Crashing the Met Gala

T he 2nd of May was an odd day. I’d attended a series of book panels at the Union League Club in Midtown, where I met my bosses — a good portion of the National Review masthead — for the first time. After cocktails there, I continued on to the Shakespeare, an ale-smelling basement tavern at the William (a boutique hotel) that harkens back to the England of the Tudors.

As a young man in Manhattan, I was not about to let the night end there. Scouring my phone for places to visit next, I found that the Met Gala was on. How fortuitous. Here was I, seeking entertainment, when the world’s center of attention was but 40-odd blocks away. I wasn’t invited, but that didn’t matter. With a little ingenuity, one can always find a way into a party, anywhere. The world’s most exclusive social event is no exception.

A quick note to my editor, and I was off. You see, that night, the draft Dobbs decision to overturn Roe v. Wade had been leaked from the Supreme Court. It was spreading like wildfire across social media. I gave myself the task of getting celebrities’ reactions. Most are pro-abortion; in Hollywood, to be otherwise is out of the question. Hopefully, I would find someone famous who’d express the predictable outrage with colorful language and rhetorical broadsides against pro-lifers. It would make for good copy. Plus, if I wanted, it would let me boast to friends later, “I met so-and-so at the Met Gala. The Met Gala. How did you spend your evening?”

Thus, I dashed to the Met. My NR press pass got me past the NYPD barricades, but I didn’t have credentials for the Gala itself. Those are granted only to a select few writers who cover Manhattan’s well-heeled. These journalists spend their careers trailing after the penthouse and boardroom set. Reading their work, you’d never know there’s a world beyond the glass towers and the Upper East Side townhouses; neither would they. Bygones of another era, some of them. Alas, they were insiders. I was not and wasn’t let in.

But ingenuity! The staff only refused me at that entrance. They didn’t say, “Leave the premises at once.” I was just told to “go away.” So I complied, technically, and trotted over to the other entrances along Fifth Avenue to try my luck. The guards there were much nicer than the ones at the first entrance (one of whom tried to snatch my press pass, claiming it was fake) but not so nice as to let me in — yet.

And then I saw my opening. Adjacent to the big, bloated tent atop the Met’s grand entrance was an opening on the side, at the back edge of the staircase. Most importantly, it was unmanned. I took it up to the main landing and found myself right outside the front doors, atop the red carpet, where the guests were walking out. Perfect! I could catch celebrities as they were leaving, strike up a conversation, and maybe even steer it toward politics.

It was 10:45 by then. Surprisingly, the Gala ends rather early, at around 11 p.m. Some party. I was told that Anna Wintour herself — the Vogue editor in chief and host of the event — had left before 10. Nonetheless, their departure was my advantage, and I moved in to get their quotes.

One thing about actors and music stars. They’re shorter, or have different proportions, in person. I don’t know why, but it’s true. It was the case with all I observed: Nicki Minaj, Bella Hadid, Adrien Brody, Maisie Williams, Lin-Manuel Miranda, Billie Eilish, and others. Maybe it has something to do with cameras or Instagram editing. I think it’s the latter. Were they not in their gala finery and their names called out by ushers, I would not recognize them in public. Neither would you. In the flesh, they’re rather regular.

They’re also rather dishonest. They all feigned ignorance of the Dobbs bombshell. “Abortion rights” are of religious import to the Left, and left-wing media were blasting out the news that night every way they could. Twitter was exploding, and all the guests had their phones. As a photographer nearby told me, they were holding their tongues. Not until they speak to their publicists, he said — who’d give them careful language for their comments — would they comment on anything.

There was some honesty around, though. The staff I spoke with told me that all the Gala’s decorations were to be packed up and thrown away. No recycling. So much for environmental consciousness. The scores of fangirls outside the gates told me they didn’t recognize most guests on the red carpet, even as they hollered and oohed and aahed whenever any of them passed them by. It was apparently enough that the ones they saw were supposedly famous. So much for celebrity. The “Gilded Glamour” theme of the party, recalling the bygone Gilded Age of brazen opulence, was perhaps the most honest thing about the evening.

With little luck on the scrum, I thought to ask someone to use my phone to take a photo of me on the red carpet. Why not? Alas, I only got one snap, before that blasted security guard I saw earlier — the one at the front entrance — saw me. She was furious, and I was shooed away. Whatever. Everyone was gone by then, to the after-parties at the Carlyle and the Standard hotels. They were even more exclusive, with better security that was more difficult to outfox.

I realize now that one can always find a way in, but sometimes it’s not worth the effort. Not until the celebs have a chance to speak with their publicists, anyway.