Mickey Rourke ego-stroking faithful canine companions everywhere, Little Film that Could “Slumdog” three-upping chum-for-critics “Benjamin Button,” Colin Farrell winning an award for something other than his wondrous, multi-layered, capable-of-independent-thought unibrow … what a long, strange trip last night’s Golden Globes were.
And, as with any strange trip, there were genuine moments of splendor and wonder (me), a few touches of giddiness (me again), a trickle of confusion (also me), and a smattering of profanity-laden rants at horrid, horrid injustices (do you have to ask?).
Let’s start with the moments of childlike wonder and revery: Heath Ledger’s win for his iconic turn as The Joker in “The Dark Knight.” Yes, my eyes got a little damp. I mean, I do have two eyes and a heart, don’t I? Then there was what I’m calling the “Slumdog Shutdown.” This less-is-more dramedy/coming-of-age beauty beat over-the-top “Benjamin Button” not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES. Can I get an “amen,” please? And color me muy, muy allegre: Woody Allen’s “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” snatched up Best Musical or Comedy. Finally, there’s Paul “I Get No Respect, No Respect” Giamatti getting his props for his S-E-N-S-A-T-I-O-N-A-L work in “John Adams.” Had the awards ended this way, I could have died a happy, happy girl.
But since this is Hollywood, where people alternately list “Botox” and “Scientology” as religions, confusion did appear: “30 Rock” bested “The Office” as the Best TV Comedy, and Steve Carell was robbed — in great highway fashion; it was like a carjacking, really, only less violent — when Alec Baldwin won as Best TV Comic actor. I have one question, Globers: How dare you? Sure, “30 Rock” is quippy and zippy, but it can’t approach the awkward, lovable, undeniably human appeal of “The Office.” And though I’ll drink to Alec Baldwin being the one Baldwin bro with any level of talent, he can’t hold a candle to Carell, whose Michael Scott is the greatest TV character since, oh, I dunno, EVER.
I could devote an entire novel to the Charismatic Weirdness (note the capitalization) that is Mickey Rourke. More and more, I’m starting to believe he’s the end result of a cross-pollination of John Malkovich (sheer strangeness, that I-could-turn-homicidal-in-60-seconds-or-less look about the eyes) and Johnny Depp (who, it would seem, was the subject of the photograph Mickey took to his friendly neighborhood plastic surgeon). He’s quite the “character,” this one, but he can act.
Which brings us to the third state of being I experienced last night: rage. Pure and unadulterated. Expressed verbally with a torrent of colorful four-letter words and physically with a number of things — a pillow, that copy of “Moby Dick” I can’t even give away, the remote, my faith in humanity — being hurled with great force at my unsuspecting television. You see, it seems that Colin Farrell beat out James Franco for Best Performance in Musical or Comedy. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. No. N-O. This is wrong on so many levels; if you do not understand this, I cannot explain it to you. It’s like “Monty Python”: You get it or you don’t. But it figures. Forever cast in throwaway, stand-still/look-pretty roles, Franco finally gets some recognition for his superb comedic chops … and they hand the award to a pretty boy who couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag. I am beside myself. You can’t see me, but I am still so angry I am literally standing beside myself hitting my own self on my own head with my own hand.
Then there’s that business with Kate Winslet cheating Viola Davis or Penelope Cruz out of a well-deserved Globe for Best Supporting Actress in a Motion Picture. Trust me, readers, when I say that I heart Kate — she was brilliant in “Quills” and “Eternal Sunshine” and “Heavenly Creatures”; essentially, she’s brilliant in anything — but she already won for Best Actress for “Revolutionary Road.” She’s not that good. Even Meryl Streep doesn’t drive home with two awards in hand. Am I the only one without a blatant disregard for logical thinking here? I missed “The Reader,” and I don’t doubt Winslet was fantastic, but give me a break. Hey, judges, give someone else a chance. Like Davis, who has a five-minute cameo in “Doubt” guaranteed to make your jaw drop and your hands shake, or Cruz, who is crazy-sexy-dangerous-cool as a hot bipolar artist in “Vicky Cristina Barcelona.” This was the epitome of a poor judgment call.
So there you have it: the scuttlebutt — warts and all — about the Golden Globes. I find it hard to believe next year could top it. Unless, of course, Farrell shows up with two eyebrows.
Now that’s something I’d pay good money to see.
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