James Brolin and Barbra Streisand.

“Mirella Freni and Pavarotti shared the same wet nurse,” former NYC Mayor Rudolph Giuliani said last week at the Eighth Annual Opera News Awards at The Plaza, sharing a bit of opera trivia before giving the Metropolitan Opera Guild’s distinguished achievement award to the supreme Modenese soprano. “Just imagine the Freudian connotations,” hizzoner continued. “Mirella’s mother liked to say, ‘Guess who got all the milk?’”

Triggering uproarious laughter and a few gasps.

The next morning, Shindigger was still giggling at the Waldorf Astoria for the 2013 Matrix Awards, hosted by Joan Rivers, where pioneering women in media and communications such as Kara Swisher, Joanna Coles, HSN’s Mindy Grossman and Bonnie Hammer received Tiffany & Co. medallions from the likes of Barry Diller, Iman and Ryan Seacrest. Another legendary songstress, five-time Tony winner Audra McDonald, was celebrated as well.

“She has the voice of an angel,” Council Speaker Christine Quinn declared as she bestowed a Matrix on Ms. McDonald. Though it was Ms. Rivers who got in the last line—“Dessert was good, but not worth the calories!”—before hobbling off the stage.

All in all, it proved to be as much of a musical week as a comedic week for Shindigger, though, highlighted by The Film Society of Lincoln Center’s 40th anniversary Chaplin Awards Gala, which honored the epic career of Barbra Streisand and featured a mega-star-studded array of delicious surprises.

“Boy am I excited, this is such a treat!” exclaimed our first surprise, Liza Minnelli, after a standing ovation. “When I saw Barbra perform, I went nuts,” she raved. “I said Mama—it’s just unique and was splendid. She had chutzpah! The real deal!”

Grabbing the mic and a nearby director’s chair, Ms. Minnelli winced, “Now I have to sit down. My back is killing me.” And then she performed such Streisand signatures as “What Did I Have That I Don’t Have?” and “Isn’t This Better” from Funny Lady. (Ms. Streisand would quip later that she had forgotten the former was one of her songs.)

Next, former recipients Catherine Deneuve and Michael Douglas graced the stage.

“Michael and I are very pleased to give you congratulations on this well-deserved honor, and happy birthday!” the French siren purred.

“You were a master,” gushed Mr. Douglas. “It has been my joy over the years to watch you as an artist on stage, and it has been equally as meaningful to be your friend.”

One after another, immortal film stars and celebrity performers paid their respects to Empress Barbra, who sat perched with husband James Brolin in box four, first tier, on the right side of Avery Fisher Hall. George Segal, Amy Irving, Kris Kristofferson and Blythe Danner all said a few words, video felicitations came from Robert Redford and Omar Sharif, and there were musical performances by trumpeter Wynton Marsalis (“Hello Dolly”), songwriter Alan Bergman (“The Way We Were”), and a surprise finale by Tony Bennett.

“She asked me why she should do it,” Ben Stiller said drily as he recounted how he convinced the diva to take her role in Meet the Fockers. “Finally, we worked out the creative details, or as she calls it, ‘the money.’”

The funnyman then introduced his Chappaqua neighbor, who just so happens to be the 42nd president of the United States of America.

“I don’t know why, I just never got the nerve to call him up and hang,” Mr. Stiller laughed. “Hey, Bill, wanna come over and order some vegan pizza and play some video games? Watch House of Cards on Netflix?”

President Bill Clinton, taking in the crowd’s awe and rousing applause, played with the wisecrack. “Ben, I accept your offer, and pretty soon House of Cards will be back on,” the former president pledged. “Meanwhile, we can watch a replay of Meet the Fockers and see Barbra give sex advice to old people—like me!”

Awkward laughter filled the hall as the president quickly mentioned his wife, Hillary, and then continued:

“I am very grateful to The Film Society of Lincoln Center for allowing me, on its 40th anniversary, to give the Chaplin Award to my friend. A friend of my family’s and one of the most gifted and big-hearted people I have ever known.”

President Clinton commended Ms. Streisand for her film work, her philanthropic leadership and her many talents.

“When I was president, we had a small list of members of Congress that we called the ‘Just Say Yes List,’” because they were so dogged that you knew you were gonna give in to them sooner of later,” he recalled. “That’s the way Barbra is. In the end, I would say yes.”

And then it was finally time for Ms. Streisand to take the stage.

“My dear Mr. President, thank you for taking the time to be with us here tonight,” she began.

The divine Ms. Streisand spoke about the power of art in trying times and shared numerous anecdotes from her treasured past. “Ever since I can remember, I’ve been called bossy and opinionated,” Ms. Streisand admitted. “Maybe that’s because I am?”

The audience chuckled, and Ms. Streisand raised her voice: “Three cheers for bossy women!” she said.

And through the standing, roaring gala patrons, we swore we saw Mr. Clinton’s wife, in the third row, beaming.

The ordinary mortals’ room at P.J. Clarke’s

Recently P.J. Clarke’s, that very Mad Men-like eatery, shut the doors to its second floor—but just to the common folk. The special people, or rather its loyal customers, received a membership card that grants access to the rarefied sanctum of floor two, known as the Sidecar. The upstairs space is more elegant and thus quiet, so it’s a good nook to impress a date (is the membership card the Upper East Side version of The Standard’s coveted Boom Boom Room card?) or to slip away from the hustle of the always-busy dining rooms downstairs (now unofficially dubbed by us P.J.’s Siberia). P.J. Clarke’s plans to issue 100 more cards, Willy Wonka golden-ticket-style, and will cap membership in New York and D.C. at 1,884, which is kind of a weird number, but whatever. Phil Scotti, the director of member affairs, says it is still looking for lifetime members who will come year after year. Rumor has it that celebrities Brooke Shields, Liza Minnelli, Johnny Depp and Keith Richards are members already. The time is now to eat every lunch and dinner at P.J. Clarke’s for the next month.

P.J. Clarke’s, 915 Third Avenue, (212) 317-1616.

Jon Hamm with a mustache. (YouTube)

— Mindy Kaling was spotted pleading with John Mayer to give his expert opinion on her love life at Koi in the Trump SoHo. We can only speculate that his answer involved calling her genitals racist.

— Jon Hamm plays Aimee Mann's director in her new music video for Labrador:
http://youtu.be/XA1cX-wgMdM

— A bevy of musical greats made a show last night in memorial of Broadway composer Marvin Hamlisch. Barbra Streisand, Liza Minnelli, Aretha Franklin and Itzhak Perlman performed for VIPs including Mike Nichols, Nancy Pelosi, Regis Philbin, Susan Lucci, Sarah Jessica Parker, Alan Cumming, Sheldon Harnick, Mary Rodgers and Paul Shaffer.

— Eva Longoria and Mark Sanchez were spotted holding hands while leaving a romantic dinner at Daniel. You know, if you care about that kind of thing.

— And in chair-related news, Clint Eastwood feels bad about making fun of the president, and calls himself a Libertarian. Also he has no respect for tables.
http://youtu.be/7mIC8Nw7LqI

Liza Minnelli, in a recent live performance (Getty Images)

Liza Minnelli, who played mother figure / love interest "Lucille II" on the late, lamented Fox series Arrested Development, is to return for the show's Netflix revival, says TV Guide. The Minnelli character on Arrested Development is a wacky socialite whose vertigo makes it impossible for her to have a satisfying relationship with her much younger boyfriend, Buster Bluth. She didn't appear at all in the show's final season, and has lately made limited TV appearances in shows like Drop Dead Diva and Law and Order: Criminal Intent. (Her last film appearance was in Sex and the City 2, in which she played herself.) Finally: the Oscar-winning actress will get some good material!

ddaddario@observer.com :: @DPD_

Soho can't be bothered with "suscpicious packages." 

Liza Minelli, four-time divorcee, covers "Single Ladies."

A New Yorker cartoonist is on view at a Columbia gallery. 

Marc Jacobs gets naked. 

Also, naked Fridays exist.

Washington D.C. officials complain that their condoms are too small.

Rand Paul wisely cancels his Meet the Press appearance.

After paying his dues in small clubs and big tours with Liza Minnelli, Johnny Rodgers (spelled with a "d" like Richard Rodgers, not with a "g" like Ginger Rogers and Roy Rogers) has finally landed a well-deserved three-week gig at the Algonquin's fabled Oak Room. With thatched blond hair and a friendly, aw-shucks demeanor that was meant to be showcased in gingham shirts and jeans, this quintessential all-American boy exudes youth, optimism and vitamin C. He is also a tremendously talented jazz-pop musician who vaults from classics like "Any Place I Hang My Hat Is Home" to a hilarious "Huggin' & Chalkin'" (popularized on record by Hoagy Carmichael) with the ease of a trapeze artist, pulling notes out of the ozone and making them sound newly discovered. He calls his show "What a Wonderful World" and proceeds to prove it, with a feel-good selection of take-home tunes guaranteed to pep up the most dyspeptic cynic.

Expect surprises. A silk foulard scarf that is stuffed into Joe Ravo's guitar on "Change in Me," by the great Carol Hall, makes it sound exactly like a banjo. Swinging Johnny Mercer's celebrated lyrics to "Too Marvelous for Words" accompanied only by Brian Glassman's bass lines makes the rhyming of "spectacular" with "vernacular" especially witty. I usually dread singer-pianists who devote more than 50 percent of the show to their own compositions, but Mr. Rodgers writes rhythmic, infectious harmonies with solid and touching lyrics. From a gorgeous bossa nova called "She," to "One More Moment," an award-winning love song with collaborator Lina Koutrakos, Johnny comes to the welcome conclusion that even in a time of catastrophe, there's not much to worry about. With music like this, time will heal, love will re-bloom and the sunny side of life is just around the corner. No flowery phrases or high-hat 4/4 canned rhythms here, just a jazzy one-hour display of pure pleasure that turns tickling the ivories into a vibrant show business workout. Except for a wet brow and beads of sweat slowly trickling into his teal-blue satin shirt, Johnny Rodgers makes it all seem effortless. One terrific performer, and one terrific show.

rreed@observer.com

Johnny Rodgers

The Oak Room at the Algonquin

The division over Vincente Minnelli has always been between those who believe him to be an underappreciated artist, and those who believe him to be a glorified window dresser. Much of this difference does not truly relate to Minnelli’s films—which, for the first 10 or so years of his career, held to a high standard—but, rather, his personality.

As a young poof about town in New York, Minnelli wore pancake makeup and eyeliner, and even after he got to MGM and toned down his act, he remained slightly effeminate, not to mention painfully shy and inarticulate.

Making up like an actress wasn’t bad enough; he had to act like an actress by trimming seven years off his age, telling people he was born in 1910 when he was actually born in 1903.

Directors with successful Hollywood careers didn’t act like that—George Cukor was gay, but he was also peppery, highly verbal and acutely intelligent—but here was Minnelli, flying in the face of social conventions, and managing to sustain a career.

But, as Emanuel Levy’s studious, slightly stiff but serviceable biography demonstrates, Minnelli’s taste for the unconventional only went so far. In his youth, Minnelli seems to have led a predominantly gay life, with women usually being older and Minnelli serving as a presentable escort where sex was not necessarily part of the equation.

In Hollywood, a different tactic seemed called for, so he had four wives, including Judy Garland, as well as two children, including Liza Minnelli.

Yet, once again, Mr. Levy implies that Minnelli continued to lead a gay life, although he doesn’t offer up any specific examples. Nor does he expressly make the claim that the marriages were strictly political in nature.

Professionally, Minnelli came to MGM in 1940, after an unsuccessful apprenticeship at Paramount. He spent more than a year floating around Culver City, coming up with ideas, directing screen tests and the occasional scene, generally learning how MGM operated.

From the beginning, Minnelli was recognized as a superb director of musicals (The Band Wagon, An American in Paris, Gigi), but the French, among others, have lavished praise on his floridly artificial melodramas as well: Lust for Life, Some Came Running, Home From the Hill and Two Weeks in Another Town—movies often directed like musicals from which the songs have been removed.

(Although The Bad and the Beautiful is every bit as emotionally intense as its successors, it plays as much more realistic, because it deals with the hyperbole of the movie business, and, at least as importantly, it’s in black and white. For Minnelli, color was often the bridge too far.)

The problem with Minnelli’s melodramas is that they make Douglas Sirk look subtle, perhaps because Sirk’s films actually are, especially when it comes to performance. In Lust for Life, Minnelli permits Kirk Douglas to begin the film in such an advanced state of hysteria that there’s little room to elevate the performance as Vincent Van Gogh grows increasingly desperate; in Some Came Running, which takes place in a small town in Indiana, a group of teenagers hanging around on a street corner are costumed and directed to look like they’re about to break into “Gee, Officer Krupke.”

IT MAY BE ten-penny Freud, but it’s hard to avoid the view that Minnelli’s florid color schemes and luxurious camera moves were somehow related to his own neurotically conflicted personality. Even in a glorified sitcom like Father of the Bride, which is funny only because of Spencer Tracy’s expert slow burn, Minnelli tosses in a goofball nightmare sequence. On the one hand, he was always aware of the slow-burning fuse of potential humiliation; on the other, he courted embarrassment in his life as well as his work.

If Minnelli was anything, he was a brilliant framer of great performers in expressive, predominantly emotional moments—Ethel Waters in Cabin in the Sky, Astaire and Cyd Charisse in The Band Wagon, Judy Garland and Robert Walker in The Clock and so forth. He didn’t have much interest in, or for that matter, talent for the middle range.

When Minnelli was working with the right performer and the right song—Astaire and Charisse in Dancing in the Dark, Astaire in This Heart of Mine and a dozen others—he could orchestrate the movement of the camera, the rhythm of the dance and the rise of the melody until they all beat with the same heart.

He was, in other words, primarily a stylist, and in dealing with a stylist, at least a modicum of style is itself called for.

Unfortunately, Mr. Levy is a clunky writer (“Freed, who was amorous of [Lucille] Bremer, felt that she had the making of a star.”) In any case, Mr. Levy is clearly more comfortable writing about Minnelli’s films than he is writing about Minnelli’s life. As a result, the book meanders from film to film with lurching side trips into Minnelli’s life, when personal and professional should ideally proceed hand in hand.

But there are interesting tidbits scattered throughout the book, such as Minnelli’s affection for Elaine May’s ruthless The Heartbreak Kid, because, he said, “it was played for blood and was sophisticated in dealing with real feelings.”

It feels like it must have been hard being Vincente Minnelli. Certainly, his life compels a retrospective respect and admiration for the maturity and self-awareness of George Cukor—not really a stylist, and certainly a more self-effacing director, but an incomparably more self-aware man.

Scott Eyman reviews books regularly for The Observer. He can be reached at books@observer.com.

Among those present were Liza Minnelli and Donna Karan (both of whom were honored for their work for AIDS research), Kenneth Cole, Anna Wintour, Calvin Klein, and Mary J. Blige, plus a handful of actresses and models, who could mostly be found outside huddled together to smoke cigarettes.

Actress Natasha Richardson, who delivered a heartfelt speech during the evening's ceremony, put into words why there is actually nothing ironic about a glamour event for a life-threatening disease. "It's so important to come out and instead of talking about all the sadness and grief, to celebrate the people who do so much to change the situation," she told the Daily Transom. "Donna is being honored tonight and I am thrilled. She has been, right from the beginning, a great supporter of amfAR." Ms. Karan was honored by Ms. Wintour, who gave a surprisingly personal talk about the designer and her efforts for amfAR. (Ms. Richardson, who followed the Vogue editor onstage, remarked: "And they call her the ice queen!")

But it wasn't just the honorees—who, in addition to Ms. Karan and a very bubbly Ms. Minnelli, included Howard and Cindy Rachofsky, hosts of amfAR's Two by Two for AIDS and Art fund-raiser—who demonstrated their involvement with the battle against the disease. "I'm very involved with raising awareness of AIDS," said model Doutzen Kroes. "I do a lot of work with a Dutch charity as well. It's very important that people know what can be done about it and how to prevent it; that's why it's very important for me to be here."

Model Lily Donaldson agreed. "It means a lot to be here to support such a great cause," she said. "Because, you know, it's glitzy, but it's doing something."

But was anyone looking forward to anything during Fashion Week? "Marc Jacobs," said stylist Rachel Zoe. "Always."

Gossip Girl star Taylor Momsen concurred. "Marc Jacobs, his stuff is always amazing. But also Jen Kao, I think that'll be really fun and different."

"I'm just looking forward to seeing what's new," Mary J. Blige told the the Daily Transom. "That's it. What are people doing with how the recession is—I wanna see what people are doing with that."

Not Ms. Richardson, though. "I gracefully let other people get on with it this year, I'd be too shy," she said. "I'm not skinny enough!"

I don’t know how many comebacks a been-around human body over 50 is physiologically capable of pulling off before it drops dead, but in her electrifying new show at the Palace, Liza Minnelli, 62, like her mother before her, has done it again. Sparkling and splendid and larky and nervous and overwhelming all at the same time, she is also stylishly slim in Halston perfection. Brilliantly directed and choreographed by Ron Lewis, she looks great. She is fabulously energetic and spirited. The weight she’s lost is the equivalent of a year’s supply of Big Macs! And the standing ovations that never cease are more than deserved. It’s sort of a goddam miracle.

One of the disadvantages of appearing in a weekly newspaper is that everybody else gets their raves into print before you do. So you’ve already read about how the work paid off—that’s the talisman she lives by in her reconverted life, knocking the most jaded New Yorkers right out of their Choos and Blahniks, even if they could still afford them. You’ve already heard that even though she’s sung “Cabaret” and “Maybe This Time” so many times, she often seems more like Sally Bubbles than Sally Bowles; her personal vulnerability and Raggedy Ann eyes gave both songs a huggable wistfulness as fresh as new linen dried on a clothesline. The second act, devoted to the historic nightclub act of her godmother, the lavishly legendary Kay Thompson, laced with anecdotes and musical mayhem that celebrate the vocal arrangements of Kay and the four Williams brothers (many refurbished by jazzy musical supervisor Billy Stritch), assisted by a sensational quartet of singing, dancing fools (Jim Caruso, Johnny Rodgers, Cortés Alexander and Tiger Martina), was merely out of this world. If you don’t know who Kay Thompson was, or what she contributed to the history of show business, now’s the time to find out. And no Roget’s Thesaurus can provide the proper word to describe the tears that flowed through Liza’s final, unrehearsed encore, saluting the holiday season with a song she vowed she’d never do in public—her mother’s own “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” So forget about raised eyebrows, high anxiety and wondering if she’ll show up at all. This is Liza in Triumph, not Liza in Trouble. So she’s had so many knee replacements and hip replacements that you can’t get too close with a Geiger counter. Maybe she no longer kneels in the first act, second act or any act at all. The bottom line is, she’s lost nothing. Once again, she’s run the demons out of the forest, bridged the moat and the Palace is all hers again. She’s not leasing space. She owns the place.

I don’t want to gas about how she inherited her mother’s razor-sharp wit, her father’s flair and what her godmother called “bazazz.” Her talent is unimpeachable, but you have to admire something else—her sheer tenacity in the pursuit of survival. I won’t dwell on how special she sounds with a dazzling 12-piece orchestra, turning the lyrics of every impeccable song in her repertoire into the story of her life. You’ll see and hear that for yourself. But when she sings the original lyrics by Roger Edens for Judy Garland’s debut on the same stage, and your heart stops, think about this: She’s the kind of history lesson that not only brings back the ghosts of Eddie Cantor, Al Jolson, Marilyn Miller, Sophie Tucker, Fanny Brice, Eva Tanguay, Judy Garland and the other show business legends who haunt the hallowed Palace stage. She wears on her slim shoulders the responsibility for maintaining the balance and protecting the history of what went before, broadening the horizons of vaudeville in a profound, adult way while adding her own distinctive chapter. Striking gold again in bankrupt times, she can forget about “Liza with a ‘Z.’” I call what she’s doing “Artistry with an A.” What she’s done is create art, and the best, most unique work of art is herself.

rreed@observer.com