If I’d had more foresight and hadn’t felt that the twenty minutes it took me to start this blog yesterday were kind of a waste to begin with, I might have “live blogged” the Golden Globe awards yesterday. (Furthermore: I spent a chunk of its runtime making, then eating spaghetti, and also depressed idleness tends to make me absent-minded.) Oh well, I guess there’s still the Grammys and Oscars and Flapjackies and Blockos and such coming up, so opportunities await. In lieu, then, of immediate commentary, please accept this measured and intellectual recap of Sunday’s three-hour celebrity drink-and-thank-a-thon…
Pre-Show: I turn on the television around 7:15, and the audio on the station isn’t working, so Ricky Gervais’ titters of mischief go unheard; the sound kicks in after a minute but is glitchily doubled, so it’s like Gervais has entered my room on drugs and is shouting gibberish at me. I am unnerved. Who is Gervais married to? I wonder briefly. I begin to contemplate what kind of sauce I will put on my spaghetti.
Brangelina saunters up to Carson Daly, who solemnly addresses each component of Brangelina about their respective projects. I guess Jolie made a movie about sad people in Europe? Daly throws it to some other carpet wench, who interviews the main chick from Snakes on a Plane. I mute the television.
The Show Begins: I am so distracted by this Rick Ross mixtape I’m blaring over the rest of the red carpet that I miss the first couple minutes, and tune in just as Gervais takes the stage in his, um, velour smoking jacket and obligatory pint glass. Most of the monologue is spent preparing the audience for how totally outrageous the jokes are going to be. (I am distracted when he pronounces “controversy” in a weird British way.) He then makes some cracks about Kim Kardashian, and other things not correlated with the Golden Globes. Johnny Depp is brought out, and mutters in his pretend accent.
Later: The only effect the show has on me is to enhance the resentment I feel toward the local art theaters for their tardiness in bringing around the seasonal indie pictures: I can’t share in the timeless joy as The Artist wins again and again. Furthermore, all of the big television winners are extra-pay-cable shows, and I am reminded of my low economic status. I feel a shameful emptiness that spaghetti only begins to fill. I run out of sauce and begin another jar.
Gervais’ attempts at lively insult comedy amount to abstract nonsense of the kind that a middle-school asshole would aim at his parents. (I speak from experience.) Calling Colin Firth a racist and Natalie Portman a fool (for taking maternity leave) aren’t really jokes, but he commits to the bits well enough. The presenters do their best mock-aggravated, “this guy” face as they arrive at the microphone. All seem exhausted. As I observe Downton Abbey’s trembling, geriatric writer accept an award I reflect that perhaps Gervais, to my brutish American eyes, just seems committed to the whole lazy affair. We are, after all, the nation that broadcasts absolutely every new British import series with the label “Masterpiece.” When they’re talking we can’t tell if it’s good or not.
Gervais’ attempts at lively insult comedy amount to abstract nonsense of the kind that a middle-school asshole would aim at his parents. (I speak from experience.) Calling Colin Firth a racist and Natalie Portman a fool (for taking maternity leave) aren’t really jokes, but he commits to the bits well enough. The presenters do their best mock-aggravated, “this guy” face as they arrive at the microphone. All seem exhausted. As I observe Downton Abbey’s trembling, geriatric writer accept an award I reflect that perhaps Gervais, to my brutish American eyes, just seems committed to the whole lazy affair. We are, after all, the nation that broadcasts absolutely every new British import series with the label “Masterpiece.” When they’re talking we can’t tell if it’s good or not.
Acceptance Speeches: I am pleased when a film I did see, The Adventures of Tintin, wins the Animated Film category. Steven Spielberg takes the opportunity to remind us how powerful he and producer Peter Jackson are; I was not aware that it was an “adage” that they could “direct the phone book,” but point taken, sir.
George Clooney plays at humble graciousness even as he brushes off the whole evening as an excuse to pal around with his fellow famous, rich humans. The Cloonster is such a pal, and a goof. He’s just pallin’ and goofin’ all the dang time. Remember earlier, when he borrowed Brad Pitt’s walking stick (?) for a visual gag as he presented some shit? Ho ho, this guy! Later, when Meryl Streep rambles distractedly after winning for The Acting Performance, Cloons McGoons tries to bring Streep her reading glasses. What a mensche! Only figuratively, though, because Jewish people can only be funnymen (Seth Rogen says he has a boner! Ha, oh no!) or Influential Producers, not smoldering stars of screen. Speaking of, all the winners in Weinstein movies refer to Harvey Weinstein as “The Punisher” and Streep or somebody even says he is the God of the Old Testament. Now believe me, I know nothing bad has ever come of rhetorically associating powerful Jews with narrative themes of unjust vengeance and bloodlust, but maybe we could tone down the finger-pointing, ‘kay, shiksas? Just until my people get all the money, and, like Scarface, retire with the well wishes of our community.
George Clooney plays at humble graciousness even as he brushes off the whole evening as an excuse to pal around with his fellow famous, rich humans. The Cloonster is such a pal, and a goof. He’s just pallin’ and goofin’ all the dang time. Remember earlier, when he borrowed Brad Pitt’s walking stick (?) for a visual gag as he presented some shit? Ho ho, this guy! Later, when Meryl Streep rambles distractedly after winning for The Acting Performance, Cloons McGoons tries to bring Streep her reading glasses. What a mensche! Only figuratively, though, because Jewish people can only be funnymen (Seth Rogen says he has a boner! Ha, oh no!) or Influential Producers, not smoldering stars of screen. Speaking of, all the winners in Weinstein movies refer to Harvey Weinstein as “The Punisher” and Streep or somebody even says he is the God of the Old Testament. Now believe me, I know nothing bad has ever come of rhetorically associating powerful Jews with narrative themes of unjust vengeance and bloodlust, but maybe we could tone down the finger-pointing, ‘kay, shiksas? Just until my people get all the money, and, like Scarface, retire with the well wishes of our community.
Why Did I Watch This?: The broadcast ends on an abrupt note as Gervais makes some kind of “social consciousness” crack about enjoying all the champagne and gold trim as the recession rages on. (I am sure that George Clooney hears him, and his heart is hardened still. What a terrible man.) The camera swoops up, and I am surprised at how closed-in the ballroom seems, as opposed to the cavernous expanse of the Oscars’ Kodak Theater, especially with the multitude of movie and television people crammed in for the Globes’ entertainment-spanning revue. I leave my spaghetti dishes in the sink, where they rest still. It is below ten degrees, and the night is silent. I am alone.
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