Interview With Red Carpet Photographer Frazer Harrison

DAHLINGS –

All of this talk of the Emmy red carpet has me remembering my interview last week at New York Fashion Week with photographer Frazer Harrison.

Frazer Harrison is a ruggedly handsome, outspoken Englishman, based in Los Angeles as an entertainment photographer for Getty Images. You’ve seen his work in magazines, the Internet, anywhere there’s a celebrity event. When looking at magazine photos of the red carpet, be it the Academy Awards, the Emmys or even the VMAs, you’re apt to see Harrison’s photographs of Brad Pitt, George Clooney, Charlize Theron, even Paris Hilton. (But that’s hardly Harrison’s fault.)

(Frazer Harrison)

We met inside the cavernous lobby of Mercedez Benz Fashion Week, and settled down on the huge stone fountain for a quiet conversation. The talk ranged from fashion to Hollywood to the difference between photojournalism and paparazzi.

(Photo: Elisa DeCarlo)

Since his bailiwick is the red carpet, Harrison admitted that the runway media pits are not his favorite places to be.

(Isaac Mizrahi/Photo: Frazer Harrison)

We started with casual conversation about the shows. Asked which fashion shows he thought were the worst, he immediately answered, “Daviddelfin. And Duckie Brown. Those shorts looked like diapers. I looked at those shorts, and I wondered, where’s the colostomy bag?”

We were joined by his publicist. The talk turned from New York fashion to Hollywood. Harrison much prefers the red carpet, and has spent years honing his ability to get the perfect picture. There’s a generic Young Hollywood pose, hand on hip, one foot forward. Harrison wished some of the female stars would leave their hands at their sides for a more interesting picture. He urged those who would wish to walk the red carpet to “practice the pose that works for you, however you like it.”

“A very small number of actors and actresses know how to work the red carpet,” Harrison observed. “Most of them have no idea how to pose. They jump up and down; they don’t know where to look. To know how to work the red carpet, you look straight, you don’t react to the shouting.”

Then how to get that certain celebrity to look into your camera when you’re surrounded by screaming colleagues? “You’ve got to have a trademark,” he said. “I yell ‘Over to the English guy!’ or, if it’s a big star like Drew Barrymore, ‘I’ll make you famous’!” He laughed. “That’s a line from a movie.”

(Amy Poehler at the Emmys/Photo: Frazer Harrison)

What is his biggest red carpet peeve?

“Celebrities don’t need to be led down the red carpet on a leash, by their publicists” he replied.

“It has to be done,” his publicist interrupts. “They spend too long—“

“Leave them alone,” Harrison responds. Harrison felt that the biggest problem with today’s red carpet is that there is not enough real celebrity. (Your faithful correspondent heartily concurs. ) “It’s been taken over by reality television stars,” he said, noting that few of them have the genuine charisma of real celebrities.

And digital photography has made photographers lazier, he stated. “You used to wait with your camera for that perfect shot,” he said, lifting his camera and carefully pretending to aim it at a moving celebrity. “Then you get that perfect shot. Nowadays, it’s just—“Harrison swings the camera, making a rat-a-tat noise. “You get hundreds of pictures.”

As a longtime professional photojournalist, Harrison gets most exercised when compared to the paparazzi. “None of us like to be called paparazzi. They’re scumbags. Photojournalists capture moments. What are remembered on the red carpet are the real moments, like Clark Gable hugging Marilyn Monroe. I call those action shots, or war pictures."

(Kathy Griffin at the Emmys/Photo: Frazer Harrison)

"When the history of Hollywood is written, those are the pictures that will be used. The line is slim [between photojournalists and paparazzi], because we’re both taking candid shots.”

However, he chuckles as he remembers an encounter with Liz Hurley during the Hugh Grant scandal. Harrison was at the airport, trying to get his shot, when he backed into a concrete post and fell. Hurley looked down at him and said, “Serves you right, fucker.”

But, says Harrison, “You don’t judge a person in the moment.” Sometimes the celebrity is under stress, but then that same celebrity will be perfectly friendly at another time.

"Everybody has their own thing," he concluded. "You have to ask yourself, 'what's special about me'?"

Fortunately, when it comes to moi, I do not have to ask. But Frazer Harrison is definitely a special gentleman. He's never done a nude shoot, but seemed amenable to one at a future date. Be sure, I know how to strike a pose!

Ciao,

Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog

Adventures In Los Angeles, cont.

DAHLINGS -

Los Angeles is a most interesting city, so unlike my dearly beloved New York. For one thing, as everyone knows, people live in their automobiles (when they live in their automobiles in New York, it's a housing choice). Los Angeles has no center, and unlike here, if you refer to "downtown," everyone gets quite afraid.

My companion and I had dinner at Musso Franks, a lovely relic of old Hollywood (rather like Elliot Gould, who I met briefly at the Ocean's Thirteen premiere). It seemed like we spent most of every day driving from place to place. When I suggested we walk to a restaurant only a few blocks from my companion's mansion, he stared at me as if I were insane. Walk? What did walk mean?

You'd think he was the one in four inch stiletto heels. Well, he was, but not in public.

I fear that in a few years Angelenos will have toilets installed in their car seats, so that they don't ever have to get out of their Beemers. I mean, there are drive-through banks, dry cleaners, wedding chapels, hardware stores...why stand up at all?

There is even a trolley in the middle of the Farmer's Market on Gilmore Street, to save you the trouble of strolling ten feet from Banana Republic to Anthropologie. Nonetheless, the high point of my visit (besides standing next to George Clooney) was a visit to Decades, that vintage store of legend, on Melrose Avenue.

Cameron Silver, the owner, was clearly aghast at my robust proportions (apparently they rarely carry anything above a size six). However, he did show me many beautiful Birkin bags and other accessories. This is one of my pet peeves with many vintage stores...if you are larger than a modern size eight, you are out of luck.

Hence my store, of course. If only Chanel had had the foresight to design for larger women, the world would be a better place. But I digress.

In all, the weather was superb, the conversation superficial, and I had a lovely time. The best way to put it would be that it was a vacation for my intellect.

And of course, I am now reunited with Bucky! He lost quite a bit of weight while I was gone, poor thing, but this morning I had the maid rub him down with Shea dog butter and his coat is nice and shiny. If a bit on the sticky side.

Ciao,
Elisa and Bucky the Wonderdog

Rubbing Elbows With George Clooney in Los Angeles

(Hello, this is Ms. DeCarlo’s personal assistant. She sent me this message several days ago, but I didn’t get to it until today. I TRIED to change the date at the top, but it wouldn’t let me. She’s going to kill me when she finds out. And that damn dog of hers snaps at me when it’s time to walk him. What have I done to deserve this job?)

DAHLINGS –

You will scarce credit this, but I am dictating this from fabulous Los Angeles, California. I had not planned to leave New York City.

But then a longtime male friend of some intimacy, who is quite well known in the film industry, BEGGED me to accompany him last night at the Hollywood premiere at the Kodak Theater of “Ocean’s Thirteen,” starring George Clooney (the only man I would kick Chris Noth out of bed for), Brad Pitt, and many other people of far lesser importance. Oh, and Al Pacino, who looks truly frightening in real life.



In reality, I first glimpsed Mr. Pacino a few hours before the premiere, when Hollywood Boulevard was still far from crowded and the sun was still out. He was whisked out of a limousine far from the fans just as my friend and I happened to be passing by...at first I thought it was a little old lady in a tuxedo, but then I realized it was the immortal Scarface himself...you can see for yourself above the wonders of Hollywood makeup artists.

About which more later. I wore a magnificent vintage Travilla, which had to be let out in a few places, but it was well worth it. Particularly when I got a good look at the movie executives’ wives. But George...ah, George! Words fail me. He looks a bit older than I expected, but then, who doesn't? (Except Bernadette Peters.)



We all had to mill about for a very long time...apparently George and his compatriots were putting their handprints in cement in front of Grauman's Chinese. Nice to know some traditions never die, isn't it?

(I wonder, is there is a store-room filled with large cement panels of has-been stars somewhere?)

In any event, did you know, Charlize Theron is utterly unable to change her facial expression? (She must be between pictures--no one could act with that much Botox in their visage). There were any number of beautiful women there, similarly unable to do much but smile, but I am afraid I cannot tell you who they were. Not because I have been sworn to secrecy, but because they had no distinguishing features, other than being beautiful and having oddly stony smiles. It reminded me of the night a male friend took me to a topless club in New York City.

There were women who could move their faces; they were the traffic controllers, as it were, the publicity assistants who ran back and forth in high heels and colorful little dresses with walkie-talkies announcing to their bosses which star was coming in which limousine.

As for the movie itself...but I promised you my interview with Meg Cabot, so the rest of my California adventure will simply have to wait. Bucky had to stay in New York…my gentleman friend is allergic to dogs. I miss my baby!

Ciao,
Elisa sans Bucky the Wonderdog

The End of Oscar Night, and Off To Party!

(Note - I am transcribing this from Miss DeCarlo's notes. It's late and I want to go home, but if this isn't fresh and crisp and published tomorrow, I will be put through the tortures of the damned. The Devil doesn't wear Prada, she wears wisps of chiffon. You didn't hear it from me.)

Oh, dear, that naughty Chris Noth! My gown is all mussed, my glorious blonde hair flattened, but it was worth it! I snap my fingers at George Clooney! He doesn't know what he's missing.

Speaking of missing, we seem to have missed quite a few categories, since they're just finishing up the Dead People segment. Oh, well, I don't think anyone important died or I would have heard of it. Chris, dahling, would you be a dear boy and get me another mojito? Thank you!

Hmmmm..Helen Mirren won Best Actress. That scrumptious Christian Lacroix dress...the woman is agelessly hot. Lovely breasts. Oh, dear, I sound like Oprah Winfrey.



Look at that ridiculous getup she wore to the Oscars. Not quite in the Sally Kirkland league, but heading in that general direction.

Oh, my, Forrest Whittaker won Best Actor. Everybody knew he would, but poor Peter O' Toole. He was so wonderful in "Venus", if rather hard to look at in close-up. And what is with Mr. Whittaker's eye? For all of his career I have been wondering when he is going to have that strange eyelid of his fixed. But perhaps it's like that huge mole on that Creole singer's forehead...it has mystical powers or some such.



Darling Marty Scorsese! He is such a divine man, so small and yet so wonderfully talented. I grip Chris's hand hard and squeeze, for I am feeling quite happy and a bit tipsy. I should have eaten something besides one piece of rumaki, but this dress is very tight and Oscar (the designer, not the statue) didn't have time to let it out.

And now "The Departed" won. My God, is that actually Diane Keaton? In that lovely black ensemble? Someone must have mugged her backstage and forcibly changed her clothes, she never looks decent on awards shows. My, what a tiny waist! It almost makes up for having to look at Jack Nicholson and his huge cueball head.

The only nominee I saw was "Little Miss Sunshine," which I adored, although between you and moi, Eddie Murphy should have gotten Best Supporting Actor. The Norbit curse and all that, you know.

Chris is beckoning that it is time to move on to the next shindig...Good night, dahlings!