Dan Zak: LOS ANGELES — The gowns swish up to the gate. Checkpoint Charlize, let’s call it.
“Not on the list, sorry,” says a pert Vanity Fair staffer, checking her papers as black town cars creep along barricaded Sunset Boulevard in the police state that is Hollywood on Oscar night.
A brunette in a beaded emerald gown turns her head sharply to her companion, a dirty blonde in a red scaly dress who insists they’re on the list.
“The name,” the blonde says, “is B-A-R — ”
“Not on it. So sorry.”
The gowns seem spun around by this rejection. Somewhere beyond the barricades there is a world they long to see. They won’t be seeing it tonight.
Us? We’re on the list. ’Scuse us, ladies.
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