Golden Globes Wrap Up

Blanca Blanco (right) participates in the 'Time's Up' protest at the 2018 Golden Globes

The problem with writing seriously about the Golden Globes is that it's a fundamentally unserious enterprise, one in which winners are chosen by a few dozen ciphers whose outsized power leads to all sorts of whispers about corruption and celebrity suck-uppery. I know, I know: in Hollywood, it's rarely about merit so why should the awards be any different? But still, the Golden Globes is especially egregious in its chicanery.

The degree of difficulty associated with writing seriously about the Golden Globes increases exponentially the more seriously the actors and actresses and directors and writers involved take themselves. I mean, here's an industry that was practically founded on predation, one that tolerated decades of sexual misbehavior before suddenly getting super serial about harassment and doing so by organizing an all-black-attire-protest at a [squints at notes] black-tie event resulting in this

Connie Britton

thing—a $380 sweatshirt with stitching bemoaning poverty haphazardly scrawled across it—becoming an iconic look. I turned on the red carpet for a moment and was trying to figure out why, exactly, the Golden Globes had been replaced with a gothic horror movie set in the late-1800s:

Alicia Vikander

All I'm saying is this: If Hollywood really wanted to protest, they'd follow the Onion‘s suggestion:

Anyway. Oprah kicked off her presidential campaign last night, apparently, so 2020 should be fun. Or horribly depressing. As much as she might want to be president, I can't imagine Oprah has any interest in campaigning for president—it's such a slog and the Democratic primary will be a cluttered knife fight and I shudder to think at the nicknames Trump would hurl at her. But I digress. (Important side note: no one who voted for Trump gets to complain about "celebrity candidates" ever again.) I missed Seth Meyers's monologue, but I'll assume it was boring and kind of lame and appropriately apologetic for being delivered by a white male?

What's that? The winners? Ummmm. Well, I love it when utterly unmemorable (but very nice!) movies like Lady Bird win, if only because they become solid trivia questions five years out. ("Lady BirdLady Bird, was that the one about the dying dog? No? I dunno, give me a hint.") Gary Oldman's victory was well deserved, but I shudder to think of the ways in which the film press is going to try and knife him ahead of the Oscars to secure Timotheeeeeeeee Chalamet a win for Call Me By Your Name. Speaking of Call Me By Your Name, the biggest surprise of the night was it, Get Out, and Dunkirk being shut out. I can't imagine that'll happen again at the Oscars.

But maybe Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri will run the table again. Who's to say? Could be worse, I guess. At least that was half of a good movie.