Picture this, again and again

At about 11:15 — and how was that possible? — it was starting to look like an exodus from the Vanity Fair party. Brian Grazer and his shivering wife, Gigi Levangie Grazer, strolled out past the insanely aggressive stand of photographers. Close on their heels were Barbara Walters, Barry Diller, Diane von Furstenberg, Brad Grey, Steven Spielberg and his jeans-clad wife, Kate Capshaw. ("Jeans?" said a Vanity Fair assistant. "She has got to be kidding.") But the party wasn't over, far from it. As it turned out, the people with the little gold statues were just beginning to arrive from their obligatory stop at the Governors Ball.

Physically getting into the Vanity Fair bash Sunday night was like running a gantlet, especially for name-brand actresses who were screamed at, cajoled and blinded by the light of hundreds of flashes exploding in their faces.

"Can you fix my hair?" an intensely blond Brittany Murphy asked her publicist before she turned to face the lights. As she curled a long lock around her finger, she asked, "Does it look like baloney?" (At least, that's what it sounded like she said.)

Anne Heche made the mistake of stopping to pose with her husband, Coleman Laffoon. "Anne," they screamed, "can we have a single?" Laffoon gamely stepped out of the frame and instantly became Heche's personal cheerleading squad. It was slightly weird, but endearing. "You're so sexy," he growled. "Let 'em see it! Let 'em love it!"

Uma Thurman, long, lean and gorgeous, was sweeping out toward the limos when the photographers waylaid her. "Wake up!" they commanded, and she obliged. A moment later, Samuel L. Jackson strolled out of the party, cooler-than-thou, with a Bluetooth thingy stuck in his ear. As he lighted a cigarette, he watched the bank of photographers, now screeching commands at Kristin Davis. "Oh my God," he said under his breath.

Oh my God, indeed. Vanity Fair, which trimmed its guest list to about 800 this year, remains the holy grail of Hollywood status validation. Some popped into Elton John's annual fete and even the new Us Weekly/Rolling Stone shindig (both down the road at the Pacific Design Center), but this one, it must be said, is where somebodies come to assert their somebodiness, and nobodies come to gawk.

The mood everywhere was upbeat, even relieved. (How can you be in a bad mood when everyone looks so damn good?) Although not all critics were entranced by host Jon Stewart's low-key performance, Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences President Sid Ganis was jubilant. "I'm flying," he said, as guests settled down to a Wolfgang Puck-catered meal in a ballroom next to the Kodak Theatre, adding that it was his wife's idea to hire the fake news guru for the telecast.

The best picture upset — "Crash" instead of "Brokeback Mountain" — was on people's minds, but there was also a sense that everybody took something home. "Brokeback" co-producer and co-writer, Diana Ossana, who slung her writing Oscar over her shoulder, was philosophical. "How can you help but be happy about this? I've had an overabundance of riches with this film."

Nibbling on hors d'oeuvres, "Crash" editor Hughes Winbourne, who'd made a crack during his acceptance speech about being hard to live with the last few weeks, said he was happy it was over. "There were movies nominated other than 'Crash' that I liked more. 'Munich,' I thought was unbelievable. I liked 'Brokeback,' but it didn't move me the way 'Munich' did."

The rest of the "Crash" team reeled with its good fortune. They'd been so certain they would lose to "Brokeback Mountain" that when Jack Nicholson (so acutely aware of his status as America's most precious acting resource that he opened his arms toward the audience to bathe in their adoration) announced that "Crash" had won best picture, producer Cathy Schulman said it took a moment to sink in.

Across town in West Hollywood, it was possible to stand unobtrusively in the big tent behind Morton's restaurant that served as the Vanity Fair party's central room and be dizzy at the star power in the near radius: Heath Ledger, Michelle Williams, Adrien Brody, Eric Bana (did you ever notice how tiny his mouth is?), Will Ferrell and Chris Kattan, all standing what would be whispering distance, if the music weren't so loud, from the tiny Willem Dafoe and the surprisingly tiny Ben Stiller, who looks so big when projected on a 20-foot tall screen. Duh.

Next to that little clump of star power stood the also tiny Jennifer Aniston and her beau, the immensely tall Vince Vaughn, who chatted and laughed with Catherine Keener, who had figured out the only way to move around the party was to sweep the train of her tulle dress around her body like a cocoon.

Way back, against a far wall, Jennifer Lopez, whose wedding ring diamond is literally as large as a quarter, and her hubby, (the also tiny) Marc Anthony, conversed with Jon Voight, who doesn't seem to attend an award show without that silk scarf around his neck In the loo, one was distracted by a stunning Jacqueline Bisset in a gold strapless column trimmed with fur around the bust line.

One couldn't help but ask: "Is that mink?"

"Oh, this old thing," she said, fluffing her longish brown coif in the mirror "I don't know. It's something." So is she.