Short dispatch from dyspeptic Hollywood where everyone is full of fear and loathing and our local xenophobia is focused on the foreign press—specifically, that the Golden Globes seemed to have run off with the perfect date in late January and hijacked the entire awards season. The showroom events have been canceled, the red carpet of 50 years running rolled back.
Back when the world was young, you could indulge in Oscar freebies and ball gowns and be properly corrupt without feeling ridiculous. You can't get a talent agent on the phone here for the past two days, and I fear they are all on the phone trying to keep their clients from canceling their presenting gigs. You can bet the academy will be pushing up its air date next year, for many reasons, not the least of which is to keep the major studios from being able to manipulate the 40 or so odd ducks in the foreign press who are thought to be somewhat purchasable. Also, there is just too much time between these minor awards shows and the Big One. The one that used to count. Ours.
Pity the poor actors. They can't do anything right. If they speak out they are dumb. If they don't speak out they are trivial. If they go, they feel guilty; if they don't go, we think they're wimps. Renée is partied out. Too many dresses. Stephen Daldry doesn't want to go. Charlie Kaufman thinks the whole thing is corrupt but is going to everything anyway. His twin is dead. Meryl doesn't know what to do. The whole happy Chicago team is fighting among themselves. War is everywhere. At least they muzzled Joan Rivers.