The magic of the Venice Film Festival is real, as I discovered—on the screen and the red carpets, the vaporettos and the streets of Lido. Venice is now considered the first stop on the yellow brick road to the Oscars, where awards contenders find their first rapt audiences. But much of the glamour of the festival manifests itself behind the scenes, in the parties and galas held in hotels, old industrial buildings, or on the tiny islands dotted around Venice.
One of the grandest rituals is the annual amfAR gala, held on Sunday night at the Arsenale di Venezia to fundraise for AIDS research. A succession of water taxis pulled up at the dock of the former arsenal, releasing a seemingly endless stream of starlets (and wannabe-starlets) in outrageous gowns and precarious heels, gingerly making their way toward the bright lights of the cameras awaiting them.
Singer Halsey, somehow looking both sultry and gamine in a lace-bodiced gown and cropped hair, laughed her way down the red carpet. Accompanied by actor Avian Jogia, Halsey struggled at times to control the feathers on her dress. Feathers seemed to be in the air at amfAR—quite literally at one point during dinner as feathers flew off an attendee’s dress and landed on a stranger’s appetizer. Paris Jackson—daughter of Michael and one of the evening’s musical performers—arrived looking like a bird of paradise in a colorful gown and feather earrings.
Industry and Bodies Bodies Bodies star Myha’la bucked the fowl trend, wearing instead a big Afro and a little black dress, while Sofia Carson floated into the gala in a pale pink couture confection. Asked if her life had changed much since My Oxford Year made her a known quantity, she said that it had—though pressed as to why, she couldn’t explain, and quickly returned to posing for cameras. Sasha Baron Cohen, on the other hand, flew under the radar, quietly making his way round the party with alter egos Borat and Ali G nowhere in sight.
Over cocktails, Colman Domingo, host of this year’s event, greeted arrivals in a dapper green jacquard jacket and big gala energy. He answered every question with a smile and an elegant response that circled back to amfAR and its stellar mission. When asked about his forthcoming Jackson biopic, for instance, Domingo mentioned how excited he was to have Paris at the event with him.
Once inside, the real circus began. We journalists found ourselves seated at an array of dinner tables surrounded by the kind of people who go to galas: international captains of industry, aristocrats, art moguls, influencers, models. When I asked one of my dinner table mates whether he planned to bid on any of the pricey items up for auction that night, he shook his head and said, “I already paid enough for this seat!”
High-powered auctioneer-showman Simon de Pury arrived like a whirlwind, egging on the audience to open their wallets for an orange alligator sculpture (it went for €20,000), a luxury stay in Zanzibar (€50,000) and a Chopard diamond and sapphire necklace you’d need a security guard to wear outside the house (€90,000). But I suppose if you can afford the necklace, you can afford the bodyguard?
Things picked up speed when Jude Law (who had walked the film festival red carpet earlier that day for the premiere of the Olivier Assayas film The Wizard of the Kremlin, in which Law stars as Vladimir Putin) took the stage to introduce painter and filmmaker Julian Schnabel, a longtime supporter of the organization, who was being presented with the Award of Inspiration. Schnabel paid tribute to amfAR’s important research while also growing impatient with some of the attendees, who roamed the room and chattered loudly through Law’s speech. “I want to say shhhh!” he chastised. Even as he was saying it, people continued to socialize, as if the point of it all was making connections rather than raising money.
That all stopped when de Pury announced Schnabel’s contribution to the auction: he would create a portrait of the winning bidder. “Priceless!” He boomed. Staffers stood by with red light sabers, holding them aloft whenever someone bid. Suddenly the room crackled with energy, red light sabers popping up all over the room, bids zipping back and forth. Gallerists stood at the periphery of the room, taking absent clients’ bids by cellphone, trying to keep up. It finally came down to two people pushing the price up to half a million Euros.
At which point Schnabel stunned the room by proposing that he create not one but two made-to-order portraits for each of the top bidders, bringing the sale to one million Euros and guaranteeing amfAR would break the previous year’s Venice record. The crowd went wild and never really calmed back down, overshadowing the remaining items that finished off the night.
Afterwards, Law held court under the stars, the Talented Mr. Ripley’s Dickie Greenleaf alive once again in Venice. Reminded by a fellow journalist from People magazine that this was the fortieth anniversary of his appearance as the Sexiest Man Alive, he laughed charmingly, insisting that he must’ve been a teenager at the time.
After the dinner ended, a flotilla of water taxis whisked guests to an afterparty at San Clemente Island, a former insane asylum turned resort. I decided to go along, against my better judgment, because that’s where all the assembled water taxis seemed to be going.
The place sounded like Shutter Island, as one of my new companions pointed out, and it did turn out to be difficult (and expensive) to leave. But the setting was magical, the walkway from the dock lit by candles leading to a poolside party that lasted into the wee hours. Mostly younger gala attendees (plus Baron Cohen) drank, danced and lounged under the stars, exchanging business cards and WhatsApp contact info, warmed by the knowledge that they had spent the long Venice evening carousing for a good cause.
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