Tears of Oy

Is Paris Hilton pissing off Robert Redford? Is Redford’s illustrious Sundance Film Festival fed up with Hilton’s antics, among other starry indiscretions? Looks like it! Plus, Britney Spears camps it up (again) while Michelle Williams wells up, sweet thing.

“She was crying, just crying in the lobby.”

—Tear-witness to Heath Ledger’s ex Michelle Williams during her somber stay at Hell-Ay’s storied, lush Beverly Hills Hotel, otherwise known as the Pink Palace

The Beverly Hills sure has been getting its share of globular heat, as of late, and I’m not just talkin’ about bar regular Jen Aniston stopping in to flirt with all the gay boys in the Polo Lounge. As you may have heard, there was a dinner at the Sunset Boulevard landmark recently, right after Ledger’s discreet West Coast memorial service. Naomi Watts attended, as did Heath’s parents, Kim and Sally, as well as Michelle, of course.

Michelle actually stayed at the rose-colored stucco manse, as she always does, I’m told, when she’s in town (must be why the Ledgers were also residing at the mucho pricey hotel). “She feels comfortable there,” whispered a source thisclose to those who turn down the former Dawson’s Creek star’s 800-count sheets. “But she just couldn’t stop crying this last time.”

Like that’s a real shocker. Let the girl bawl, already. Her life’s just been dealt a beyond hideous blow.

But the Hills, turns out, is used to extreme emotions. The palm-tree-laden place has become a near second home to Britney Spears, too—right after Taco Bell and Starbucks and myriad hospitals, natch.

“She goes there for her custody meetings,” blabbed a source who has witnessed Ms. S attend said legal get-togethers. Oh, how very odd. Why the hell can Brit-Brit show up at the Beverly Hills for conferences to see about her kids' welfare, but she can’t manage to get her butt into the far more pedestrian L.A. County Superior Court? Don’t like the room service downtown, is that it, darling?

Oh, listen to me. I’m being very hard on poor Brit, and I really shouldn’t be. Starting to sound like a regular cojones-busting Sarah Silverman, aren’t I? I just wanna say I’m rooting for B.S. to get better, healed and the hell outta this town, for a bit (it’s truly the only way girlfriend will ever come back to us, in any fashion, count on it) and that I’ll leave the bitchier asides to S.S. and sundry Bev Hills Hotel hangers-on. You know, the ones who’ve been posh parading right next to K-Fed’s former wife.

Wanna hear what they told me? Nah, it’s too mean, forget it. Oh, okay, I’ll tell you one thing. It’s about Brit’s speaking voice. The side-by-Spears'-side source’s assessment? “She has the worst British accent I have ever heard,” he bitched. “That girl needs help.”

And not just with elocution.

Oh, listen, I don’t know if it was Nicky Hilton getting her b-f, David Katzenberg, to haul his privates out of his underwear at Sundance and photograph them jewels in front of everyone, or not—who does he think he is, Pete Wentz?—but Robert Redford’s had it. But wait...something just occurred...crazy behavior, Katzenberg...hmmm...maybe it’s not so much Nicky’s influence as the girlfriend before? Mary-Kate Olsen, remember her? The gal who kept talking to Heath Ledger’s masseuse while poor Heath lay dead in Manhattan, and nobody called 911 for eternity.

Prolly grasping here, but seems odd how Olsen’s a few degrees of separation (or less) from men and some most notorious activities lately. Think on that and get back to moi. Meanwhile, I’m told by those who help R.R. with such decisions that the acting legend, Oscar winner and founder of one of the most prestigious film festivals in the world is fully prepared to “shut it down,” because “he hates what it has become—the parties, the swag suites, the Hiltons.”

So blab wildly informed film peeps whom Redford consults for such earth-shattering decisions. Frankly, think it was the last one in that lineup of R2 bitchings that did it. I mean, do you know what friends of Jeffrey and Marilyn Katzenberg (‘rents to David) are saying? “They’re horrified,” revealed a very close chum to the Katzenbergs, about the fact that their son’s dating a Hilton. “Particularly Marilyn,” hissed the Katzenberg crony. “This is not how she raised her son to be.”

Well, whatev. He’s young, cute, rich as hell and far more attractive to look at than Brandon Davis could ever hope to be, so I say, debauch on, young man!

As to Sundance? Certainly something to think about, Bobby. If I see one more pack of celebs strutting, all toothy and deliriously clueless to the ravages the writers' strike and such are causing right now, I think I’m gonna puke bigger than my cat Butch.

But hold on: A spokesperson for R.R. and his venerable moviefest says the notion that Sundance might be shuttered is “absolutely unfounded.” When I asked if Redford wasn’t rather peeved that the Princess Party set is taking away from his film gig, I was told, “There’s nothing we cay say about who attends.” Hmmm. What an interesting comeback. My bitchy southern mama, Mariah, talks like that when she doesn’t want to say what she wants to say, but that’s just her.

I pressed more directly: “I’m told Mr. Redford is really put out that so much emphasis is on folks like Paris, how does he feel about that—Paris’ overshadowing press, in particular?”“It’s frustrating,” came the repper reply. “He would always like the emphasis to be more on the films.” 

“Is Redford looking at changing next year’s format, including the whole swag and party setup?” I inquired. “We're just coming out of [this year’s festival]. We’ll be looking at that in the next few weeks.” From what I hear, that means, Look out, Paris & Co.! But that’s just highly informed gab.

Kristin Chenoweth, dining with a mystery male companion at organic-eatery Newsroom Café on ultraritzy Robertson Boulevard. The Glinda gal wore an angelic white sweater and looked all sorts of cute—which had nary an effect on the mostly fey waitstaff, who sat the singer-actress at the last table near the bathroom. Now that’s wicked. Broadway babe’s won a Tony and everybody’s hearts as the plucky blond be-yotch on Pushing Daisies—she should pick up her pixie-size self and head on over to the photo-friendly Ivy across the street, already. Just arriving in a more sinful street himself was...

Jimmy Kimmel, shuffling through the airport after a late-night jaunt from L.A. to Vegas. J.K. was escorted by his funny female g-friend, Sarah Silverman, along with Cleto, Jim’s bandleader and BFF. Three’s a crowd, huh, C? Give the comedy couple some space! The three amigos arrived off a US Airways flight, keepin’ it real by winging it commercial with the rest of the untelevised folk. Wonder if Jim-Kim and Sar-Si engaged in some mile-high shenanigans? You know these lovebirds can’t keep their claws off each other for even a mere 45 minutes, and you def know the nooky is all sorts of gut-splitting hilarity. Jim did look a bit weary. Back on less rockin’ Hell-Ay soil was...

Lance Bass, at Teddy’s bar in H-town, looking charming and chipper while waiting for his drinks at the bar. Why’s Sir Lancelot at Teddy’s, of all places? The Roosevelt Hotel’s not exactly a queen scene. Maybe L.B.’s fancy-free WeHo days have become oh-so ho-hum, been there, done him. Lancey’s at least stayed in synch with Hollywood style and didn’t drag himself down to the dirty dive bars that surround the hotel.

Oh, one more thing on Sundance. ‘Member how we dished the rumored dirt on Jimmy Fallon’s not so sparkling flirtation relaysh with a producer on his latest pic, before J.F.’s December wedding? Well, the hush-hush brush-off made some public appearances at the snowy film fest. Sundown-dance was no stroll through the Park City for Jim, espesh at the premiere of The Year of Getting to Know Us. In fact, the funnyman’s costar Tom Arnold spoke at the screening, thanking the producer gal over and over—too bad she didn’t hear a word of it!

She was already out the door, trying to get as far away from Fallon as fast as her bootied-feet could carry her. Jimmy’s wife, Nancy, also was nowhere to be seen—poor Jimbo was left all alone! If that weren’t enough awkwardness to kill a cat, at a press conference for the indie flick, Tom again thanked Ms. Producer, as did the rest of the crew. But when it was Jimmy’s time to talk, there wasn’t one mention of gratitude to the passed-on producer gal.

Don’t cry too many tears for the shunned dear, though—word is she recently got hitched herself to a sweet fella—one who just happened to be selling the film at Sundance. How small is this circle?