![]() Although her profile has dimmed enough for her to need to do the show, Minnelli is a genuine star: American royalty. ‘Entertainment Tonight’ is the sort of tabloid TV show whose celebrity interviews tend to be ‘Hello’-style puff pieces but is also not averse to a bitchy twist of the knife when it senses a juicy story. The stories have been forcibly denied, but “concern about Minnelli’s well-being” was fuelled by a recent appearance on ‘Ruby Wax Meets…’ in which Liza and her friend Katy Manning both appeared to be rather the worse for wear. The programme represents good exposure and good publicity for Liza’s album ‘Gently’ but there is a feeling among the people working close to Lisa that appearing on the show represents something of a risk.Īlthough she recently celebrated her 50th birthday with typical joie de vivre, most of Minnelli’s recent publicity has been of the wrong kind (‘LIZA FINDS THAT LIFE’S NO CABARET’), with rumours lead by the ‘National Enquirer’ that she is suffering from a return of the problems that in 1984 saw Elizabeth Taylor check her into the Betty Ford Clinic. IMMEDIATELY after our meeting, Liza Minnelli is due to be interviewed on Fox’s prime-time gossip fest ‘Entertainment Tonight’. This time, there is no mistaking who she is. Then she’s off again, zig-zagging towards the Ladies (“now where did he say it was ?”), returning 10 minutes later even more flustered and wayward than before. The first (frantic) minute of the interview over, any idea of asking the questions I’ve prepared in order is immediately dispensed with. She orders a Coke, asks for an ashtray, looks for a cigarette, apologises for being late, drops her handbag, asks about my love life and calls the waiter “dahling”, cackling with laughter and theatrically breaking into several accents – from Southern vamp to New York camp, even mocking the Queen of England (“how charming”). She scurries round the table and, talking ten to the dozen, crashes down into her seat. Then with an alarming, chaotic, flurry, she charges down the steps, across the restaurant, and rather throws her arms around me. She reaches the top of the staircase leading down into the café and stands there like a superstar at an awards ceremony, before throwing her arms open and with a dazzling smile, shouting the fanfare: “Da-Nahhh !” (She calls it her ‘Gorillas In The Mist’ coat.) All that’s missing is a bowler hat and maybe a feather boa, although the fur coat more than makes up for it. I first see her out of the corner of my eye, clattering through the entrance of the store on high black heels, wearing a tight black dress, a rather tatty-looking black fur and elbow-length red suede gloves. When Liza herself finally arrives, an hour or more later, it is quite an entrance. It’s her assistant, Lisa (with an ‘s’) – sent ahead to keep me company. I can’t help but feel a pang of disappointment that Liza Minnelli has become someone who can blend in so easily that she doesn’t seem more special or exciting. ![]() ![]() Smartly dressed, with neat, bobbed black hair, big brown eyes, typical black turtleneck and gold jewellery her arrival has caused no commotion or even interest. I’m becoming resigned to a cancellation when I hear a woman’s voice say my name and tell the concierge she is meeting me.Īt first I’m surprised to see how ordinary she looks. I sit at the bar studying the walls of framed photos, pictures of New York’s fashion glitterati from the old days: Halston and Bianca, Naomi and Linda, Warhol and Mapplethorpe – most of them friends of Minnelli’s, many of them dead. I ask the waiter what the risotto is and like a character in ‘Airplane !’ without missing a beat he explains: “it’s lots of little bits of rice, together in a bowl.” I pretend to be interested in the menu, anxiously looking up every time someone walks in, increasingly doubting I’ll be eating. Liza Minnelli is late, as a living legend should be.Ĥ0 minutes after the arranged time of our rendezvous, I am waiting in Barneys on Madison Avenue, on the ground floor, in the fashion-free oasis where New York’s more affluent ladies stop shopping to have a drink or a (very) light lunch – in a café called, appropriately, Mad.61.
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