BlackBook Magazine

The young actress has long been known as Sam Waterston's daughter. But, make room, because that is all about to change.

"I’m new to this," says Katherine Waterston, the young star of The Babysitters, a midnight-dark comedy featuring John Leguizamo and Cynthia Nixon. "I've done a lot of theater, and when you leave the stage, that’s the end of it. This is so much different. It’s just sort of shocking that this film is out in the world now." There's an excited lilt in her voice, bordering on panic, as she discusses her breakout role as Shirley, a naive high school student who, through a series of simple events, becomes the leader of a prostitution ring involving underage girls and married locals. The film, although thoughtful and challenging, won't be for everyone. Waterston's commanding performance, however, is so deeply felt and nuanced that it can't possibly be overlooked. In fact, her languorous—and then breakneck—transition from innocence to experience easily rivals those of Ellen Page and Evan Rachel Wood. Below, Sam Waterston's daughter opens up about law and disorder.

Okay, so it's more like Third Look! since we came across these pictures of Lindsay Lohan filming the season finale of "Ugly Betty" on NYMag.com, who found them on Just Jared. But that's just the way this zany superhighway works. And, on the plus side? If Lindsay's there, it means she's not stealing your fugly coat.

There’s a brilliant Seinfeld joke about uptown/downtown couples suffering in long distance relationships. But only a terrible bore would demarcate their lives on one side or the other of 23rd Street. And with romantic hotel options not exactly legion in this dosh-worshipping town, the rebirth this April of the Upper East Side’s fetchingly elegant Franklin Hotel should get even ruthless corporate raiders and detached fashionistas to make for the 10128.

Like so many nights before, the ever innocent “after work cocktail” slides into pre-show tequila shots with a band, crashing an awards ceremony, and the notion of staying in and getting caught up with Gossip Girl is somehow replaced by the thump of bass and the clink of glasses. GG will have to wait. Last night I came to the Highline Ballroom to do what we writers call "work." I was interviewing the buzzy band Bitter:Sweet, whose albums have been securing a lot of airtime on shows like Grey’s Anatomy, not to mention the theme song for Lipstick Jungle. I’m instructed prior to the interview that I cannot actually stay for the show, as it’s a “private engagement.” I take it in stride, drinking a bottle of water as I sit through Bitter:Sweet’s sound check, which is quite entertaining in itself.

That crazy sumbitch Oliver Stone is really going through with it, isn’t it? Stone’s George W. Bush biopic W is officially underway and we’ve got the pictures to prove it. Well, Entertainment Weekly’s got ‘em, along with an in-depth article on the controversy swirling around the first ever movie about a sitting president. Have a look at Josh Brolin, (nearly unrecognizable is he) and have a look at Elizabeth Banks, the handsomest faux first couple we ever did see.

In Miami, check our new listings for existing venues like Level 25 (hot rooftop bar atop the Conrad hotel) and David's Cafe II (celeb haunt for cheap Cuban fare in South Beach). For full Miami listings, see our nightlife guide and restaurant guide.

I've been to many red carpet events. I've participated in many a tragic photo op. I've also seen my share of reality TV crews, who trail their subjects, hoping for something "real" (in under five takes). But last night, while sitting outside the Waverly Inn, I witnessed my first ever paparazzi maelstrom. It wasn't gradual as one might expect. Salman Rushdie strolled out with friends, relatively unbothered by the four or five photographers straddling the periphery of the restaurant. Stylist Rachel Zoe stepped out for some air, and a few pictures were taken—nothing big. Upon leaving, Charlie Rose smiled at the invasive camera guys, who almost seemed to bow down in deference. One of the more plucky members of the group asked him to pose for a picture. He did. All was well as I sipped on a glass of white wine, happy with the warm spring breeze. And then Fergie walked out.

We’ve managed to: get seven-minute abs, spend seven minutes in heaven, run a seven-minute half-mile, watch the first seven minutes of countless movies, count to 420, watch one segment of "24," read one page of Being and Nothingness, and write this post. But never did we think that in seven minutes we’d get a complete rundown of the neverending story that is the Democratic race for the Presidential nomination. Never, until now.

Ah, the simple island life. White sandy beaches, clear blue waters, $5,000 for a private VIP cabana -- with full bottle service and a personal cocktail server of course. Nikki Beach is expanding its empire from high-end restaurants and bars in St. Tropez, South Beach, St. Barths, and other jet-set locations to luxury hotels. The first Nikki Beach Resort recently opened on the northeast tip of Providenciales, in the Turks and Caicos Islands. Chris Noth MC'd the debut, spearheading an attempt to trade on the Turks' sun-soaked beauty while swapping the islands' sleepy reputation for more hardcore tropical partying.

Ours is a celebrity-obsessed culture, and in light of Uma Thurman’s recent court ordeal, we’re reminded of a select few who are, like, really obsessed.

The scariest celebrity stalker we've ever seen wasn’t real. The white-haired creep with the squished face and fixed eyes who haunted Whitney Houston’s pop star character Rachel Marron in 1992's The Bodyguard was a centerpiece in our childhood spook gallery. To this day, we scarcely recall what he looks like—a vague image of fear—and the actor’s identity remains a mystery to us. Google inquiries are fruitless, and since we don’t know the character’s name, IMDb’s cast list is moot. This "obsessed fan"—as they prefer to be called—performed warped acts of love, archetypal terror tactics of the obsessed. He pleasured himself in Rachel’s bed when she wasn’t home and sent phantasmagoric notes that are quintessential psycho—letters cut from different magazines and glued together to form incongruous sentences. It epitomized infatuation gone awry.