It’s Oscar time! I know this because the British media, usually so prudent, has transformed itself into naked advertorial for films that usually — not always — tell America the lies about itself it most wants to hear. This is why Argo will win Best Picture. Bad Muslims want to kill us! (If I am wrong, feel free to write to me to tell me I am wrong. I will ignore you; but I promise I’ll be hurt.) So, where to go on the night of America’s mass (and failed) psychotherapeutic experiment? This glittering night when we worship the most self-hating people we can dig up — that is, actors. (How I love this paradigm. It is my favourite paradigm.) The madness is explicit.
The answer is Planet Hollywood, of course. Where else? They had the Expendables 2 premiere there, and host birthday parties for people who have PRs who hate them.
Planet Hollywood was founded by Bruce Willis, Demi Moore, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone in the early 1990s. (Of course the vibe is pure 1980s greed, because Hollywood is always sulking ten years behind the rest of culture. Hollywood has just invaded Iraq.) I saw them in London on the night it launched, cruising in baseball caps in some godless limousine on the South Bank (probably the last time a limousine contained stars).
This was part of a celebrity restaurant phenomenon that reached its apogee with the Fashion Café, which failed when the supermodel backers realised that the sort of people who like food don’t like them. (In fact, brand experts think the word ‘fashion’ makes people feel sick.) It used to be by the Trocadero Centre, where rent boys lurk, near the Rainforest Café, another themed restaurant where you can buy, if you wish, a hat that makes you look like an elephant — well, slightly.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in