Hollywood up in Harlem

"SATAN HAD A contract on my life," says Elder L. McGee, and he's not kidding. That's even the first line in his pamphlet, Jesus Brought Me from the Pit to the Pulpit, which he's handing out on the streets of Harlem. I politely note that Jesus built my hot rod, and head on to the nearby Magic Johnson Theatre. I'm very glad that Mr. McGee has turned his life around after so many travails. However, it's a little more pressing that hitman Tom Cruise has a contract on Jada Pinkett Smith in Collateral-premiering tonight in Harlem to help kick off the UrbanWorld Film Festival.

I arrive to find that bleachers have been set up so that some lucky locals can cheer the arriving celebrities. That's pretty cool. I'd like to see that more often at premieres. I don't even care if it's not done out of any sense of goodness. The UrbanWorld Film Festival isn't new to Harlem. The organizers know you can't do anything here without making some big production out of giving to the community.

In that same spirit, I notice that ethnic-marketing experts Vista Media have cut a deal where two nearby billboards for Collateral are stacked on top of each other. Take Hollywood for all you can, my brothers.

New York Press isn't represented along the markers laid out for various publications along the red carpet. No problem there. I settle in alongside the guys from Daily News and Star. If things get really hectic, I'll just slide down and hang out with the D-listers of Da Bomb Video and Bronx Net.

It's a decent enough bunch of journalists-except for this one oblivious lady from Variety, who I'm fairly sure is actually an accountant who swiped a press invite. Fortunately, I get to spend most of the evening hanging out with journalist Michael Gonzales. He's enough of a pop-culture geek that he can remind me that Raymond St. Jacques died way back in 1990. That's after I wistfully daydream of the possibility of the supercool blaxploitation actor showing up at this kind of thing.

Gonzales is also from the neighborhood, which might explain why he asks me for a quote about Tom Cruise being up in Harlem. All I can think to say is that Tom and I are probably both hoping the premiere wraps up in time so we can do some shopping at Old Navy. This isn't exactly the same place where I used to haggle with crackheads over their last shoplifted VHS tape of Willie Dynamite.

I'm all for a gentrified Harlem, of course. I'm far more disturbed by the presence of Mitch Kreindel. I'd wasted the previous evening watching Chevy Chase give him a telekinetic nosebleed in the godawful 1981 comedy Modern Problems. He plays this smarmy producer who's trying to put the moves on Chevy's estranged wife, and then Chevy gets exposed to some toxic waste and?well, anyway, it's just kind of weird to now see the same guy working the red carpet.

It turns out that Mitch gave up acting to become a publicist, and is currently on staff with DreamWorks. He doesn't exactly seem to be in the mood to reminisce about his career. That's understandable. It's his job to escort Tom Cruise tonight, so Mitch is working a lot harder than I am.

I'm just having a fine time on a cool summer evening, watching as everybody else attempts to meet their quota of celebrities. Jada Pinkett Smith turns out to be everybody's salvation. She's very chatty, and is a real dream date to hacks compiling the usual generic quotes to drop into future seasonal articles. She also takes her time with the folks in the bleachers.

So does Jamie Foxx, but he's a lot less accessible to the press. Who can blame him? He's asked to field some particularly mind-numbing questions-mostly about his upcoming Ray Charles biopic. ("What was it like to play a blind person?" "It's incredible." "Thanks, Jamie!") The guy's had a busy year, and I long ago declared a moratorium on Foxx press junkets. He's probably sick of us, too.

Otherwise, everything remains very pleasant and sociable. We also all learn why it's called "Da Bomb Video." The over-aged public-access losers run around with their bloated camera crew like they're in the middle of covering a terrorist attack, desperately pushing their way along the red carpet. "Get him!" goes their recurring battle cry. "Get hiiiim!"

I grab a quote from Mo'Nique about being a big gal doing love scenes, but that's all I need. I notice that the gal from Variety asks Mo'Nique about what brand of eye shadow she's using. Mo'Nique doesn't know. Tom Cruise finally shows up from his Letterman taping, so that's the big finish. He's savvy enough to follow Foxx and Mo'Nique in stopping by the bleachers to meet and greet the regular folks. Cruise is then equally accommodating to the press. This is a huge relief for journalists who don't want to be yelled at by their editors the next day. Also, it means everybody can head home.

I'm hanging around to talk to a publicist. That's when it starts to get all racial up in this shit. The female hostess from Da Bomb-obviously feeling slighted-starts hectoring poor Cruise, who's gone back to working the crowd when he could have easily strolled into the theater. "Tom, you have to support black media!" she shouts, in several variations which all declare that Tom Cruise doesn't want to talk to black folk. Or, more accurately, pathetic black folk with a program on public-access cable.

This rightfully pisses off a proud black woman publicist, who confronts Da Douchebag and shouts, "That's not true, sista, and it pisses me off!" The publicist points out that Tom's been busy talking to plenty of black media on the carpet, including Black Entertainment Television. The outraged tv hostess backs down, before rallying to charge the theater door to finally get a few precious seconds of Tom Cruise footage. It's no surprise that Cruise affably takes the time to talk to the screaming idiot. He probably thinks he's still in the bleachers.

Afterward, the gal from Da Bomb lamely tries to explain that when she said "black media," she was referring to a company called Black Media-presumably, that being the conglomerate behind her crappy little show. Then she fails to keep her story straight by going off on a new tangent: "She was saying that Tom was talking to Black Entertainment Television. They're owned by Viacom, and we know who they are. Tom wasn't talking to the real voice of the black community."

Naturally, it's to Cruise's credit that he didn't assume that Da Bomb was anything close to the voice of the black community. That would be kind of racist. And do not speak to me of discrimination, because I'm soon informed that I'll be cooling my heels outside the premiere's afterparty, since I'll have to wait to get in until some other people leave because Tanqueray has whittled down the guest list.

Don't they know that I'm the guy who discovered Mr. Jenkins? Oh, well. He probably couldn't get in, either. I don't even rate a pass to the Collateral screening. That's okay, though. I pick up the movie on DVD while heading back home on 125th Street. I'll later wish the film was as good as the quality of the bootleg. It's only $5, too, because I flash my press release and bluff the guy into thinking I can still go see the movie for free. Yes, I know my way around these mean streets. o