CAN THE GOVERNORS BALL REGAIN ITS BOUNCE? : <i> A clue to the ball’s diminished stature, the </i> paparazzi <i> not only left early, they barely tried for entry to the ballroom.</i>

A true Cinderella knows when to leave the ball. Monday night, well before midnight, this year’s Cinderella, Oscar-winning director Oliver Stone, gave a thumbs-up sign to his party. Then quietly, under his breath almost, he said, “We could just walk.”

The distance from the Beverly Hilton International Ballroom, the site of the Governors Ball that follows Oscar, to La Scala--where “Platoon” was being celebrated--is only half a dozen blocks. But when Stone led his troops down Wilshire, it was the beginning of the end of something. Call it duty. Suddenly it was OK to be at La Scala or Spago (for the Irving Lazar party) or the Hilton. But it was impossible to be three places at once.

In fact, the Governors Ball was already long over.

Traditions die hard, especially in a community as ritualized as Hollywood. A decade ago at the Governors Ball, Steven Spielberg and George Lucas toasted each other over Cristal champagne and Malossal caviar; Ginger Rogers danced with Fred Astaire; Diane Keaton and Al Pacino made a drop-dead entrance. Five years ago Jack Nicholson in direct-black glasses played a hip, happy stay-up-late Cinderella, monopolizing the dance floor with Anjelica Huston. But last year, alas, the best acting winners--Geraldine Page and William Hurt--were more chameleons than Cinderellas. This year, there was not even a real dance floor.

Joe Moshay’s orchestra (their opening number was “Mame”) played to ringside tables; what dancing couples there were had to squeeze onto the noisy floor. Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell were seated so tightly at ringside they seemed to be playing scenes from a silent movie. Gone was the traditional TV room, where Oscar would be replayed on Advent screens. Gone was the place in the sun--the tight little area that separates the ballroom’s tiers, the “power arch” where winners would traditionally congratulate each other (and themselves). This year the power area was occupied by a neurologist who tried to talk Jennifer Jones Simon into participating in a seminar “a week from Thursday.”

Jones (Mrs. Norton Simon), wearing very major diamond earrings and accompanied by her handsome son, Robert Walker Jr., slid through the room like an MGM dream sequence--but she wasn’t enough. More effective last year was a concentration of MGM golden-era stars--Leslie Caron, Esther Williams, Jane Powell, Cyd Charisse, Howard Keel, Marge Champion. When director Stanley Donen plotted the Governors Ball, he sat the MGM gang at one table--and the gambit worked. If modern stars were at Spago last spring, at least Donen got timeless stars. He also got his former flame Elizabeth Taylor to stop by, briefly. That’s called loyalty.

This year it was an imitation of social life. If you can’t get golden-era stars, get supporting stars. Oscar-winning supporting stars, to be sure (Celeste Holm, George Kennedy, Rita Moreno, Red Buttons). Scatter them around the room and pray for magic. But don’t pray too hard. (Arlene Dahl doing the rumba was not an answered prayer.)

In fairness, some of the names one wanted were also present, if briefly. Steven Spielberg, always a good sport about the ball, held his Irving Thalberg Award tightly, then let his Hollywood mentor, MCA President Sid Sheinberg, hold the award. Then Sheinberg passed the trophy back to Spielberg, while Spielberg told a rather amusing story about entertainment attorneys.

Also in the room: best actress Marlee Matlin and William Hurt. Director Roland Joffe. Producer (and Columbia chairman) David Puttnam. Dennis Hopper and his daughter Marin (the granddaughter of Margaret Sullavan). Christopher Reeve, Chevy Chase, Tom Hanks, and--making the evening’s big splash--”Platoon’s” Willem Dafoe, who had to take an elevator to escape fans. But, in another clue to the ball’s diminished stature, the paparazzi not only left early--they barely tried for entry to the ballroom.

The irony, of course, was that this was the year of the independents; it was not a studio year. But if the independents were finally legitimate (and well-seated), why didn’t they sing and dance? Instead of asking reporters where to park at La Scala or how late to go to Spago.

In the company town, on the night of nights, there are now new choices. It’s too easy to write an obituary to the Governors Ball. Somehow, the emperor always finds new clothes. But the best bet in Hollywood is always the same one: Follow Cinderella.

(For the record, the Governors Ball menu--we kid you not--featured the following: delices de Neptune fume, la selle de veau en croute, les pointes d’asperges, les carottes mignonettes, les crepes japonaises and couronne de chocolat en robe blanche. )

No wonder you couldn’t get into La Scala.