It was the Oscars of blond, blonder and Madonna. Dianne Wiest and Anne Archer displayed new highlights. Julia Roberts and Geena Davis were Princess Dye look-alikes. (Even Bob Hope and Jack Lemmon caused a brief “does he or doesn’t he?” buzz.) Madonna, onstage vamping and grinding and patting herself on the back and elsewhere, was in a league of her own. The men—Robert De Niro, Andy Garcia, Jeremy Irons—went for something else. It might have been Brylcreem, it might have been Texas crude. Whatever it was, the greasy-kid stuff look was in with a vengeance—and a little dab didn’t do ’em.
Everywhere in L.A.’s Shrine Auditorium, though, there was evidence of creeping good taste. Elegance was rearing its well-groomed head in a way Hollywood hasn’t seen since the ’40s. The tuxes were quieter; there wasn’t a navel in sight. Even Kim Basinger…well, she tried.
After the awards came the parties, topped by the big one thrown at Spago by agent Irving “Swifty” Lazar. Warren Beatty, who arrived alone, soon discovered ex-squeeze Madonna, who had shown up with Michael Jackson. Warren took over the fondling chores she had handled so well during her big torch song. Nobody seemed to mind. Interesting place, Hollywood.