I arrived early to Friday night's swanky shindig for the opening night of the New York Film Festival - the "prom of Indie film" as some people call it - trying to beat the Rabbi to the seared Tuna and sat down for a hearty meal (anyone notice the food at Tavern on the Green improves exponentially on this one night a year?) with indieWIRE's Eugene Hernandez and Magnolia's Ben Stambler and Jason Janego. Soon I found myself nominated to do a fashion piece in my blog on the best and worst dressed of the night, or as someone called it a hot-or-not for the NY film set. Armed with my handy, dandy 4 mega-pixel digital camera I set out into the night. Unfortunately, it turns out my skills as a photographer royally suck when I'd rather be talking, drinking, eating and searching for a non-existent sundae bar (what the hell, by the way). So all I got was a bunch of crappy pics of random faceless people, a few photos of friends and one good shot of Fuse's Elma Kremin (hot). Among things I missed: Sandi Dubowski's retro-cool checkered jacket, some woman in a hat that looked like a boat cresting on a wave of hair, Ryan Werner's puffy shirted tux, a wannabe French intellectual, and of course, Helen Mirren, rightfully glowing.