The masks do not promote mystery but rather an imitation of mystery, an imitation strong enough to allow self consciousness of the guests to mold unnaturally into comfort. The masks act as the tangible version of alcohol – soothing the obvious awkwardness of a room full of heavenly looking creatures with not much to say. The drunker the bodies become, the more willingly they dance. The louder the crowd, the happier the member. Finally the long awaited moment has arrived – the moment of absolute anonymity provided by droning music, candle flames reflected in mirrors, fancy masks and expensive liquor.
And though the busy room, ornate both in decor and guest list, eagerly pants and culminates, never does it crescendo.
Mickey Rourke disappears into the New York City night, leaving behind nothing more than an enchanted whisper and gaggle of giggling girls. The party continues. Women reveling in the perfection of their glow in the mirrors. Men reveling in the pleased self awareness of women.
The topic at hand is appearance and for this the party hits high marks, with disco drums, and scattered masks, the collage of mirrors collapsing around, behind and blending into empty Vodka bottles.
It’s no wonder Rourke left, it’s a movie set he’s played all his life, on and off the silver screen, and yet really who knows where he’s been. The models swing their heads back and forth in search of a new suspect. Two stripper-eqsue women climb the couches and move sensually with full headdress masks and small holes in their stockings. The men watch. The models roam. Everyone is watching.
Watching themselves watch each other.
