Chris Noth and Whoopi Goldberg.

When Chris Noth invites you out on Valentine’s Day weekend, you don’t say no. At least that was the Transom’s theory as we set out Sunday night, looking to get friendly with the actor best known for his role as Mr. Big on Sex and the City—and, oh yeah, with the rain forests—at a benefit auction for the Rainforest Action Network hosted by Mr. Noth at his Midtown East venue, The Cutting Room.

Casually dressed in blue jeans and an untucked white button-up, Mr. Noth made his way along the red carpet, sneaking sips of dark liquor. Love or something was in the air, and the Transom caught Mr. Noth’s eye from across the way. Drunk on good intentions, if not yet on booze, the strong-browed actor, like every other man in attendance, had only one thing on his mind: the environment.

Mr. Noth was sounding a bit like some Glengarry Glen Ross character—if that character were frothing at the mouth over green energy, that is. “We have to do radical transformation of energy and find ways to make people understand that green energy isn’t some archaic, eccentric idea,” he said, “but a place people can profit from, and so we make profit, but with principles.”

And then suddenly Mr. Noth morphed into some red-faced basketball coach giving a halftime speech. He was infused with passion and urgency. “Get up, get active,” he said, now singling out the Transom (be still our heart). “Make your president do what you elected him to do. Stop sitting on your ass and expecting it to come to you. We have to fight for it.”

For our part, we were ready to grab climate change and deforestation by their ozone-ruining necks and squeeze them into submission. Or at the very least hit our foul shots. Alas, as man of the night, Mr. Noth had to run off to pose for some photos.

Feeling a little stood up, we watched then as guests piled in, stopping at the bar for glasses of red before being escorted to their assigned seats. Flirtation and friendly bidding were in order. And over by the paparazzi section, in the exposed brick lobby across the room, the Transom was awarded a full glass of positivity—or maybe it was bourbon.

Underneath the shadow of a guitar-entwined chandelier, we managed to chat with the unmistakable Whoopi Goldberg, co-host of the evening, who for some reason was holding a Starbucks cup that read “Gary” on the side. Unlike Mr. Noth, Ms. Goldberg took a more self-reflective tack when discussing the theme of the evening.

“The younger generation doesn’t need to be told, they’re already on top of it. It’s us,” the 57-year-old actress said. “We’re not dinosaurs. It’s just reminding ourselves not to be too lazy, and it’s hard to do, because we work our asses off and we get lazy.”

As if to defend her record, Ms. Goldberg listed off all the projects she is currently part of, including her work with AIDS awareness and pro-choice organizations. “I do a lot of shit,” she said. And then she began to sound an awful lot like some sidewalk doomsayer.

“Crazy shit is happening,” she said. “Now some of it is because of global warming, but asteroids are falling out of the sky, the fucking pope left. We’re dealing with a lot, so I kind of think it’ll just take a minute.”

The gavel sounded as auctioned items—like Sting’s autographed guitar and a wild art piece painted live on stage by Jessica Gorlicky—found new homes. We soon found ourselves near R.A.N. founder Randy Hayes, who said he has already been arrested 19 times for civil disobedience.

“You have to deliver tough love sometimes to these governments and these transnational corporations that are cutting down the rain forest,” he said, with the hint of a delinquent smile. What else was in store for the Rainforest Action Network, we wondered?

“We have a series of house parties across the country,” said Mr. Hayes. “Well, some of them are really quite fun.”

Hmm. Transom does love a good house party, but whatever would we talk about?

Sting and Trudie Styler

Who can say no to a “Skype introduction” by mogul of all things Richard Branson and a host committee that includes Lauren Bush Lauren, Martha Stewart and Tommy Hilfiger? And did we mention that Sting, his wife Trudie Styler and photographer Bruce Weber (hopefully with shirtless male models in tow) are the honorary hosts? It’s all for National Geographic’s film Battle for the Elephants, written, produced and directed by John Heminway. There is a discussion after the heavy film with investigative reporter Bryan Christy, but what we want to investigate is that whole tantric sex thing that Sting and Trudie have mastered. We love elephants (they’re lucky, right?), but a little Sex 101 from Sting would really make our night.

The Explorers Club, 46 East 70th Street, (212) 628-8383; 7pm, by invite only (PR powerhouse Peggy Siegal is in charge).

Susan Benedetto and Tony Bennett. (Eugene Mim/Patrick McMullan)

Tony Bennett’s wasn’t the only gala dinner in Manhattan last Thursday, but that’s where Shindigger was, arriving at Cipriani 42nd Street for cocktail hour, just in time to catch a glimpse of Alec Baldwin. “Oh my God, he’s lost so much weight—I didn’t even recognize him!” we heard one guest whisper to another, eyeing the star who would kick off 30 Rock’s final season later that night. Mr. Baldwin’s wife, Hilaria Thomas, flaunted her Hebrew for the night’s honoree, entertainment lawyer Allen Grubman, before the couple headed off to the Norman Mailer Center benefit at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel.

Mr. Bennett, whose nonprofit Exploring the Arts operates in New York public schools, apparently lacked Ms. Thomas’s linguistic talent. Or so we learned when we asked the 86-year-old crooner, whose third Duets album pairs him with the likes of Marc Anthony and Gloria Estefan, about his Spanish. “No habla Español,” answered his 46-year-old wife, co-host and translator, Susan Benedetto. We changed the subject to Mr. Bennett’s next album, a recently announced full-length collaboration with Lady Gaga. “I know that she’s one of the great singers of all time, but people don’t know that,” Mr. Bennett explained. “They just see another, you know, big new star coming up, but she is one hell of a singer. She can improvise as great as Ella Fitzgerald.”

We stopped at the bar to take in the student artwork, alongside photographs of Mr. Bennett (himself a talented painter) with young dancers and musicians. A disembodied voice urged us to our table, where pink paintbrushes matched the flower arrangement. 

We watched Sting, unannounced, dedicate “Fields of Gold” to Mr. Grubman and his wife, Corcoran broker Deborah. “Allen Grubman and I have had a long relationship, over three decades,” the man born Gordon Sumner recalled. “A very mutually fruitful relationship. I once had a meeting with him, though, and I said, ‘Allen, explain this to me. You seem to be taking 20 percent of my money.’ He said, ‘Sting, let me sit you down. Look at it this way.’ I said, ‘How?’ He said, ‘You’re taking 80 percent of my money.’”

Sting continued with “Every Breath You Take,” drawing out a last “I’ll be waaaaatching you” to cheers and a standing ovation from table 27, before the Police bassist—who recorded the “The Boulevard of Broken Dreams” for Mr. Bennett’s first Duets album—split to the Children’s Health Fund benefit at Radio City.

With all these duets, we wondered why Mr. Bennett had left out the vocalist behind 1968’s It’s Time for Regis! We posed the question to Regis Philbin.

“’Cause I’m not that good, believe me!” replied the former talk show host.

We objected.

“Have you heard me sing? When did I sing? Come on, let’s hear it!”

Only a year ago, we reminded him, he and Mr. Bennett performed “The Best Is Yet to Come” on Live! With Regis and Kelly.

“You’re right. And that came out okay!

“I love you,” he announced, giving our right hand a squeeze.

Mistress of ceremonies Katie Couric had similar ideas. “Regis, I’m very sorry, Regis, but you didn’t make the cut. Has Tony talked to you about that?” Hey, that was our joke!

After the dessert plates were cleared, Barbara Walters introduced the Grubmans.

“I represent some of the greatest rock stars in the world,” said Mr. Grubman. “I’ve had two idols my entire life—singers: Tony, and of course Frank Sinatra,” who gave his name to the high school Mr. Bennett founded in his hometown of Astoria.

The evening’s host took the stage with his four-piece band. “Because of You” led into a triumphant “Maybe This Time” that brought the whole crowd to its feet. Earlier, we had asked Nancy Pelosi, who had flown overnight from Denver’s debate to a fund-raising lunch on the Upper East Side, what she wanted to hear Mr. Bennett sing. “Oh my gosh, I don’t know!” the House minority leader had answered. “San Francisco, inching toward the World Series, everyone wants him to sing ‘I Left My Heart in San Francisco,’ but he’s not gonna sing that.” We hoped she was listening as Mr. Bennett launched into that tune—although we pity her beloved Giants, down two games to the Cincinatti Reds at press time.

Mr. Bennett introduced his next song: “George and Ira Gershwin wrote a song in 1934 that I consider the most contemporary song you could sing today.” His meaning became clear a few bars into “Who Cares,” as he dramatically covered his eyes when he got to the line “Let a million firms go under.” “There’s nothing like this right here,” the singer announced, and, hearing his unamplified voice fill the former Bowery Savings Bank with “Fly Me to the Moon,” we were inclined to agree.

jwolf@observer.com

Right-o.

Like father, like son, Jake Sumner has begun to carve out a real estate empire in the city. Dad Gordon Sumner (a.k.a. Sting) has owned a string of apartments in town, originally trading up to 15 Central Park West from the neighboring Brentmore.

Unlike the former Police frontman and sex marathoner, Sumner fils prefers his digs downtown. He just purchased the penthouse at long-stalled 17 Orchard Street, a seven-unit sliver of a condo that came on the market only a month after Lehman collapsed. The original asking price was $1.695 million, but Mr. Sumner--the occassional model is all of 25--paid only $1.27 million.

The two-bedroom home is "the newest to hip Lower East Side living," according to Shelley O'Keefe's Corcoran listing.  "Located on one of the most known and loved streets on the Lower East Side, 17 Orchard offers the highest standard of modern living." The 1,316-square-foot spread features two bathrooms and a chef's kitchen that "will make your friends green with envy when they see your expansive marble counters, custom cabinets, and Kitchen Aid stainless steel appliances." There is also a 298-square-foot terrace.

Mr. Sumner, Sting's second of four children with his second wife, Trudie Styler, appears eager to sell his current Soho penthouse at 105 Thompson Street. It came on the market June 15 for $549,000 but the price was cut to $499,000 all of eight days later, a price only $49,000 higher than what Mr. Sumner paid for the home in 2007.

For that kind of money, the one-bedroom co-op cannot be that big, a fact belied by Town broker Suzun Bennet's listing, which describes the place as a "Parisian style loft." It's a walk-up, too, so we're picturing more of a garrett. Still, Mr. Sumner seems to have given the place a thorough going over.

"The pre-war gem apartment has been recently renovated to feature richly textured, beautiful, natural and environmentally friendly reclaimed antique wood throughout," Ms. Bennet writes in the listing. "The floors are oak, from 100 year old antique barn siding. Comfort combines with flexible and dynamic use of space in the living room with hand-crafted, well designed reclaimed pine living room shelving surrounding the working fire place."

And in the bathroom, there is reclaimed wood from a few of dad's guitars. Only kidding, but if there was, it would probably help the place sell.

After a two-year odyssey, it seemed as if the couple had finally settled on socialite Laurie Tisch's ninth to 10th-floor spot, but the celebs came down with a bad case of buyers' remorse right before signing the contract, said the source.

Curbed spotted the listing earlier today.

The apartment is now being marketed two ways. There remains the original eight-bedroom, $21.5 million listing the Parker-Brodericks turned down, or buyers could purchase a smaller, five-bedroom unit for $18.25 million. The buyer who selected the, by comparison, diminutive pad will lose the western portion, but keep those stunning Central Park views, which one broker crowed are much better than those from Sting's former $17.75 million unit on the third floor.

The Tisch apartment, with a 32-foot living room, 10.5-foot ceilings, and two walk-in closets in the master bedroom, seemed a "perfect" fit for the family, said a source. But then, who wouldn't want to live in a 1910 co-op with glass French doors, inlaid floors, coffered ceilings and enough bedrooms for family of yodeling prodigies? Paging the Novogratz clan.

Stribling's Cindy Kurtin, who has the listing, declined to comment.

SLIDESHOW: What Would You Do With Eight Bedrooms? >>

RELATED: Sarah Jessica Parker and Hubbie Settle on 88 Central Park West

lkusisto@observer.com

Originally listed in 2006 for $24.9 million with the late broker to the stars, Linda Stein, Sting and wife Trudie Styler's luscious layout has since suffered a $5 million price chop and a brokerage switch, leaving it listed for $19 million with Halstead's Mark Friedman and Robert Cabrera. That is, until Monday, when, according to the Web site Streeteasy, it entered contract. Mr. Friedman confirmed that the property had indeed gone to contract, but upon follow-up questions he hastily warded, "I can't really talk about it right now. I'm in the middle of 10 things right now."

The four-bedroom, 6,600-square-foot duplex was originally two apartments combined by former owner and fellow musicman Billy Joel, who sold the apartment to Sting in the 1980s, which explains the Park view piano room on the upper floor. Of the apartment the listing boasts, "newly renovated and restored to perfection!"  And crowning features include French doors with original glass transoms, "pristine" parquet floors with mahogany inlay, 28 18-foot windows with views overlooking Central Park and the East Side skyline (even though it's only the second and third floor), 23 closets to stash the ghosts of music's past, and a prep kitchen with a butler's pantry to "facilitate glorious dinner parties."

In the spring of 2008, the former Police frontman hopscotched a few blocks south to 15 Central Park West, closing on a $26.5 million, 16th-floor apartment in the golden goose of the West Side's gold coast.

cmalle@observer.com

Don't call that thing wrapped around Miley Cyrus a bed sheet! It's a "duchess satin stole, Champagne, specially made," says Vanity Fair. [Radar]

Sting likes to tight-rope walk in his garden in England. [P6]

Steve Martin has caught onto an important downtown hipster trend and is now wearing a fedora everywhere he goes. [P6]

Oh noes! All those pictures from the set of Sex and the City: The Movie might be carefully planned trickery on the part of the cast and crew to mislead us! [NY Daily News]

Girls gone litigious! Ashley Dupre was offered one million dollars by Girls Gone Wild producer Joe Francis within 24 hours of filing a $10 million suit against his company. [NY Daily News]

Sting signed the contract to buy the 5,500-square-foot, tower-side duplex with five bedrooms and a terrace nearly two years ago. In the time since, Sting and wife Trudie Styler took a massive Central Park West duplex of theirs nearby off the sales market, raising speculation that they would, in fact, never close on the 15CPW place--or, at the least, flip it.

Bee wise. Bee smart. Beehave, my heart. Apologies for the bee in my bonnet, but I’ve just seen Bee Movie, and I’m bee-sotted.

High time, too. Just when you were ready to give up movies for Lent five months early, here, in the middle of an avalanche of autumn violence, war and suicidal depression, comes Jerry Seinfeld’s adorable animated adventure about all those busy, buzzing little fashion statements in black-and-yellow striped sweaters by Ralph Lauren. It is mercifully less than 90 minutes long, but make that an hour and a half of witty, captivating enchantment. The ad logo that announces “Honey Just Got Funny!” pretty much says everything that needs to be said. But I will say more.

Premise: On the morning of his college graduation ceremony, a bright, precocious and very amusing little bee named Barry B. Benson (Jerry Seinfeld) rises as usual, his wings whirring like micro-helicopters, sharpens his stinger, spikes his antennae with trendy fuzz gel, wolfs down a bee propolis breakfast shake and meets up with his best friend Adam (Matthew Broderick), who shares the latest scoop about the premature demise of a classmate. “Everybody knows you sting someone, you die,” says Barry. “I’m not wasting it on a squirrel!” After graduating with honors (all B’s, natch) Barry is expected to join Adam and do what every young bee does—go to work for Honex, a giant corporate hive where bees test technology for surviving bears, insecticides and fly swats. Adam is a conformist. But Barry, appalled by the fact that bees have never had one day off in 27 million years, is restless. To the dismay of his long-suffering parents (Kathy Bates and Barry Levinson) he doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life in a honey factory. He knows there’s gotta be something more in his destiny than being part of the most perfectly organized, misunderstood and underappreciated species on earth. Hiking a ride with a gang of macho “pollen jocks,” he leaves the safety of the hive, heads for Central Park, narrowly survives hairy encounters with a broom, a taxi, a tennis ball and an overturned bottle of root beer, and ends up breaking every bee rule by actually talking to Vanessa (Renée Zellweger), the nice lady who saves him. Shazam! She turns out to be a florist. It’s love at first sight, but as the old joke goes, “A bird may love a fish, but where would they live?”

Meanwhile, Barry b-z-z-z’s between the drones back in New Hive City (“Would it kill you to just make a little honey?” pleads his mom) and his new home in Vanessa’s flower shop at 67th and Columbus. He discovers a world of sugar, pie filling and cake frosting. But he also survives a few new horrors dreamed up by humans, like bee-squashing with rolled-up magazines (“I lost a cousin to Italian Vogue once”), and learns windshield wipers can be daunting. But the most crunching blow of all is the revelation that people eat honey! Following a supermarket delivery truck to a honey farm that is like a Nazi work camp staffed by slaves, Barry is mortified by this criminal behavior. “Nobody works harder than bees—don’t they deserve to profit from their own honey?” he asks, and convinces Vanessa to help him sue the human honey industry in a honey trial in the courtroom of Judge Bumbleton (Oprah Winfrey). (The evil prosecutor who hates bees is an obese villain played by a hilarious John Goodman.) Barry becomes a world hero and gets interviewed by a Larry King with wings on BeeNN. His goal: to fix it so that every time a human walks in and says, “Honey, I’m home,” he’ll pay a royalty. Trial witnesses include Sting, Ray Liotta and a hilarious bear who looks and growls like Vin Diesel in Sidney Lumet’s Find Me Guilty. Pay special attention to Chris Rock as a jive-ass mosquito named Mooseblood. LOL. And the movie whirs on.

Mr. Seinfeld spent several years creating this project as a writer, producer and star. Directing credits go to animation experts Simon J. Smith and Steve Hickner, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Seinfeld didn’t have a hand in that chore as well. His stamp is certainly evident in every scene. Barry B. looks, acts, and moves his eyes and mouth like Seinfeld, whose dry wit and sardonic humor provide his bee counterpart with a trove of memorable one-liners. (Looking aghast at an arrangement of artificial flowers, who else would say, “Nothing worse than a daffodil that’s had work done.”) And Mr. Seinfeld’s liberal politics are only thinly veiled. The bees could be any oppressed minority being cheated, lied to and disenfranchised by disingenuous bureaucrats, and it’s no secret that the biggest and most evil corporate juggernaut exposed in the headline-grabbing court case is named “Honeyburton.” The manifesto is “Respect what you don’t understand or face the repercussions down the road to your own ruin.” Without pollination, flowers and fruit trees all die, see. Without bees, it’s the end of honey, and what would the Brits do without their tea?

I won’t tell you how the bees save the world with the help of the last fresh flowers on earth at the Rose Bowl Parade in Pasadena. By this time, the movie has run out of ideas and is just marking time. Since we never actually see the Rose Bowl Parade, it looks like maybe they ran out of money, too. A few clarifying scenes seem to be missing, and I suspect there are animation boards in the design department at DreamWorks that remain unused. It is never clear where the bees are taking the plane or why, but get this for a stinging Jerry Seinfeld finale: Barry the Bee, forcing Vanessa the florist to take over the pilot controls like Doris Day in Julie: “Doesn’t John Travolta fly a plane?” “Yes.” “Then how hard can it be?”

You have to laugh. You also have to go away from Bee Movie with a revitalized respect for bees. (I’m talking furry, sluggish bumblebees who mind their own business, like the ones pictured on bear-shaped honey jars and tuna fish cans, not their nasty, worthless cousins, hornets, wasps and yellow jackets.) I have shared my garden peacefully with these miraculous critters for years. I know how harmless and wrongly feared they are. But I didn’t know they were so vital and lovable until Jerry Seinfeld saved their reputation for posterity. Bee Movie is bee balm for the masses.