“The trouble with David is that he wants to control everything,” said The New Yorker at 100 ’s director, Marshall Curry, flashing the grin of a man who has spent months in close quarters with his subject. He stood beneath a backlit ice sculpture of Eustace Tilley, mimicking David Remnick ’s constant refrains: “ Are you getting this? ” “ Is the light okay? ”

“Let me worry about the light,” Curry would remind Remnick, amused by the venerable editor’s inability to stop, well, editing.

On Thursday evening, guests drifted past Tilley and through red marble doors into the New York Public Library’s Salomon Room—which had been transformed from a space featuring rows of desks into a swanky lounge, complete with a three-piece jazz band and emerald green banquettes marked for VIP guests

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