good spot to fire it up.

“I’m sure there’s a website that’s perfect for that,” I noted. “What about Craigslist? I think this is why Craigslist exists.”

Bebe began pecking away at her phone.

“Oh, it’s just furniture,” she said. She looked pleased to have found such a wholesome place, filled with vintage armoires. I grabbed the phone and began drilling down, feeling worldly.

“Tuesday Night Is Suckfest For Hung Trannies,” I read, as Bebe’s eyes widened in horror.

I no longer felt worldly.

“I am not a hung tranny,” she said.

A second later I found a pregnant woman who wanted to meet a couple who would drink her milk. Bebe lifted her perfectly manicured hand to her mouth and kept it there for a very long time.

“It’s just. I was hoping it would be someone who seemed nice. I want it to be with someone I’d like doing it with. Someone like Chloe Sevigny’s character in The Last Days of Disco, you know? That would be a good person to have a threesome with.”

“Do you think picking the most virtuous and virginal character in film might be a difficult starting point?” I asked (though I admired her for aiming high). “What if you went for someone like…” I paused to assess our mutual friends. “Becky!”

Becky spends a fair amount of time smoking peyote and having spiritual experiences. She seemed like someone who would know how take the reins on a threesome. She also has a tattoo that reads “I [heart] Sex” which seems like a good sign.

“Are you insane?” replied Bebe. “She’s terrifying. She tried to eat a live snake.”

“It wasn’t poisonous. It was more of a kissing thing. She tried to make out with a live snake, and that shows she’s up for new experiences! And she has a Chloe Sevigny–type physique.”

“She’s on drugs.”

“Sexy drugs.”

“No,” she said firmly.

“You could…” and now I found myself whispering, “call an escort agency. They’d send someone, and she’d be very nice.” I knew this because I have seen The Girlfriend Experience as well as Pretty Woman.

Bebe adjusted her headband primly. I assumed she had a moral objection. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I just don’t feel like I should have to pay for it. Besides…” she hesitated, “Julia Roberts is really adorable.”

“That’s ideal then, right?”

“No,” Bebe replies, “because then John could fall in love with her and take her to an opera. Thank God John doesn’t like the opera.”

Bebe called me a few weeks later. It seems John had been having second thoughts and decided that what he’d really like for his birthday would be a new nine iron. Bebe seemed somewhat disappointed, but she had just the app to go with it.

editorial@observer.com

There was nothing quiet about the party, which drew a capacity crowd (including a fur-coated Michael Musto and The King's Speech director Tom Hooper, spotted in conversation with actor Hugh Dancy). The dining room of the restaurant, a cozy and dark room with walls paneled in portraits of famous scenesters, drew among others famous blondie Debbie Harry and the outré designer Betsey Johnson (both of whose portraits hang on the wall). What's your favorite restaurant, Ms. Johnson? She laughed, a bit horrified. "Don't ask me that! I live uptown... it's embarrassing!"

We asked Ms. Harry, seated at the bar with a male companion and a stiff drink, the same question, and she started to laugh wordlessly. "I'm sorry," she mouthed, amidst her ecstatic outburst. She fiddled with her purse and tried in vain to compose herself. We tried again-what did she think of today's pop stars? Her male companion put a bucket of popcorn on his head and pulled clownish faces. It was just that kind of night!

ddaddario@observer.com :: @DPD_

“It’s not my favorite,” she told The Observer Saturday night, talking not two centimeters from our nose. The Human League was wailing on the sound system, and the leather-and-denim-clad crowd was singing along.

She pointed to the red vinyl couch behind her, where some shaggy-haired boys and blondes in T-shirts were swiftly dispatching the offending bottle of tequila.

This, The Observer told her, was simply unacceptable. If anyone deserved her precise drink of choice, it was Ms. Sevigny. She’s been beloved of the downtown crowd since she played the tragic teenage waif in the ever-more-legendary Kids. Hollywood adores her, too. In The Last Days of Disco she bopped from one polyester-fueled night to the next, sashaying with a revolving cast of New York party boys and ambling through Whit Stillman’s nimble dialogue. She nabbed an Oscar nomination for her stunning role in Boys Don’t Cry, then entered into TV polygamy. Her smile still beguiles.

And Saturday it was her party. Earlier in the day, Opening Ceremony debuted Ms. Sevigny’s new collection, and to celebrate she invited her friends to the bash at Don Hill’s.

Where else? Her brother, Paul, hot-spot impresario par excellence, owns the place with Nur Khan, and it has endured in the months since the bombast of its opening week—Iggy Pop bled and spat and all the pretty faces of Fashion’s Night Out were going to hell.

The Observer hadn’t talked to Ms. Sevigny since that night. She’d been in Los Angeles filming Big Love and just recently returned to her East Village digs.

“Every time I’ve been back I come here,” Ms. Sevigny told The Observer, without a hint of nepotism. “I love it! You can let your hair down.”

Mr. Sevigny, though, couldn’t make his sister’s bash. He had absconded to their mother’s house in Darien, Conn.

Out of the young and trashy-gorgeous crowd, Mr. Khan emerged flanked by two brunettes. After scoring drinks, they repaired to Sante’s Inferno, the back lounge, where Mr. Khan held court. In front of an image of a skeleton smoking a cigarette—an homage to Jean-Michel Basquiat—a small girl in spike-studded Chucks and matching bra writhed atop the black wooden box fixture in the back.

She became indignant when The Observer complimented her bangs-and-bobbed Nicki Minaj wig.

“Dude, she didn’t invent the fucking wig!” said the dancing girl. “I’ve been wearing wigs for a long time. Plus, Nicki wears pink, and I wear blue.”

Noted. She turned her head back into the canopy of smoke and shook her arms to the Outfield’s “Your Love.”

“It’s hard to take pictures in here,” a photographer for Interview yelled as a wave of pixie-dust green spots filled the manic strobe light. “It’s so dark.” He spun his camera around at a set of couches, where two leggy girls were grinding, and snapped a few shots.

It was 2 a.m., then 3 a.m. passed without ceremony, and the dance floor’s undulations showed no signs of wavering. Depeche Mode and the Smiths gave way to a string of muscular pop numbers that, after some lubrication, strike the pleasure lobes and disarm. The scene boasted its fair share of meticulously curated looks and tastes, but even with these kids, Katy Perry’s creampuff ditty “Teenage Dream” totally killed.

Ms. Sevigny, too, couldn’t seem to leave the dance floor. She would periodically slink up next to a girlfriend or some lucky guy, drink in hand. By the look of her cocktail, it seemed that deep into the Sunday morning hours she had moved on from Patrón to, well, something preferable.

nfreeman [at] observer.com | @nfreeman1234

Later that evening, after hopping around the packed Soho streets for Fashion's Night Out, we found ourselves in an even more aggressive mob scene: the line of people desperate to join us at the Pop magazine party at Don Hill's. Dubbed the party of the week before it even happened, the bash at the new venture from nightlife barons Nur Khan and Paul Sevigny attracted the evening's biggest names. As Iggy Pop rocked on the stage, Gwen Stefani sat perched on a ledge cradled by husband Gavin Rossdale; Mary-Kate Olsen stood on a bench to make up for her height; and Nicky Hilton chatted to the woman of the hour, Pop editor in chief Dasha Zhukova, girlfriend of one of the world's richest men, Russian billionaire Roman Abramovich.

Of course, Chloë Sevigny wouldn't miss out. She had on a T-shirt and jean skirt befitting the gritty Don Hill's feel, and told The Observer that her brother's place would be the city's new hot spot. "It's what it was like at the Beatrice, and it's probably been missing since the Beatrice," she said. (What she didn't say, of course, was that the Beatrice Inn was closed in 2008 for overcrowding and "inadequate means of egress"--problems that hopefully will not plague Don Hills.)

On Saturday night, at the after-party for Charlotte Ronson's spring collection, Ms. Ronson, wearing a fitted, frilly blue dress, told us she was feeling good after her show, and said the rest of her week will be filled with "meetings--hopefully positive ones!" Her twin sister, Samantha, explained the personal significance of her final musical selection from the show, Lisa Loeb's "Stay": "That was an ode to one of my sister's and my best friends from when we were kids. She died a few years ago, and that was like our song together." Rashida Jones, on the other hand, wasn't feeling chatty, but she was clearly thirsty, as we witnessed her pour a hefty amount of vodka straight from the bottle into a empty coconut-water carton.

More action at Alexander Wang's party. The young designer topped his gas station soiree from last year's Fashion Week with a full carnival, built from scratch in a parking lot at 18th Street and 10th Avenue. Dree Hemingway, Terry Richardson and Agyness Deyn all turned up for the pulled pork sandwiches and skee ball.

The wildly enthusiastic Mr. Wang talked to us for a few moments, but didn't have time to stay put. "Will you walk with me to the bar?" he said as we dodged the cameras and flashbulbs. "We need alcohol! We need alcohol! Sorry!"

We asked Mr. Wang, who had on a black T-shirt, black shorts and black sneakers, about the theme for his over-the-top party. "The carnival is the new performance. Everyone can be a performer now."

We asked him to elaborate. "I just want people to have fun," he said. "Just get drunk, have fun, have a good time."

Our fashion crawl came to a close on Sunday night at the Tommy Hilfiger 25th Anniversary after-party, where we got a little literary with Mad Men's Christina Hendricks. "I just finished The Way the Crow Flies, which I absolutely loved," she said. Next on her night stand is One Hundred Years of Solitude, which she's started three times but never made it past the first chapter. "I know it's going to be worth it if I just go for it. ... I know the payoff will be there," Ms. Hendricks said. We also ran into Kelly Osbourne, who told us she was looking forward to hearing the evening's musical performers, the Strokes, play for the first time in New York since 2006. "Before there was the Strokes, I really liked *NSYNC and, like, really big pop music. And then the Strokes came out and they are what made me change my taste, I guess you could say. In my generation, I think that happened with a lot of people."

Asked what his favorite moment of the party was, Mr. Hilfiger said, "Having all of my friends there, including Jennifer Lopez, Bradley Cooper, Rebecca Romijn, Jason Lewis, Lenny Kravitz, to celebrate with me, and the Strokes' performance. It was one of the best nights of my life."

editorial@observer.com

Too bad Iggy Pop doesn't give a fuck about your reason.

"I think we're all aware it's Fashion Week in New York City," Iggy growled to the mass of beautiful attendees. "Just remember, fashion people, your pretty face is going to hell."

That set the tone for what can only be described as a raucous bash at Paul Sevigny's just-opened and hotly anticipated new project, Don Hill's. The civilized Soho shop-hopping of earlier that night was like a far-off memory now that Iggy and the Stooges had plugged in.

The place had a very tough door. Even with an invite, The Observer had to fight doormen, a police squad and a crew of performers on stilts to get into the spot. Even Patrick McMullan had some trouble breaking through the fray to secure his entrance. But once inside, we had crawled into a graffiti-soaked, smokey, punked-out, porn-on-the-walls sin den where the actresses, pop icons and models had cast off the sterile runways in favor of bopping around to rock's original purveyor of violence, Iggy Pop. 

The Misshapes spun James Brown and other soul classics as roadies wheeled in gear and sound-checked, and everyone took full advantage of the open bar. As start time approached, Gwen Stefani sat perched on a ledge, cradled by hubby Gavin Rossdale — who, like most of the rockers of the last 40 years, owes his entire forgettable musical career with the band Bush to The Stooges. Terry Richardson was drinking a beer in those gray-rimmed glasses, his camera slung over his shoulder. Nicky Hilton sat up with Ms. Zukhova. There was the expected beard-wearing contingent and many of the girls were dressed as though they had come stright from uptown. 

We found artist Jeff Koons nursing a drink over toward the back, and asked him about Iggy's influence on his own art. 

"I've always loved his work," Mr. Koons told us. "I put an image on the top of a yacht, on Dakis Joannou's boat—it's called Guilty, it's a big yacht in the mediterraenean. There's an image of Iggy there, on top. I think Iggy's like a god, like a greek god. When people move you to that level they're like Apollo or Dionysus."

Photographer and downtown art favorite Ryan McGinley had on a zipper-heavy leather jacket and skinny black tie. We deadpanned to him about whether he was excited or not for the show.

"Hell yeah! What are you crazy?" he told us, adding that he's seen Iggy perform three times. 

Minutes later the man himself came onstage, launching into the title cut off Raw Power, the loudest album ever recorded. Then, as the guitarist hammered the spitfire riff to "Search and Destroy," we looked down to find Mary-Kate Olsen — or was it Ashley? Don Hill's is a dark and hazy place — right next to us, trying to crane her neck to see Iggy. Gwen Stefani, still perched on a bench and wearing that deep red lipstick, nodded along with some of the tunes and occasionally closed her eyes, swaying. At Iggy's insistence, an unruly moshpit broke out, giving him a chance to do some stage-diving and crowd-surfing. We saw McGinley right in the thick of it.

Oh, also, The Stooges were a revelation. Somehow all the decades of heavy drug use turned Iggy into a promethean marvel — he pranced, jumped, yelled, spat, and sounded not a inch out of his prime. The power of it all forced the crowd into full-on Doubting Thomas mode: they reached out their hands, because they had to touch him to believe he was real.

On the other end of Don Hill's, Paul Sevigny was standing atop the bar, not far from two girls stripped to their undewear who were also elevated and dancing. Eventually the bartenders started spraying water all over them, and Mark Hunter AKA the Cobrasnake — who was wearing the same "ironic" American Online cap he had rocked the night before at the Chanel Soho opening — was on hand to capture this wholesome moment for posterity. 

After the set ended many of the big names headed out, leaving a crowd that was mostly hip skinny kids dancing to Gang of Four (which is still pretty cool). Before we called it a night, we chatted up the lovely Chloë Sevigny, who will probably be hanging around her brother's new place quite a bit. 

"It feels kind of wild in here!" Chloë told us. "I was here last night as well and it just had a little sense of anarchy that I feel like New York is missing. I also think that it's really great because the crowd is really young and old, like, it's super mixed. It's what it was like at the Beatrice, and it's probably been missing since the Beatrice."

And so we can add Don Hill's to the long list of places deemed "The New Beatrice." But this time, with the backing of Paul, the endorsement of Chloë and a little help from Iggy Pop, we might be ready to choose a true successor. 

Late last week, in a moment that feels particular to the neighborhood of Williamsburg, Brooklyn, a girl in her early 20s with long, seemingly unwashed brown hair, stained denim cutoffs, scuffed boots and a loose white tank top that exposed lacy bra straps rode by on a bicycle and caught the attention of a 31-year-old man.

She belonged to the species of Dirty Girl that have been shuffling around this city for years: youthful, thrifty, indifferent to grooming-and in possession of an undeniable and confounding sex appeal.

"There are different kinds of hotness," explained her admirer, who preferred not to be named. "Sometimes you see a woman and you think, 'My God. I would do anything to take that woman out to a nice meal and see if she's crazy enough to think I'm nice and marry me someday.' And then there are times you're walking home and you step into a bar and there is this chick in the corner and I can go home and have sex with her for a weekend. And those girls radiate that."

The levels of trying and looking like you're not, so that everyone knows you actually really, really are, have an appeal, he added. "You know how in middle school you would rip your jeans, and your parents would mock you? That's kind of how I feel about them. It's like you know that that was such a curated attempt that it inherently exposes a softness in the middle, a kind of vulnerability. Like, 'You don't know who you are very well yet, but you're trying to create a facade that supports a certain thesis.'"

PHOTOS> Meet the Dirty Girls

The Dirty Girls of New York have some well-known ambassadors, commonly found in the front rows of certain fashion shows and the pages of Nylon magazine and (with their nipples showing) on Purple magazine founder Olivier Zahm's blog. They are well educated in the art of heavy eyeliner, like that smudged and smeared around Becka Diamond's eyes; of concealing your actual, sizable wealth with vintage T-shirts, like Peaches and Pixie Geldof; and of uncombed hair, like that framing the disinterested, remote look of Cory Kennedy's eyes. (All of the above are often identified as model or socialite or "It girl" or "party girl," though their actual professional pursuits are unclear.)

Ms. Kennedy appeared in ad campaigns and on the cover of Women's Wear Daily after the photographer (and her onetime boyfriend) Mark "The Cobra Snake" Hunter began posting photos of her on his Web site back in 2005. And though the look has all but disappeared from editorial pages, the photographer's Web site is still a place where the number of skinny, adolescent thighs in ripped stockings, navels exposed by dingy crop tops and various states of intoxication demonstrated by suggestive poses on the ground would make any man, young or old, feel instant guilt-if not for having looked, then for the place their imagination took them. 

"I know a lot of those girls and for some of them it's real, you know?" said Mr. Hunter by phone. "They sleep in their clothes and then go to a party and they won't shower, for real. I'm not a girl, but it must be a relief that that kind of look is acceptable because it's a lot easier to pull off than throwing pounds of makeup on and trying to make your clothes steamed and unwrinkled and stuff. I've traveled with some of them, and they just throw their shit in their suitcase and they put it on wrinkled and then they just put dry shampoo in their hair. It's a lifestyle."

Asked about the appeal of the look to the opposite sex, Mr. Hunter said, "It just gets a dirty idea in your head. Like, 'This girl is wild,' or it's just very sexual, like, 'Let's degrade this person.'"

Meanwhile, the fashion editors-who almost always take a position contrary to that of a straight man when it comes to what's sexy-see the look a different way.

"Some people equate dirtiness with soulfulness. That it makes you interesting," said Elle's fashion news director, Anne Slowey. "I don't think it's necessarily one of fashion's biggest trends, but kids of a certain age are always discovering it. But, it's like, can't someone rediscover Stephen Sprouse or Geoffrey Beene? Alex White is doing styling with Oscar de la Renta and re-creating that whole 'Upper East Side kid mimicking parents' thing, which is more interesting to me than always doing Marc's Perry Ellis collection.

"I think it works for Cory Kennedy, but there is a fine line between expression and clamoring for attention," she continued. "The minute it becomes ... who was it that used to roll around on the floor at clubs? Or like Paz de la Huerta. I've seen her pick her nose and fling it across the restaurant, and at a certain point you're just out of control."

Ms. Slowey later added on The Observer's answering machine, "Erin Wasson is like the epitome of the dirty underpants look, but even her line got cleaned up for fall." (Last month, in fact, Ms. Wasson's line for RVCA consisting of denim cutoffs and baby tees-the debut of which was marked by the model claiming, 'Homeless people have the best style'-was discontinued altogether.)

What's frustrating at this point-for someone who first glimpsed the Dirty Girl look eight years ago at N.Y.U., tried it on and ultimately abandoned it by graduation-is that it still dominates young women's idea of style. Even as the clothes on the runways have become beautiful and elegant and clean. Even as Alexander Wang has traded in his burnout tees in favor of deconstructed suits in sophisticated fabrics and pinstripes. And even as 17-year-old actress Taylor Momsen has amplified the look to an ungodly extreme, looking dirtier, cheaper and self-consciously more desperate than all the Dirty Girls before her.

But there is hope: Examine the spreads in the just-out September issues of the major fashion magazines, and you will find a refreshing precision to both the tailoring and hair-styling. "I think there's always going to be a place for that rebellious dirty look with the torn sweaters and leggings," said Katie Connor, Marie Claire's fashion features editor. "But in terms of what we're looking at on the runways, right now, it's much more a return to the classics, and what we're seeing is very ladylike-it's longer hemlines and square top-handle bags. That goes directly in the face of these young starlets in the tattered clothes."

Even Ashley and Mary-Kate Olsen, who arrived in the hallways of N.Y.U. practicing what became known as homeless chic, seem to be cleaning up. (The latter is Marie Claire's cover girl this month, with pink lips and a tailored jacket slung over her shoulders.)

"I look at the Olsen twins, and they've come so far in terms of when they first came to New York and started that whole wide-gaping-holes-in-your-leggings look," Ms. Connor said. "Now they're talking about how they would love to see the first lady wear The Row or Elizabeth and James"-their fashion lines-"and you see even in them this shift towards sophistication."

Perhaps that will soon trickle down, and all these wanly bicycling, pallid Williamsburg Winonas will morph into the Betties of Brooklyn Heights?

But for now the Dirty Girls are still with us: staring out blankly from American Apparel ads and most conc
entrated in the photographs of Mr. Hunter.

"There are always people who will live this lifestyle," Mr. Hunter said, "And people who will follow it, get bored and change. But I don't think it's going anywhere."

Perhaps that's exactly what the Dirty Girl look is, then: a phase, no different from mean boyfriends or naval piercings, that will always define a time in young womanhood and that, inevitably, passes with time. "They are clearly investing a lot of time into how they get dressed-and in lieu of what can be a whole conversation," Ms. Slowey said. "And then they grow up or they actually have the talent to back it up, like Chloë Sevigny, and eventually they probably want to start marketing themselves somehow, whether they are actresses or performers, and they're going to have to start taking themselves seriously. At some point how you look becomes business. It's fun to slum it, but there is a shelf life to that."

ialeksander@observer.com

After all, the themes of years past--“Superheroes” in 2008 and “The Model as Muse” in 2009--resulted in numerous disasters, including lamé turbons (Kate Moss), strange lighting strike patterns (Lake Bell), thigh high boots (Madonna) and inappropriate cleavage and leggage (Blake Lively). Judging from this year’s looks, the famous ladies have wised up and classed it up. Truthfully, the disasters were far fewer than we’ve seen in the past.

Stay tuned for a full red carpet report from Chloe Malle, but for now enjoy a slideshow of our favorite looks from last night. 

Later during the gala dinner, YSL CEO Valérie Hermann gave an entirely different reason for Mr. Pilati's absence, telling the guests:

"Finally, Stefano Pilati, YSL's creative director, has asked me to convey how sorry he is not to be able to join us tonight, and sends his very best wishes from Paris, where he is busy with the coming collection, " she said. "Somebody still has to work in this company."

Now, Daily Front Row is wondering whether the designer's absence might be indicative of a rumored rift between Mr. Pilati, who was named creative director of YSL in 2004 following the exit of Tom Ford, and PPR, YSL's holding company. According to the Daily, there was talk during Paris Fashion Week that PPR might be searching for a replacement since the designer's ready-to-wear pieces haven't won over consumers.

YSL spokespeople responded to the Daily with a denial of any rift, adding that Mr. Pilati will be be present and representing the company at the Met Costume Gala in May.

Seeing Chloë Sevigny approach in an elegant black evening jumpsuit, with black gloves covering her forearms and wearing scarlet lipstick, we asked, "True opera fan or just here for the socializing?"

"I came to hang out with [YSL chief designer] Stefano Pilati, but he missed his flight and he didn't make it so I'm kind of disappointed," the actress said. "He wanted me to wear this outfit, so I wore it and I'm here to see him and he's not here!" As for Armida: "I don't even know what it's about," Ms. Sevigny admitted. "I went to the opera years ago with my mother once, but I don't remember what I saw." A photographer asked Ms. Sevigny to turn around to get an over-the-shoulder shot. The actress turned around and said, re the back of her outfit: "It's not that interesting."

A traditional opera-goer might also be irked by the emerging trend of the dressy pants that have replaced the floor-sweeping opera gowns. "I feel most comfortable in pants these days," said actress Ginnifer Goodwin, who arrived in a corset top and high-waisted black slacks. But is she comfortable discussing coloratura? "I'm a true fan, but I don't have much of an opera education," Ms. Goodwin said. "In fact, they make it so accessible these days printing the entire story in the program and giving us all subtitles. I love the music, like I'm a big Puccini fan, but I don't understand a word of it! I was raised in America"-Memphis-"so I speak English."

Wearing a feathery YSL minidress, the socialite Fabiola Beracasa said that she appreciated opera partly because of how much she used to protest going when she was younger. "Since I was little, my paternal grandmother took me," Ms. Beracasa said. "I hated it. I would fall asleep or say, 'I have a stomachache, I can't go!' But as an adult, I have an affinity for it. For me, it's just this nostalgia for my childhood."

Shortly before curtain, actress Christine Baranski arrived, clad in a ruffly black-halter gown. She said she had been to 10 opera productions this season. "Opera-goers are a passionate group. I was in the audience opening night of Tosca, when everyone was booing. And I just thought, 'How wonderful! How passionate!'"