Golden, then gone

Those shiny golden globes have been dispensed. Everyone’s been on their best behavior (sadly). Now it’s time for the after-parties, where the stars are supposed to let down their guard and go wild. (This isn’t the Oscars, for heaven’s sake, it’s the Golden Globes!)

Miramax first, at Trader Vic’s.

Normally, it’s the hardest party to get into, but it was a bad year for Miramax. “Cold Mountain” had a dismal showing despite receiving the most nominations (eight), and Peter Biskind’s book, “Down and Dirty Pictures,” which depicts a manic, abusive Harvey Weinstein, was the talk of the Globes. So the party will be dead, is the thinking party-goer’s rationale.

The party is in a white tent, lined with sheer curtains that undulate in the breeze. Willowy 21st century cigarette girls peddle perfume, lipstick and mints. Sure enough, no Harvey. His table sits empty, four Diet Cokes arranged artfully around the table bouquet.

But wait, here he comes, striding in with his wife and already the stars are surrounding him, paying homage.

There is Jim Belushi looking jolly. And over there Queen Latifah, towering and gorgeous in a gossamer-like gown of white, being interviewed by a tiny man grinning gaga up at her. Yes. Yes. Yes, he nods. A photographer strolls by and she air-kisses him, and shoots some attitude at the camera.

“I’m trained,” she says.

Here are Gurinder Chadha, with towers of Indian silver dangling from her ears, and Paul Mayeda Berges, in a fancy Nehru jacket. The director of “Bend It Like Beckham” and her co-writer husband are in from London. Down to earth. Chatty. Talking about their next project -- “Bride and Prejudice,” a play on the Jane Austen title.

Clearly, Harvey has not lost his touch. The crowd around his booth is tight and getting tighter. Jim Carrey is cozying up to him. Now Leonardo DiCaprio is slipping in beside him to eat some ribs. William H. Macy seems to be waiting in line.

At the party’s exit there is a Brit-induced bottleneck. Jude Law, his hair mega-moussed to a pointy tuft atop his head, is talking to “The Office.” Yes, all of them, squeezed onto a single banquette. Rachel Weisz, looking breathtaking in a black gown, offers the beautiful Law some advice: “Move to New York. No one will recognize you there.”

In reverse, back down the red carpet. The paparazzi are flashing -- snap snap snap. It’s Evan Rachel Wood (You know! From “Thirteen,” someone whispers). Now down a long corridor. Slow down, there’s Neve Campbell, she of the perfect skin, chatting on her cellphone.

Then it’s up, up, up to the Beverly Hilton rooftop, for the Universal party. Down a maze of halls, filled with endless beautiful people. Out into the night and into a black tent filled with towers of red roses, big round mirrors and really loud music. There is ice cream and chocolate cake. But where are the stars?

There aren’t many here. The “Lost in Translation” contingent is off in one corner. A bearded Bill Murray leans against the wall. Sofia Coppola is sitting in her father’s lap. Coppola wine is being served at the bar. Nicolas Cage is hanging around the writer-director’s table, basking in his cousin’s glow. Quentin Tarantino is surrounded by a lot of tall, beautiful women. (It’s not just in his movies.)

Security is strict. No tape recorders or even pens at this party. Lots of phone cameras around though. One woman has a tiny camera. Her batteries are low. One shot left. Oh, who to shoot! “Fergie,” she says. “Royalty before celebrity.” Even ex-royalty.

Back down the elevator, with, oh, what luck, the Tarantino posse, complete with an East Coast reporter hanging on the director’s every word.

Only a little past 10 and the parties are slowing down. Queuing up for the New Line party provides a good vantage point for people-watching. First, there’s a bald man bear hug: Michael Chiklis has his arms around Evan Handler from “Sex and the City.”

Flounce, flounce, flounce. Here comes Paris Hilton in a poufy blue confection, chatting on her phone (just like in the sex video! Does that woman ever turn her phone off?) Little sister Nicky is right behind in a multicolored baby doll dress.

Inside, not many people left. Pouring Moet, the bartender says his best sightings of the night were Elijah Wood and Hugh Hefner, sans silk pajamas. “He was here with a bunch of his ... friends,” the bartender says.

Indeed, the only star to be found inside is Nia Vardalos of “My Big Fat Greek Wedding” fame. But she’s not big. Not anymore. She is all Hollywood-ized and glammed up in a tight white pantsuit. She is sweet to her fans. Posing for pictures and making polite conversation.

A little past 11, lots of big names are heading home. So soon! Wild-haired Peter Jackson, looking adorably like a hobbit on the run from one of his own movies, picks up his $80 gift bag and makes his way down the red carpet, a Golden Globe clutched in each fist. Here come the limos.

There is no dancing on the tables, no jumping in the pool. Still, it’s hard to find fault with beautiful people in beautiful clothes in the most glamorous of settings -- and there’s always the Oscars....

Times staff writer Rachel Abramowitz contributed to this report.