Keanu Reeves is not going to be this year’s Sean Penn, sorry
“He talked to me, you know,” breathed a girl at Joe Fresh’s dinner for The Private Lives of Pippa Lee and its players: director Rebecca Miller, star Robin Wright Penn, and the “he” in question, Canada’s long sighed-after Keanu Reeves. Along with the usual suits and various elegant members of Joe Mimran’s consort, they all gathered in the amber glow of Victor (at Hotel Germain) for a little celebration. Three sumptuous courses came and went while outside, clubby passersby did triple takes.
“Keanu? Omigod. What did he say?” cried a pretty chorus around her. “He said”—she paused for drama—“can I smoke here?”
We were a little let down, but still hopeful, so we ventured: “He wanted to smoke inside? Did you let him?” “No, it was outside by the doors.”
Oh, Keanu—have you learned nothing from Ms. Wright Penn’s almost ex? Smoking where you’re supposed to? Asking politely? That’s how you win hearts, darling, not Oscars.
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