Confessions of a tinseltown turncoat

IN ITALY, HOLLYWOOD IS A STATE OF MIND

*Part II of an occasional series from our well-placed spy on the A-list. Note: Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the innocent—and guilty.

Venice, the Film Festival. The Bar, Hotel Cipriani. Late.

There are those people known as stars who never quite live up to their images. They have a limited vocabulary, a mild stench, are far shorter than expectedCatherine Zeta-Jones sits at the piano, Carly Simon's "Coming Around Again" rings clearly through the room. At her attention: Harvey Weinstein, Sean Penn, Naomi Watts, her manager, Jason Weinberg, CAA's Bryan Lourd (or is it Bryan Lourd's CAA?), and an actor named George. Her voice is truly beautiful, and she plays the piano firmly, like a man. She once told me at a dinner in her New York apartment that she got her start in a Welsh rock band. Nice to know she has something to fall back on should she run through Michael's millions.

CZJ smiles as I pull up one of those undersized chairs the Italians are famous for and have a seat next to Seth, who describes himself as the kind of guy you either love or hate. He's half right. He financed my last film, somehow, but by the time he did, I wanted to kill him for all the shit he put me through. He's here to sell the foreign rights, and to kiss Emma Thompson's ass to get her in his next movie. As usual, he's boring me and anyone else caught in the crossfire of his pathos—which is only made worse by his having recently been dumped by the beautiful but not very talented Margaretta—the girl whose smile Lancôme paid nearly $2 million for.

"She was just so hot. So fuckin' hot!" Seth moans into his glass, as the Blonde from Entertainment Tonight nods sympathetically.

"But to leave me for that fat piece of shit? What does he have that I don't?"

I cut him off. "Two billion dollars? Now stop being pathetic, or I'll have to smack you."

He looks at me, cracks up. "Thanks, I needed that."

"That is so beautiful," says the Blonde, her hand gliding up George's thigh.

Maxine, a recently exed wife of one of the world's richest lyricists, awakens from her stupor and glares at the Blonde, the way women do when sensing a threat.

Harvey thunders over, grabs George in a bear hug with just a bit too much bear: "Lookin' good, George!"

"Fuckin' hot," Sean mutters, as he fumbles with a cassette recorder that he claims contains his next opus. Fortunately, it's out of batteries.

"Can I plug this in?" he asks, sweetly.

"Don't be such a bore," announces Michele, a Venetian count, as he slides his hand beneath Maxine.

I offer a round of drinks. With a quick nod, a trio of white-jacketed waiters appear bearing trays.

Catherine launches into a Welsh folk song, much to the delight of her parents, also present.

Maxine jerks her head awake and slurs, "I don't wanna hear this shit!"

Harvey tells her to shut the fuck up.

Before the tension ruins everyone's buzz, I take two 50 euro notes and put them in a glass, which I place atop the piano. Catherine smiles and the group laughs, relieved. Bryan eyes the glass, wondering if he should stick his hand in and remove his 10 percent.

He eyes my suit.

"Valentino?" he asks, not waiting for the answer. "Didn't know he made white suits. Does it come with a tray?"

"Actually, it's Ecru."

"Funny. I'd laugh if you were still a client."

Maxine gets up from her perch, stumbling like a newborn chick. "Going to the loo," she announces in a faux English accent she picked up in Harvey Nick's.

Seth leans in, "Next time you see her ass, it'll be getting fished out of a canal."

But being Seth, he's wrong. She returns, suddenly energized and heading towards the bench beside CZJ, who flashes a look of concern to a bodyguard the size of an armoire, who politely blocks Maxine's plan of attack. Resigned, she slides in opposite me.

"Did I miss anything?" she chirps.

"Maybe the last two hours," answers George, who remains as charming as can be, even when putting someone in their place. He looks at me and nods toward the bar.

GLORIOUS GEORGE Clooney

There are those people known as stars who never quite live up to their carefully crafted images. They are a bit dim, have a noticeably bad side, a limited vocabulary, a mild stench, are far shorter than expected, a bit too self-satisfied. George Clooney is none of those things. On all fronts, he delivers. We're speaking about a mutual friend's career and the pitfalls he needs to watch out for, pitfalls George is very familiar with. After all, he has been nearly famous, then not famous at all, then, finally ... "George!"

"So I told him," says George, "you found your car, were smart enough not to fuck your costar until after the wrap party, got the dumb ass TV show out of your system. You have the instincts, now follow them. Just don't get caught up in all the bullshit!"

"He gets it, he's George smart," I say, laughing.

"God help him!" he answers, with a sparkle in his eye you could see from St. Mark's Square.

IVORY TICKLER Catherine Zeta-Jones

Back at the table, George is nobly recounting the horrors of Darfur, not much of a party starter, and surely lost on the half of the crowd that thinks it's a resort to be avoided until the service improves. Catherine is pounding away at the piano, her hair somewhat mussed, the glass in front of her brimming with bills. Either the rest of the group has followed my lead, or Bryan has made change. The lights brighten slightly as a waiter apologetically announces last call. One look from CZJ and the lights are returned to their earlier setting. Maxine stirs, her head snapping back at the realization her alcohol supply is in jeopardy.

"I'm the one they wrote the song 'Tiny Dancer' about!'""Last call?" she asks, almost crying. Maxine holds up her hands, spreading her fingers like a child would as she counts to three. "Three. I want three drinks for ev—for everybody!"

Seth leans in, whispering. "You ever get so fucked up over a girl that you just wanted to give up?"

Being a great and compassionate friend, I reply, "If you are going to kill yourself, make sure you've paid the completion bond on the movie."

"No, asswipe! I mean give up! And then start looking, you know, somewhere else?"

I start to laugh. "I know you have mother issues, but don't jump any fences just yet."

Ignoring me, he replies, "George has really nice ankles, don't you think?"

A few moments later, the low tables in front of us are brimming with drinks. Must be 35 or 40 glasses filled to the brim covering every bit of available space. Maxine grabs one, downs it in a gulp, and quickly grabs another as she struggles to stand, looking like a newborn giraffe with a very large ass.

"Hey," she yells, as she attempts a one-legged ballet pose. "I'm paying for these fucking drinks!" And then, apropos of nothing: "I'm the one they wrote the song 'Tiny Dancer' about!'"

I turn away, as I would from any impending disaster. As if in slow motion, she topples forward across the table, arching her back and spreading her hands to break her fall. Seth grabs the drink from her hand and has chugged it by the time her body makes contact with the tabletop, sweeping her hands across the surface, which sends every glass on the table flying. Slick with alcohol, the table tips, sliding her body toward the banquet, wedging her head beneath it, while propping her ass in mid-air, inches from Michele's face. She is out cold, not a trace of movement, not a twitch, not a spasm.

Catherine stops playing, surveys the wreckage in front of her, and says quietly and elegantly to Maxine's suspended buttocks, "I think you should go now."

The rest of the table ignores Maxine, her ass now several feet higher than her head. All except George, who motions to the waiter, "She'll take the check."

The waiter places the leather envelope on the floor next to Maxine and puts a pen in her outstretched hand. George reaches down, scans the check, and says, "3,800 euros." He looks over at me and asks Maxine's room number.

"I think it's 508."

He scrawls across the check and gets up, pats me on the shoulder, and heads toward the glass door leading to the lobby, setting off a stampede in his wake.

I glance at the check, on which he has scrawled his own name.

Illustrations by Arthur Mount