WE LIKE THEM. WE REALLY LIKE THEM: Gals go glam at CAP's Oscar bash

REVIEW
It's an HONOR Just to Be Nominated...

by ELIZABETH DYE
243-2122 ext. 335


I vogued on over to the big Cascade AIDS Project Oscar Night benefit in order to test a hypothesis--can Portland do glamour? Glamour, honeys, with a "u." This is a non-trivial question for anyone who, to garble Steven Soderbergh's acceptance speech for Traffic, spends part of the day "creating." Glamour is tinder for the creative campfire, and this town is a warren of hole-in-the-wall designers, impromptu stylists and frustrated divas who long to walk the red carpet in a city better known for athletic shoes and beer. Hefeweizen may be clean industry, but no one would call it glamour.

glam·our (glmr). n.

An air of compelling charm, romance and excitement, especially when delusively alluring.

Archaic. A magic spell; enchantment.

We associate glamour most with bygone supernovas in fishtail gowns and tailcoats, the Hollywood Hepburns who make us go misty during the big O's "In Memoriam" montage. The informality of the West and the uncooperative weather of the North make Portland an unlikely crosshairs for this elusive and endangered stardust, but--hurrah! All indicators at the CAP Oscar Night event read "Damn if we don't try."

The location: Wieden and Kennedy. Picture an Escher sketch of a supper club--a massive vault shot the party up four floors and across more landings and terraces than an Ewok city (if the ad giant ever tanks, its offices would make a smashing discoteria).

The entertainment: a Mario's fashion show with real models, real designer clothes, slick lighting and a thumping soundtrack.

The food: catered by the likes of Bluehour, Assaggio, Red Star and Southpark. Bars on every floor. An auction hawking Armani gowns and weekends in NYC.

Wait, I haven't mentioned the Oscars. Oh yeah, Gladiator won Best Picture (and Ang Lee won crap), and ancient screenwriter Ernest Lehman made Hollywood grab its bladder as he doddered through what turned out to be the most eloquent speech of the evening. By and large, awards shows are boring--industry esoterica and stars' non-sequiturs combine to create a spectacle with all the elegance and cohesion of a Backstreet Boys scrapbook. Let's recap: the Golden Globes were ghastly--Renée Zellweger hustling from the ladies' room barely in time to receive her award for Nurse Betty. Actors are given other people's words to read for a reason, so when they wax extemporaneous on live TV (unless they're Frances McDormand), the best we can do is turn off the sound and check their clothes. But Sunday night, most memorable was Julia Roberts' "Wait, first let me make my dress pretty" and Kevin Spacey thanking Judi Dench for flying west with his forgotten tuxedo. Few at CAP's Oscar Night paid attention to these canned shenanigans, despite the billion TVs and projections of the telecast.

That's because the glamour was in the room.

Color me impressed. Although the stern black tie/black dress crowd was venerably in evidence (particularly during the auction), those gray shapes receded once the Oscars went off the air and DJ Mr. Mu Mu assumed the position. Fashion-friendly Portlanders flaunt a flair for the ridiculous and know how to wink for the camera. I saw a couple decked in chinoiserie with chopsticks stabbing their dim sum chignons. I saw a grande dame resplendent in maribou and French twist. I saw robots in plastic ties, Krishnas (and their gopis) in saris, and booty, booty, booty. It was funny. It was naff. People looked good, and they boogied like Halston and Liza. Although the ticket tariff does plenty to engineer the tenor of CAP's crowd, there was more diversity at Oscar Night--age, race, sexual orientation and income-wise--than I've seen at many supposedly more democratic events (I could mention PICA and the PDX International Film Fest, but I won't). It was fun, and, with the help of liquors, it elevated and transported every reveler present. Why's that? What has CAP got that other PDX party hosts don't?

You know the answer (hint: it starts with a "G"). Oscar Night is less a night to watch the Oscars than to be the Oscars, to impersonate, for once, the luminaries and lodestars that summon stares when they do their little turn on the catwalk. Local improvisation is needed now more than ever, because the Oscars grow drearier by the year. I, for one, feel better placing my trust in the likes of Cascade AIDS Project. They put us all in the movies.