Jovovich and List in Bringing Up Bobby.

Sensitively acted, carefully written and directed with heartfelt compassion, Bringing Up Bobby is an engrossing little independent film made on an austere budget in 22 days. It marks the writing-directing debut of Dutch actress and former Chanel model Famke Janssen, a B-movie actress who specializes in playing tough, sexy, alternative women living in society’s city limits in thrillers (House on Haunted Hill) and action epics like the X-Men franchise. Who knew she had so much hidden talent? 

The story is about a beautiful loser named Olive, a Ukrainian immigrant and single mother who has somehow ended up stranded in Oklahoma as a struggling con artist. (The tagline for the movie reads, “Meet Olive: mother, breadwinner, felon.”) She came to America to escape a grim, deprived existence, because it’s a place where you can do anything you want to do. What she does, however, is attend church socials to bilk gullible hillbillies out of donations for phony Christian charities in Europe, and write bad checks for used cars that an accomplice sells for enough profit to take care of her 10-year-old son, Bobby (Spencer List). He’s her top priority, she loves him madly, and the goal is to make him the first person in her family to go to college. But Bobby is showing signs of being a chip off the old block. He steals, makes prank calls to the neighbors, throws cans at passing cars and gets Fs on his homework. Raised in the shadows of a misdemeanor a day, with a mom who is always one shapely foot ahead of the sheriff, Bobby thinks crime is cool, eagerly dreaming up inventive ways to join his mother’s scams. When Bobby gets hit on his skateboard by a sleek convertible driven by a kind, respectable real-estate tycoon (Bill Pullman), it’s the lucky break Olive has been hoping for. She sees dollar signs in her future, but before her inflated lawsuit against his insurance company can be properly investigated, her criminal past inevitably catches up with her, and Olive goes to prison. To save Bobby from the juvenile authorities, the kid is legally adopted by the man who hit him and his wife (Marcia Cross of Desperate Housewives), both of whom are still grieving over the loss of a son Bobby’s age.

Eight months later, released and paroled, Olive sees so much improvement in the quality of her child’s new life (chess lessons, art classes, private school and a swimming pool) that she is forced to rethink it all. To find a way back into the life of a child who may be better off without her, she has to go straight, turn over a new leaf and get a job. She does the best she can, but all she can manage is scrubbing toilets, living in a homeless shelter and carrying a sign around her neck advertising a muffler shop. Heartbroken, she’s forced to make the toughest of decisions. The script stops short of one of those three-Kleenex, Moses-in-the-bullrushes finales, but there is no question that bringing up Bobby will never be the same.

Olive is clearly a role Famke Janssen could play wearing a blindfold, but for her directorial debut, she’s hired the next best girl for the job. Milla Jovovich, who hit her stride as one of Richard Avedon’s favorite models at age 11, is a perfect stand-in. There are times, at certain angles and in a soft light, when she even looks like Ms. Janssen. Like Olive, she was actually born in Kiev, although she never made an impact on the screen—until now. Clumsy trash like The Fifth Element with Bruce Willis and five installments of the Resident Evil pictures haven’t elevated her career prospectus, but Ms. Jovovich displays such a keen awareness of her strengths that she brings out magical elements I never believed possible. She manages to make Olive both colorful and irresponsible, self-centered and big-hearted, infuriating and sympathetic, sometimes within the same scene. With her charming accent, Ph.D. in the school of hard knocks and unique way of murdering the English language, she keeps you riveted. Raising a toast, she giggles, “Down into hatch!” Misty-eyed and clueless, she’s irresistible.

rreed@observer.com

BRINGING UP BOBBY

Running Time 95 minutes

Written and Directed by Famke Janssen

Starring Milla Jovovich, Bill Pullman and Marcia Cross

3/4

So, which party had the best-dressed attendees?

Temple and Dozier.

The title character in Dirty Girl must have been written for Madonna. The movie is a randy romp about a road trip between a bottle blonde bimbo and a gay, overweight blob that heads for a brick wall early and stays there. Trashy, teenaged Danielle (Juno Temple) is a mess. Dressed in striped, low-cut, middy tops, killer hot pants and boots, with too much mascara and a permanent scowl only half-hidden behind huge pink-tint sunglasses, her schoolmates scoff at her behind her back, labeling her the campus slut. Easily distracted from everything but boys, slovenly about homework and indifferent to the town’s conventional ideas of morality, she’s a misfit in Norman, Okla., “back in the day.”

Forced into a remedial education program for disciplinary purposes, Danielle is mortified to be forcibly paired with an outcast blob named Clarke (Jeremy Dozier), a not-so-latent homosexual who is always being threatened with military school by his strict, bewildered parents (Mary Steenburgen and Dwight Yoakam). Danielle’s stepmother (Milla Jovovich) is an equally louche underachiever and reformed tramp who has become a born-again religious nut. Worse yet, she’s engaged to a loopy Mormon preacher (William H. Macy) who is determined to rehabilitate them both. Clearly, it is time to run away from home. “If you’re not careful you’re gonna end up an overweight homo with nobody to love you but a gerbil named Bruce,” says Danielle. Desperate to escape, the class dirty girl and the class closet case (every school has at least one of each) hit the highway in search of Danielle’s real father, hoping to find, love, family and acceptance.

After a meandering start, the movie gets even duller once this odd couple forges a reluctant friendship and heads cross-country, learning more about the ultimate value of sharing. On their way to California, they pick up a male stripper hitchhiking his way to Vegas and Clarke loses his virginity before their stolen car breaks down. I forgot to mention their traveling companion is a flour sack with a face painted on, which they pretend is their baby Joan (named after Joan Jett and Joan Crawford). I guess it’s supposed to be a touching look at marginalized characters looking for a reason to keep going in a society that hates them, but the lame direction by Abe Sylvia seems less interested in exploring these pathetic Dogpatch stereotypes than in making fun of them. Is the regrettable sight of Dwight Yoakam masturbating on his Cadillac in an unnecessary car wash sequence supposed to be even funnier than the fat boy doing a strip tease drenched in water in front of a Confederate flag? To ensure a happy ending, a ludicrously sentimental ending has been tacked on that is not remotely convincing. Dirty Girl is a bad movie with no insights that is broadly drawn and genuinely plagued by filthy dialogue. You don’t laugh. You just wince, and wonder how the whole thing ever got financed.

rreed@observer.com

DIRTY GIRL

Running Time 90 minutes

Written and Directed by Abe Sylvia

Starring Juno Temple, Jeremy Dozier and Milla Jovovich

2/4

— In addition to never having to pay parking tickets, being a diplomat appears to have other perks—such as a $7 million penthouse in Turtle Bay. Norway's top diplomat, Grethe Knudsen, has purchased a plush four-bedroom unit at 255 East 49th Street, The Real Deal reports. The apartment was reportedly once owned by Mets owner Fred Wilpon. The Sterling Plaza building may not be pretty and the neighborhood may be a little bland, but Ms. Knudsen will be able to melt away the stress from the upcoming General Assembly with a marble tub and private rooftop terrace.

— The drama over Courtney Love's recent comments that she covets Resident Evil star Milla Jovovich's Greenwich Village townhouse continues, as Ms. Jovo told New York Mag "I was, like, take it!" Ms. Love reportedly has her people talking to Ms. Jovovich's people, but let's wait to see if some keys to actually change hands.

lkusisto@observer.com

1. A Christmas Carol: $31 million ($31 million total)

Much like what happened with This Is It last weekend, there is a faction of people (read: Nikki Finke) who want to call A Christmas Carol disappointing. And to that, we say: huh? The Disney film had the fourth highest opening for a Christmas film in box office history, behind only The Grinch Who Stole Christmas ($55 million), Elf ($31.1 million) and Four Christmases ($31.07 million). And of those four, only Elf opened this early in the season—if you can even cal the first full weekend in November "the season." Elf went on to gross $173 million total, so if A Christmas Carol can follow suit—and frankly, with the added benefit of IMAX theaters, there is no reason it can't; the next big IMAX movie to hit theaters is Avatar in December—under no metric could it be considered a disappointment. Perhaps Ms. Finke should revise her history before its too late.

2. Michael Jackson's This Is It: $14 million ($57.8 million total)

The aforementioned This Is It dropped a slim 39 percent from last weekend, pushing its total to nearly $60 million domestically and putting it on course to become the highest grossing concert film ever here in America (see you never, Miley Cyrus!). Internationally, the film already has that title with $128.6 million in total grosses. That means this "disappointment" has grossed $186.4 million worldwide in just 12 days. What a disaster!

3. The Men Who Stare at Goats: $13.3 million ($13.3 million total)

A funny thing about George Clooney: he isn't the box office superstar you might think. If you take away his event pictures (the Ocean's series, A Perfect Storm and Batman and Robin), the average wide release opening (2,000 screens or more) for a George Clooney film is around $12 million. With that in mind, $13.3 million for an R-rated military comedy with little buzz—seriously, do you know anyone who wanted to see this?—seems like a pretty big win for both Mr. Clooney and Overture Films.

4. The Fourth Kind: $12.5 million ($12.5 million total)

We have to wonder: if Universal had opened The Fourth Kind two weeks ago would this alien abduction scare fest have scored a bigger debut? The film had to fight not only another weekend Paranormal Activity, but also newcomer The Box (Richard Kelly's parlay for mainstream recognition landed in sixth place with just $7.8 million) for the horror fans hard-earned dollar. We'd venture to say that decision cost Universal at east $5 million if not more. Lest we forget that in the right vehicle—that is: something genre, something scary—Milla Jovovich is usually good for a high-teens opening gross.

5. Paranormal Activity: $8.6 million ($97.4 million total)

Weekend seven of the smash hit of the fall brought Paranormal Activity ever closer to pushing past the $100 million plateau. We hope you're sitting down: even if it peters out at $120 million (likely since this weekend saw a 47 percent drop), Paranormal Activity will wind up grossing 8,000 times its reported $15,000 budget. Not even Nikki Finke could spin that as a disappointment.

In the new action thriller/slice-and-dicer A Perfect Getaway, two couples who look like they’ve been doing overtime at the gym literally bash each other bloody with results that can only be described as moderate goose pimples. Half of the movie seems fresh and hair-raising. The rest is just disappointing and predictable. At least it provides the underrated Steve Zahn, a likable and inventive actor with natural talent, with a starring role. He makes every minute count.

When newlyweds Cliff and Cydney Anderson (Mr. Zahn and Milla Jovovich) arrive on the lush island of Kauai for an adventurous Hawaiian honeymoon, their timing coincides with the headline-making news that a pair of serial killers are on the loose, brutally hacking up the tourists. Cliff, a nearsighted screenwriter with nerdy spectacles and few outdoor skills, is no Indiana Jones, but he’s promised his wife an 11-mile hike up the Kalalau Trail to a spectacular beach with a hidden waterfall, so against all odds and the creepy feeling they’re being stalked, it’s a-hiking they go. The farther they get from the overcrowded part of the map and the deeper they plunge into the jungle, the stranger they feel. On the trail, they bond with another couple—Nick (Timothy Olyphant), a rugged hunter with ripped abs and a metal plate in his head from combat duty in Iraq, and his perky girlfriend, Gina (Kiele Sanchez), who has a thick Southern drawl and special skills with a machete. Cliff and Cydney feel safer with their new friends in tow. Nick is a warrior type who can survive the wilderness building shelter and catching his own food with a bow and arrow, and Gina is a whiz at gutting animals for food. Then a third couple encroaches—a pair of hostile, tattooed and potentially dangerous hippies who give Cliff the willies. Just when things get hairy, they are arrested and taken away by police helicopters. Case closed. Or is it? Suddenly the movie shifts gears, tables turn and roles reverse, plunging everyone into a fatal series of screaming terrors replete with red herrings, character reversals, screenplay twists and a violent, blood-drenched finale guaranteed to sizzle your nerves. The whole thing leads to the unraveling of the identity of the psychopathic maniacs, and if you’re unhinged by the big surprise, well then. You haven’t seen as many contrived chillers as the rest of us.

Nothing in the script by David Twohy, who also directed, is very suspenseful. The real scares come from watching the actors change skins like snakes. The women are comely enough, but the stars are the two fellows who know how to seize attention and hold it, with raw fury. Timothy Olyphant’s Nick is one of those sculptured, all-American, too-perfect-to-be-real hunks who could win a college football trophy or manage your stocks on Wall Street merely by a simple change of wardrobe—but with a dangerous edge. Cliff is the one who claims to write films, but Nick is the one who knows all the plots and drops all the names. His expressions alone fill A Perfect Getaway with surprises that are not in the script. And Steve Zahn’s Cliff keeps his balls in the air and out of sight until you don’t know what to think. He keeps you guessing. The film’s failure to supply logic in its characters when they start switching lanes is a big weakness, but I especially liked the great picture-postcard cinematography of Hawaii that contrasts savagery with sunshine and keeps you sighing while it hides the darker side of paradise.

rreed@observer.com

Upon closer look, you might notice the patent leather green platforms on her feet, the lacy see-through underpants, the hand resting suggestively below her pierced naval, her breast spilling out from underneath an open book covering her chest, the necklaces wound around her neck. Finally, your eye might wonder up to her face, at which point you'll realize that you are in fact ogling Hearst publishing heiress, model and now actress Lydia Hearst.

The ad is for an obscure drama titled The Last International Playboy, in theatres on June 12, starring Jason Behr (that guy from Roswell), Krysten Ritter (of the canceled Gossip Girl spin-off), and Monet Mazur (of, well, a lot of stuff you've probably never seen). According to IMDb, the film is about a "playboy" named Jack Frost, who becomes very depressed after "his childhood love gets engaged" and his mother commits suicide.

Ms. Hearst, who is "old friends" with first-time writer and director Steve Clark, has a minor but notable role in the film--she, Mr. Behr and Australian supermodel Nicole Trunfio all strip off their clothes and get frisky in the opening scene of the film.

Naturally, the marketers of the movie have used Ms. Hearst's scantily clad visage for the majority of the promotional materials.

"I saw my first one last week, which was pretty exciting," Ms. Hearst, speaking to the Daily Transom by phone, said of the photo. Ms. Hearst was on her way to the gym last week near Madison Square Park when she saw an image of herself go by. "I think it's on about 20 different buses. But I don't exactly know what the bus lines are. It may have been the M5 bus."

The ad didn't exactly make Ms. Hearst blush. She has appeared in various forms of undress several times before. "I'm very happy with the photo," she said. But according to Ms. Hearst, the ad has been banned in several cities across the nation, including Seattle, Chicago and Dallas, which has left the heiress confused.

"I have to admit, I love the Calvin Klein and Armani ads, but I think those are a little more racy than my image on the bus," she insisted. "It's so interesting to see what the censorship people say is okay and isn't for our society to see. I'm curious who was looking at the images and thought that they were too suggestive and provocative."

The Daily Transom, which is anything but prudish, pointed out that she is wearing nothing but lacy panties, even if all the important parts are technically covered.

"True, but you don't actually see anything," she replied. 

Ms. Hearst has done a few indie films in the past and of course also appeared in the season one finale of Gossip Girl.

Where else is her multi-faceted career headed?

"If there is anyone I can be like in the entertainment industry, I would hope to be like Milla Jovovich," said Ms. Hearst. "She is such an amazingly successful, high powered supermodel. A very highly respected actress, a mother, and she has her own fashion line. I don't think there is really any one way to truly define a person."

What does the rest of the Hearst family think of the racy movie ads?

"My sister saw it when she was grabbing lunch with her husband somewhere in Midtown," said Ms. Hearst. "She saw one of the buses go by and picked up the phone and called me and was so excited."

So really, the whole Hearst bunch is just beaming with pride?

"They love it," Ms. Hearst assured us. "They're very supportive of my career and my work. I would never do anything to upset my family."

(Note to Ms. Lezark: Stick to that whole black-only thing; the hot pink tutu dress is a little much.)

Click above for a slideshow of who was where (and what they wore) during Paris Fashion Week. 

There will no longer be a Sean John runway show this September. Instead, Sean "P.Diddy" Combs will host a private preview of the Spring/Summer 2009 collection at his Sean John homebase at 1710 Broadway. [FWD]

Madonna will wear designs by Givenchy, Stella McCartney, Yves Saint Laurent, Roberto Cavalli, and Jeremy Scott, as well as custom-made Miu Miu shoes, for her Sticky Sweet tour. [WWD]

Victoria Beckham is a descendent of Carl Heinrich Pfaender, a German revolutionary, Communist, and close friend to Karl Marx. [Reuters]

Daughter of Gavin Rossdale and Mark Ronson-dater Daisy Lowe is obsessed with her all-in-one sailor striped jumpsuit by Marc by Marc Jacobs. [The Cut]

V Man, the male counterpart to the monthly V magazine, has gone from being bi-annual to a quarterly. The cover of this month's V Man was shot by Hedi Slimane. [FWD]

The Accompanied Library is located in an elegant space at the back of the National Arts Club, part of a chunk of apartments-37, to be exact-designed as "creative spaces," but really below-market rentals for the club's members to live in the cushy environs of Gramercy Park. Roomy and bright, the spaces are filled with original details and in reasonably decent repair. Several years ago, the club's president, O. Aldon James, found himself embroiled in a minor fiasco as the Manhattan district attorney's office raided the N.A.C. for non-payment of sales taxes (his brother and longtime club resident, John T. James, pled guilty in 2003 to evading taxes on jewelry bought and sold by illegally exploiting the club's nonprofit status) amid allegations that several tenants weren't being charged to reside there. A spokesman for the D.A.'s office told The Observer that the club is now in compliance after paying fines last year for not charging an occupancy tax to residents. Nor has the imbroglio stopped the club from reaching out to young idealists. So when Brooke Geahan, Iris Brooks and James Fuentes waltzed into the N.A.C. on March 1 with the idea of building a cultural empire (library and magazine), they were granted their wish.

"A library is just as exciting as any disco or nightclub," said O. Aldon James. And, of course, it helps to have some connections. One of Ms. Brooks' family friends, the architect Jacqueline Miro, alerted the girls that a space formerly occupied by the sculptor Chen Chi had been vacated, and Ms. Geahan's friend, Timothy Nye (philanthropist, media mini-baron and Uris scion), owned an apartment next-door and an upstairs gallery. "You're supposed to list your artistic accomplishments when you apply," said Ms. Geahan. Somehow, the projected venture was accomplishment enough.

Both 26, Ms. Geahan and Ms. Brooks are two charming young ladies-as Alice Quinn might describe them. Small and well-proportioned, they possess that distinctly elusive quality of good hair. Ms. Geahan is from Arizona, middle-class and studied the violin seriously until she left for college. She doesn't speak in specifics-almost as though English is her second language-but is fiercely determined. Thoughtful, more assuredly eloquent, Ms. Brooks is from New Orleans, heiress to rather bohemian parts of a Texas oil-and-gas fortune ("I did the whole debutante thing," she said-despite the fact that her parents, Dalt Wonk and Josephine Sacobo, are bona fide eccentrics), and studied dance rather intensively until she went to college. Co-founder Mr. Fuentes, a New Yorker, runs the Chelsea gallery Lombard-Freid.

Around 11 months ago, the trio began to collaborate on Accompanied, a venture designed to fill a void. It's a void they still aren't able to articulate.

"After leaving school, I really felt a lack of places to go to talk to people …. I wanted a forum to talk about things," said Ms. Brooks, searching for words. Ms. Geahan summed it up more succinctly: "Unless you spend money, you can't take a book home from Barnes and Noble's." Indeed. "Writers should be near their bread and butter"-books, she meant, not paper coffee cups and green straws. "The Society and Mercantile Libraries always close too early. There was never a place downtown to go and read. And I didn't have friends with Park Avenue flats with big libraries. I wanted my own place to go."

In the library's brightly renovated space at the National Arts Club, the towering bookshelves are only a quarter filled, mainly by a haphazard mixture of books donated by friends and family. There are a number of separate rooms with fireplaces and one rusty, claw-footed tub in the bathroom. The trio single-handedly renovated the space themselves after star architect Thierry Despont dropped out of the project (differences with his daughter, Catherine Despont, who was originally on the editorial board, may have been the reason). It is calm and uncluttered, just right for drinking milky coffee and musing on the only chapter of A la Recherché du Temps Perdu one has read or heard about. Not that one would need to read the rest of Proust's opus-as long as it can be discussed. After all, with its Sunday-brunch fixtures, the library is, much like Ms. Brooks intended, somewhere to go and "talk" to people. Reading-well, that may be a secondary activity: Ms. Brooks and Ms. Geahan claimed that they're too busy to read at the moment, although Ms. Geahan has succeeded at getting through Moby-Dick.

"By getting people to our space, literature will become more acceptable in a social context," Ms. Brooks said. "We would like our friends to go to a reading instead of an art opening." Ms. Geahan chimed in: "There are major problems with the literary community; it is failing to attract the community at large."

And how do they intend to bring literature to the masses, to enlighten New Yorkers in this video-saturated age? Book parties. "It's unusual for a literary book to have a party," Ms. Brooks explained. "When an artist has a show, the gallery has a private dinner and party for all the artist's friends. You just don't see the author celebrating! One has to support the arts in a way that's also celebratory, that's vibrant and fun. It's not that I want everyone hanging off the chandeliers-but authors deserve to celebrate. That's why we're offering 25 book launches a year. Authors should apply and say why they think their book deserves a party."

As for her own prose, there is none at the moment. Ms. Brooks claims that Accompanied is too much of a time commitment for any serious writing.

And the magazine is still in the works-its first issue won't be ready before late spring 2005. Ms. Quinn, who edited the fiction section of The New Yorker for a good 15 years, followed by a 17-year tenure as its poetry editor, hasn't seen any of the magazine's templates. "It remains to be seen whether they have an editorial vision," she said.

Ms. Brooks explains that the magazine's idea is not to confine itself to "an exclusively literary form …. It's going to be fun, not unbearably intellectual. It'll have a literary bent, a sense of humor, without sacrificing any of the smartness of it." They cite The Paris Review and Flair as well as early inceptions of The New Yorker as inspiration, although they agree that The New Yorker "has stopped addressing people like us, in the way that it once did." Ms. Geahan described it as "a lifestyle magazine with a literary twist."

Most intriguing of all-especially in a city that abounds with pretentious creative types publishing literary magazines on iMacs in their bedrooms-is how this untested trio managed to raise money in the first place. They've registered their venture as a nonprofit organization, with an income mainly generated by private and corporate donations, well-heeled benefactors and a benefit staged last March in the Gramercy Hotel. And Mr. Nye's 20 21 foundation acts as an umbrella organization for the library and magazine. "The library is a beautiful complement to the more artistically focused nature of 20 21," he stressed. "It gives Gramercy that sort of destination feel. They are creating an atmosphere, and no community thrives without an atmosphere."

Board member Alice Quinn agrees: "These girls have very nice style and tremendous drive. It's just a lovely, cozy space. When you have an event there, it's like being around a hearth. It felt very jolly. What could be better than having writers bring people in the space?"

-Jessica Joffe

Crying Wolfe

Tom Wolfe fans packed into the Neue Gallerie on the night of Nov. 8 to celebrate his new novel, I am Charlotte Simmons. But out there, all over New York, were critics and detractors-people who just don't like Tom Wolfe for one reason or another. Maybe they remember how he barbecued William Shawn and The New Yorker magazine in 1965 in The New York Herald Tribune, or eviscerated Leonard Bernstein a few years later in "Radical Chic." Maybe it was his cheerful attacks on modern art (The Painted Word) and modern architecture (From Bauhaus to Our House). Then there was his Harper's essay in 1989 on the state of fiction, which caused great outrage in the literary world and led to a public feud between Mr. Wolfe and his "three stooges"-Norman Mailer, John Updike and John Irving. Or maybe it's just those white suits he wears.

"Maybe it's you get it or you don't get it," said writer Charles (Chip) McGrath, who recently profiled Mr. Wolfe in The New York Times Magazine and who worked at The New Yorker during the Shawn era. "I would like to think that that has blown over. He was certainly persona non grata for a long time. You couldn't mention his name in The New Yorker when I was there. There was one guy, I forget who it was, who had the copy of ["Tiny Mummies! The True Story of the Ruler of 43rd Street's Land of the Walking Dead" and "Lost in the Whichy Thickets: The New Yorker"]-it was sort of samizdat. They had been Xeroxed countless times. Periodically you'd go and you'd read it, and it felt like the baddest thing you could do at The New Yorker in the mid-70's was to go and read those pieces.

"Some of it is part of his shtick, and he brings it on himself," Mr. McGrath continued, speaking of the reaction some have to Mr. Wolfe. "He once said that he wore the white suit because it annoyed people. And one of the puzzles about this guy is he's very shy-he's an incredibly well-mannered, polite man-and he loves to tweak people. He loves a good feud. Yes, he lives for the feud."

Former New Yorker editor Tina Brown echoed her former colleague.

"I think literary feuds are what all should be doing," she said. "It's better than having feuds about, you know, politics. It's a good time for some nice literary dust-ups. It means you care about books."

"Wolfe is arguably the finest writer in America today," said American Spectator editor R. Emmett Tyrrell. "So I can understand why Norman Mailer would be offended. I think you could call it pencil envy."

"He enjoys the criticism; he loves the fight," said Mr. Wolfe's wife, Sheila. "I think it depends upon the milieu: If he's writing about architects, then he likes to tweak the architects. If he's writing about artists, then he likes to tweak them. I don't know if he's celebrated anybody, has he? Oh, he celebrated Ed Hayes!"

Mr. Hayes (a.k.a. Tommy Killian in The Bonfire of the Vanities) said his friend was a great writer and a great man. "I think any great man has enemies, and I think that in most cases his enemies only make him greater," he said. "I mean, I have enemies and I'm quite proud of them. If you don't have enemies, you haven't done anything in your life."

A dozen or so people were lined up to pay their respects to Mr. Wolfe, who was wearing a double-breasted white flannel suit, blue striped shirt, periwinkle blue tie and faux spats shoes. He said he'd "heard" about a few critics and admitted he did like to infuriate certain people on occasion.

"But I can't assume the persona," he said. "I was so grateful to Bill Buckley when he described me as the matador having tea with his mother. I couldn't have said it better myself."

-George Gurley

Rebels and the Rapture

After presenting the Legendary Newshound trophy to Helen Thomas at Glamour Magazine's Women of the Year Awards on Oct. 8, Sam Donaldson came bounding into the makeshift pressroom at the American Museum of Natural History.

"All right, Ms. Thomas, why'd you steal the money?!" he shouted at her, bizarrely. "Answer the question! What's wrong with you?"

"When did you stop beating your wife?" she yelled back.

"I haven't!" he retorted.

Once the two calmed down, the first lady of the press told The Transom her feelings about the next four years. "Pain, pure pain" and "outrage," she said. "I think we're in a dangerous period."

Mr. Donaldson, however, cast a kinder eye over the W. presidency. "I'm from West Texas-El Paso-and I spent the first 26 years of my life out there, so I know this young man. If you're walking down a trail in West Texas and you see a rattlesnake-POW!" he shouted, pointing a "finger gun" at the startled group of reporters. "You don't stop to consider 'Is that rattlesnake really dangerous?', and you certainly don't stop to organize a coalition to deal with the rattlesnake. That would be silly." He then recalled a speech that J.F.K. delivered at American University when he and Ms. Thomas were covering the Kennedy administration. "The last paragraph of that speech began with these words: 'The world knows that America will never start a war …. ' Well, times change!" he shrugged.

Ms. Thomas continued to lambaste President Bush. "We don't have any eloquence anymore. We have not had a major speech on this war since May 1, 2003. Nothing is explained. We don't explain anything while we drop bombs."

"Bombs away!" Mr. Donaldson crowed.

Others who collected Women of the Year Awards Monday night include Carolina Herrera, who received the Fashion Force award from Katie Holmes; Olympian Carly Patterson, who was honored by Katie Couric; and the crusading 9/11 "Jersey Girls," who were presented their award by Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi.

To conclude the evening, Jon Stewart roasted his boss, honoree Judy McGrath, chairman of MTV Networks. In addition to the requisite wisecracks ("As I sat here this evening and witnessed this remarkable litany of women, one thing has stuck in my head: 'The guy who publishes Glamour-is his last name really Wackerman?' Is that real?"), Mr. Stewart brought some political comic relief: "It was a difficult election, but there is a silver lining. Understand that when the Rapture comes-when Jesus comes-and the righteous are lifted into Heaven, then the Democrats will regain control of the Senate."

-Noelle Hancock

Milla: Crack Is Still Back

Actress and L'Oreal model Milla Jovovich had a scare last year. "It was third-degree pre-cancer," Ms. Jovovich told The Transom at the Ovarian Cancer Research Fund gala. "I have to say that without this organization and the information they've given me, I wouldn't have asked my doctor for the test that found it. Everyone's at risk." She's now getting check-ups every four months. "It's another cross we have to bear on top of our periods," she said of ovarian cancer.

On Nov. 4, Ms. Jovovich, Donna Karan, Peter Boyle, Tommy Hilfiger, Lesley Stahl and model Natalia Vodianova (the wide-eyed minx currently staring out from the cover of W) showed up within the pink-hued walls of the Metropolitan Pavilion, where Trudie Styler accepted an award from the foundation before the Village People performed.

Ms. Jovovich sported a fluttery blue-and-peach floral dress that she was auctioning off to benefit the foundation. It was from the spring collection of Jovovich-Hawk, the clothing line she started with design partner Carmen Hawk, whom she's known for 10 years. They'd just sold their second collection to Fred Segal. "We're working with one seamstress out of my kitchen right now, so it's very mom-and-poppa right now, but that's what's great about it. It's very personal."

Ms. Jovovich recalled the time she got a little too personal at the Cannes Film Festival for the premiere of her movie, The Fifth Element. "I wore this incredible Galliano outfit that, like, hardly covered anything, but covered exactly what needed to be covered, and it was really uncomfortable to wear all night. Then the back split open and Demi Moore stitched it up in the bathroom."

While the burgeoning designer claims she pays no attention to which way the sartorial trade winds are blowing ("I read more Scientific American than fashion magazines, so I don't even know what the spring trends are right now!"), one trend she was sorry to see was fall's rising waistlines. "No matter how big your butt is, hip-huggers always accentuate. I don't care what anybody says, if you have that little butt crack showing, that plumber's butt-that's the sexiest thing."

-N.H.