Paul Schrader

You see them in Beverly Hills, Palm Beach and the concrete canyons of Manhattan. They are called “walkers” because they walk through the gossip columns and society pages on the arms of rich, beautiful, glamorous boldface women who are bored and lonely and always a little bit desperate, escorting them to charity benefits, museums, concert halls and Broadway openings when their husbands are too smart, lucky or otherwise engaged to do it themselves. Walkers are the men in Armani blazers and Hermès ascots who make perfect fourths for bridge, fill important gaps at dinner tables with Baccarat crystal and place cards, and photograph well on red carpets. They are almost always gay, therefore witty and harmless, and look like Truman Capote and Jerome Zipkin. They could absolutely never, under any circumstances, be confused with Woody Harrelson.  read more »

Among the lunchtime mover-and-shaker crowd at the Regency Hotel last week, writer-director Paul Schrader blended in nicely, clad in a handsomely tailored dark suit and pink silk tie.  read more »

Just when we thought it was safe to return to the streets of  read more »