Penelope Cruz, Woody Allen and Greta Gerwig.

Last night The Cinema Society, along with The Hollywood Reporter and Piaget, hosted a screening of Woody Allen’s newest flick, To Rome with Love. The A-list came out in full force for the screening held at Manhattan’s Paris Theater—including the film’s writer/director and star Woody Allen; stars Alec Baldwin, Penélope Cruz, Greta Gerwig, Allessandra Mastronardi who donned a Piaget timepiece, Italian import Fabio Armiliato and Carol Alt; producers Letty Aronson, Stephen Tenenbaum and Helen Robin.

Cinema Society founder, Andrew Saffir welcomed the movie’s stars in front of a boisterous audience that was littered with VIPs including: Jon Hamm & Jennifer Westfeldt, Chris Rock—who could be heard cheering and laughing throughout, Woody Harrelson, Mariska Hargitay, Regis & Joy Philbin, Ralph & Ricky Lauren, Cynthia Rowley, Kate Flannery, Hilaria Thomas, Rachel Dratch, Soon-yi Previn, Nicole Miller, James Mischka & Mark Badgley, Scott Adsit, Julianna Marguiles & Keith Lieberthal, Dylan McDermott, Calvin Klein and many more.

After the movie—which seemed to delight all in attendance, in that way that only Woody Allen can—all mentioned above, along with yours truly, moved over to Italian favorite and celebrity haunt Casa Lever for an after-party. Though the venue boasts a fantastic outdoor section, at the risk of melting in the NYC heat wave, most ventured indoors. Chris Rock parked himself in a banquette booth that quickly filled around him–hey, live comedy show. Alec Baldwin worked the room, with one arm around fiancé (suspiciously soon-to-be-wife) Hilaria Thomas, who STUNNED in Dolce & Gabbana. “They really know how to design for a woman,” she told me. That they do. The funny kids–The Office’s Kate Flannery, 30 Rock’s Scott Adsit and SNL’s Rachel Dratch kept each other in a protracted laughing fit, while gathered around a high top table for the whole night.

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Ralph & Ricky Lauren

Mariska Hargitay

Chris Rock

Alec Baldwin and Hilaria Thomas

Kristine Keller & Marisa Polansky

Downtown doesn’t really need a designated day devoted to dressing like Bob Dylan, Lady Gaga or Danny Zuko, but just because we don’t need it doesn’t mean we won’t embrace it. It’s human nature to dream of being someone else entirely. The popularity of Halloween isn’t the candy, the creepy or even the costumes. It’s the freedom we acquire from shedding the old and becoming the new.

One night, tired of looking at our white walls and inspired by Penélope Cruz’s infectiously bold performance in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, we interpreted Jackson Pollock through wide and talentless fingers and threw paint at our walls. The next morning, we wordlessly and collectively decided the only thing worth keeping from the night before was our memories.

At Home Depot, in the midst of choosing between eggshell and sand, a plucky associate checked our paint-stained hands and said, “Painters huh? Let me show you where we keep our good brushes.” We purchased an entire set. We knew, of course, that one painting does not a painter make, but something about having this stranger believe it made us believe it. If only for a moment. Halloween is like that moment 1,440 times in a row.

As many a good parent would say, the only thing that matters is what you think about you. However, as many a person living in the real world would say, what other people think about you matters a whole hell of a lot. Just ask the participants of the notorious Stanford Prison Experiment. The study made a roar in the ’70s when social psychologist Phillip Zimbardo selected 24 psychologically healthy males and randomly assigned half to play the role of “prisoner” and the other half to play the role of “guard” in a simulated prison.

Though there were no discernible differences between the two groups of participants before the study, once they were administered labels and costumes and placed in a prison context, their fictitious entities soon became a frightening reality. The guards took their position to the extreme and showed a flagrant disregard for the rights of the prisoners with verbal assaults, public humiliation and a total lack of scruples. In concordance, the prisoners succumbed to their new roles as well. Each prisoner was stripped of their birth name and only given an ID number to be used throughout the study—prisoners became emotionally drained and riots ensued. The study was terminated after only six days.

Though the experiment raised eyebrows and ethical concerns everywhere, it brought forth a powerful notion: the theory of deindividuation. This theory is usually used to describe the feeling of anonymity and loss of self-identity that individuals take on when given a certain label or name in the context of a sizable group. When placed in a group setting, individuals are less accountable for their actions and have the opportunity to relish behaviors that they would not have ordinarily been able to commit.

On All Hallow’s Eve, deindividuation occurs the moment you put on your Native American headdress and do a synchronized dance next to a construction worker and policeman. With the right costume and attitude, anyone has the opportunity to become who they’ve always wanted to be, whether it’s a painter, prisoner, princess or president. Not only do you get to dress like a fantasy, but your behaviors, actions and emotions are predicated on that new idea of yourself. This new identity gives the identifier the courage and ammunition to behave the way the costume necessitates. Moreover, the more we are treated like a naughty secretary, Michele Bachmann or a WWE wrestler, the more we will inhabit that persona.

In previous years, we’ve witnessed witches fly, cheerleaders shout affirmations and sailors open doors, but we can’t help but wonder if it’s not just the magic of Halloween but rather, the magic of New York City. After all, there is no place better suited for maintaining your anonymity than the 917. Freedom comes from reinvention and the notion of possibility is paved into the sidewalks of this city. There’s no one to tell you that you can’t be who you want to be. Don’t wait for someone to give you a label.

We say, why not take a cue from Oct. 31 and have the fortitude to be who you dream and let New York be your mask. Of course, our brushes have been long forgotten behind dust and dish detergent and we haven’t painted a thing since that fateful night, but we just may have thought of this year’s costume. Or better yet, a new career.

Penélope remains loyal to Pedro.

Herzog trades his usual interest in outrageous real-life exploits for the hysteria of Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans. He remakes Abel Ferrara’s 1992 Harvey Keitel film into a drama about the psychosis haunting New Orleans that no Hurricane Katrina doc has dared show. Watching Nicolas Cage’s take on Keitel’s role reveals Herzog’s motive: Cage’s sociopathic cop represents modern moral chaos. Man’s fall focuses Herzog’s fascination with the universe’s anarchy and the result is often unexpectedly comical—as when Cage teams with a drug dealer (Xzibit) in a war against disquieted (break-dancing) souls. The cop’s romance with a prostitute (Eva Mendes) and love for his family counters his junkie’s desperation. Cage’s receding hairline and hunchback performance evokes Conrad Veidt—a Klaus Kinski-like maniac—because this is, in fact, a German Expressionist horror film and comedy. Herzog’s wobbly tone reflects William Finkelstein’s unstable script. This oddball vision feels awkward after Neveldine-Taylor’s extraordinary Crank 2: High Voltage, an action sequel that ramps-up the culture of over-stimulation. Its bizarre, disorienting satire of action-movie ruthlessness outpaces Herzog.
Broken Embraces is another of
Almodóvar’s overlong, convoluted sexual melodramas—this time about an actress, Magdalena (Penélope Cruz), who falls in love with a film director. His self-referential, movie-within-a-movie games are lavish yet humorless. Almodóvar lost his nerve when he acquired expensive technique. Inspired by Buñuel and De Palma, he used to match them. Now, his once underground satires are just expensive tearjerkers. Magdalena’s trials don’t advance appreciation of erotic eccentricities but settle for fancy, middle-class trashiness.
Almodóvar’s interest in varieties of passion curiously lack gay gusto, only camp or pathos. It’s impossible to salute his eminence without also accepting the status quo. Almodóvar certainly opened the door for putting gay sensibility on screen—there’d be no Julián Hernández without him—but with Broken Embraces, Almodóvar’s retreat into the bourgeois feels closeted.

The Sun
Directed by Alexander Sokurov
Film Forum, Nov. 18-Dec. 1
Runtime: 110 min.

Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans
Directed by Werner Herzog
Runtime: 121 min

Broken Embraces
Directed by Pedro Almodóvar
Runtime: 127 min.