TIFF partysphere: Adam Brody and Chace Crawford compare teenage heartthrobs notes at the Soho House, while we spill a drink on Harvey Weinstein
The tagline on next year’s Grey Goose Soho House invites should seriously read: “Four nights, four million celebs,” because it’s not normal how many are inside this place at one point on any given night. Last night, just as Madonna’s W.E. dinner was clearing out, we moseyed on over to catch a glimpse of our maker but, alas, she had slipped away. It quickly became apparent, though, that one Material Girl lost meant a million teenage heartthrobs gained. Or, should we say, a million teenage heartthrobs interacting with each other. In one corner, Adam Brody and Chace Crawford were chatting, most certainly trading notes about how to be a Josh Schwartz–moulded babe. In the next (or rather, upstairs), Justin Long and Michael Fassbender were busy at the ping-pong tables. As we mentioned earlier, Fassbender should probably stick to his day job, since his entire game consisted of running back and forth to catch his balls. (One landed near my foot. He touched it. And then apologized.) Channing Tatum was there somewhere too, but we didn’t spot him, or his dance moves. Back downstairs, Gerard Butler chatted with several, several ladies, one of who was Olivia Wilde in a body-hugging mega-sexy black dress. Peppered in among the youngsters, former heartthrobs (still, kinda?) Ralph Fiennes and Val Kilmer worked the room. They both have lots of hair at the moment.
And for a bit of fashion plateage? Jessica Chastain was in a mustard-yellow stunner, Jennifer Garner wore a lovely and ladylike dress, Abbie Cornish in a Grecian gown, Kate Mara in a purple mini, Zoe Kravitz in her signature punk look, and Juliette Lewis rocked a creation from hometown-boy Todd Lynn. (She was really shocked that I knew that, but little does she know how much we cling to Canadian talents.) “He’s really into structure and softness,” she said.
Oh, and one last detail: as Harvey Weinstein chatted with my friends and Toronto Life writers Lia Parsley and Fraser Abe, I attempted to pass a drink and spilled it down Weinstein’s back. He seemed not to notice, so I cried on the inside. As I left the still-pumping packed house at around 2:30 a.m., Chace Crawford followed, and was mobbed by “Chace!” “Chace!” “Chace!” and a paparazzi crush as he attempted to flag a cab. I think I stole his, so I guess that means no xoxo for me!
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