In the early ’90s, a man named Robert Earl, then CEO of Hard Rock Cafe, along with producer Keith Barish, set out to create what would become Planet Hollywood. The premise was simple (too simple, according to a later legal filing by Hard Rock): Hollywood themed Hard Rock Cafe—a place where you could bring the whole family, ogle memorabilia, get really drunk, and buy some merch. In return for promoting Planet Hollywood and attending events, celebrities like Demi Moore, Whoopi Goldberg, and Arnold Schwarzenegger were either paid or offered minority shareholder stake in the company. In 1991, the first Planet Hollywood opened its doors in the mecca of themed restaurants: Midtown. By the late ’90s, there were 42 Planet Hollywoods in the U.S. alone. By 1998 things weren’t looking so good. Planets Hollywood were closing. The next decades passed in a fugue of closures.
Now, in the year 2025, Planet Hollywood is attempting a comeback, reopening its triplex in the heart of Times Square. The party was (ride with me here) to be hosted by Alec and Hilaria Baldwin—a pair battling more scandal than one is allowed in a lifetime—with special guest 50 Cent and a DJ performance by Boy George. If I was still unsure about attending, a late PR blast promising me Mayor Eric Adams, Pete Davidson, and the entire cast of The Real Housewives of New York City got me out the door.
As I bobbed through Times Square, my spirit was ignited by the magic of 42nd street during rush hour. The world was my oyster: Did I want to buy a portrait of Stitch painted on a piece of Newspaper for $40? Was I interested in a hug from an Elmo who had his head pulled up to reveal a camouflage shiesty beneath?
When I arrived there was hushed discussion from PR before I was ushered into a gated holding area on the sidewalk, where I stood with the exclamation magazines (E! Ok! People! Us!—the magazines where it feels like someone is talking at you enthusiastically). Every so often, a celebrity walked over towards us, and the press pen would erupt, trying to figure out who it was. More often than not, someone would say it was Joey from NSYNC, and we would all try to take a photo—never mind the fact that I’ve never taken a photo in my life that’s been worth anything to anyone. This is about when I discovered that my outfit was almost entirely see-through. There I stood, scantily-clad, in a pen outside of Planet Hollywood, absolutely stumped as to what I was supposed to be doing, trying to take a photo of someone who could maybe, possibly, be Joey from NSYNC, as passing tourists “oohed” at me. I was only saved when my friend Jeannette spotted me in the line-up and ushered me inside.
The renovated space boasts a glowing staircase, two DJ booths, a revamped menu (though classics like the L.A. lasagna will still be available—because obviously L.A. is known for its lasagna), and several bars. But the most noticeable new design feature is screens. Have you ever gone to a community rec center and thought, if only every surface of this room including the ceiling was covered in screens? In the words of Robert Earl himself, “Almost every wall space, and on one of the two floors, the ceiling as well, are all just screens.”
If Planet Hollywood is supposed to be, in some sense, a reflection of Hollywood, then it has successfully redone itself in Hollywood’s current image: a place more interested in remake than reinvention, completely dictated by smaller and smaller screens, where cinema is irrelevant but celebrity reigns.
For the majority of the evening, I followed around a woman who looked exactly like Hilaria Baldwin—a woman who I had been told by multiple reputable sources was Hilaria Baldwin (I didn’t just decide that this woman was Hilaria)—but who, ultimately, was not Hilaria. This was a major problem all night. The older men all looked like Paul Hollywood, while the younger men looked like Benson Boone. Luckily, for those who don’t know what every single Bravo star looks like, the VIP sections were scattered around the perimeter of the room, booths assigned to stars like “Food God” via sheets of white printer paper and Sharpie. This arbitrary VIP set-up meant that non-VIPs could watch VIPs up close, sitting at their booths, eating their L.A. lasagna with their sad identifying papers, separated only by a thin rope. I felt on more than one occasion compelled to look away.
The rest of the guests: an assortment of restaurant industry workers and their family, 2000s scenesters, children, influencers, basketball players, amused media personnel, and the elderly. A woman in a large feathered hat dragged her husband around as he begged, “Can we go now?” An unsettling number of teenagers ran around drinking Pignot Grigio. A bottle girl lugged around a tub of caviar and a tub of blini, with a tube of crème fraîche nestled into her chest.
Whoopi Goldberg and Pete Davidson both clocked in for 30 minutes and clocked out. Boy George, wearing a jacket with Hebrew lettering in a very 2000s Kabbalah way, played “Toxic” by Britney Spears. A man in a snapback growled at me from behind a VIP rope, his hand forming a claw. I decided it was time to collect my commemorative shot glass and run.
It was the kind of party that wouldn’t have been out of place in the 2000s (for better and for worse) a time when women wore Bump-Its, men could growl at you with impunity, and screens were cool because they were the future. Unfortunately, screens are the present, and if I ever have to spend a moment in a room where the ceiling is pixels again, I’m gonna freak out.
In a turn of fortune, as I walked out Eric Adams arrived—just the man I wanted to see! He stepped out to jeers from the gathering crowd—“Booo!” and “Get back to work!”—took a couple photos in front of the glowing sign, and then got right back into his car without ever stepping foot inside Planet Hollywood.
An agitated New Yorker named Steven, who happened to be passing by, loudly complained: “The mayor of New York comes to Planet Hollywood, gets a photo opp with a reality star, and then gets back into the car.” That’s Planet Hollywood baby!