I Haven't Reviewed the Globes...

...because a) I'm busy running up against the cold, icy surface of a deadline for a review of an actual movie, to be printed in an actual magazine, and b) I can't think of a single nice thing to say about that plodding telecast. Okay, here's one: Meryl Streep is a luminous, generous person to use her time onstage to call attention to the smaller films that most need this kind of exposure on awards shows. And she was characteristically funny and impromptu besides—even though I'd hoped she'd get more suited up to her Prada occasion. Truly, I can't figure out why this woman, so vividly alive on screen and in her speeches, is so hellbent on washing herself out with her outfits.

That glowing compliment came with a backhanded chaser, so here's one more nice thing: I guess it's kind of fun that we have no idea who the Best Picture winner at the Oscars will be. And here's a third: genius composer Alexandre Desplat won a well-deserved honor last night, and I even predicted his success, so my happiness for him comes accessorized with bragging rights for myself. Sublimity. I don't care about the TV awards, but America Ferrara classed up the joint and made everybody cry. Lastly, Emily Blunt looked fabulous, even though she sounded... a little... odd.

From there onward, it sours. Dypso stars who were boring drunks or nasty drunks or stupid drunks instead of what the Globes are designed to provide: fizzy, charming drunks. A raft of uninspiring winners. (If that patchy, repetitive script of The Queen rakes in one more prize...) A disappointing moment in the spotlight from Forest Whitaker, though I can at least respect a modest man who gets overcome by this much adulatory attention, this late in an admirable career. Still, he is an actor. Whip it together, Forest! And you, too, John Lasseter, hollering "Animation is awesome!" as though you're Napoleon Dynamite minus the irony, and as though Cars were anything but a well-made and well-intentioned Pixar film minus the cleverness and the warmth.

The night's worst moment by far offered us brand-new evidence that America's "beloved" and "classy" and "decent" Tom Hanks is not above asking for a show of hands of Warren Beatty's past lovers, right there in front of his wife. (One insanely old Hollywood joke + one deeply insensitive and sexist ploy + a head that has literally, visibly swollen + a thousand childish invocations of the word "balls" = can someone please fire Tom Hanks?) Mirren and Hudson barreled onward as surefire Oscar bets despite a proficient but finally uninteresting characterization from the former and, from the latter, a striking and often powerful vocal recital stitched to a stolid, wholly uninteriorized performance. Jennifer Hudson is a formidable singer, a cheering and pretty incredible success story, and from all appearances a very nice and decent person, but is she any more suited to the screen than Julia Roberts was to the stage? Shouldn't some acting be involved in a prize-winning acting performance?

My inner grouch gets grouchier when it comes to the fashions, since even the anointed favorites of the night (bland but fussy Felicity Huffman, pretty but way way way too pink Drew Barrymore, Mattel-inspired Reese Witherspoon) left me cold, cold, cold.

Either last night was a notably joyless and slipshod Globes ceremony, or, as Sandra Bernhard said, "The critics are right; I am a petty, bilious girl." Perhaps both. For me, the question is this: if the Globes got me down this bad, how can I anticipate February 25 with anything beyond dread, or worse, a casual indifference? Have I been hijacked into some anti-Oscar deprogramming regimen without realizing it? Is this what it feels like to wander from the flock?

Global Warming

Snow is actually falling in Chicago today, which is distracting me at least a little bit from the planet's recent impersonation of an E-Z Bake oven. It's a shallow, meaningless distraction, but I'm taking whatever I can get. So, for once, I'm not ranting about that kind of global warming. I mean Golden Global warming, the heat and hum of Hollywood awards season as it shifts into fourth gear. The mists of Oscar's inscrutable affinities should start to clear after tonight's wacky-tacky awards, but even better, we'll be treated to all kinds of sippy and slap-happy stars, Meryl Streep and Borat (surely in character) will Bring the Funny in their inevitable acceptance speeches, the TV stars will wish they were in more movies, and the movie stars will wish more people would turn off their damn TVs. Bizarre incompatibles will fumble their way through their loopy seating assignments (remember Ryan Phillippe with Shirley MacLaine last year?), and the world will grind to a halt for the approximately 8 hours it will take to congratulate Warren Beatty for work he accomplished decades ago.

In my life, a TV is sort of a computer monitor in service of my DVD player and VCR, so I've got nothing in the way of predictions and preferences in those categories, and I durn't care. Being the Bermuda Triangle of television reception also requires me to be away from my own house in order to watch the ceremony, so with florid regret, I won't be popping into ModFab's live chat. Instead, I'll be hanging out with some colleagues from work, thanking Babel for the excuse to eat sloppy burritos and sushi and couscous all at the same time, and expecting these nominees to come away with more than a champagne hangover:

BEST PICTURE (DRAMA) I'm going to go out on a limb and guess The Queen, even though most signs point toward a victory for The Departed, which deserves to win by a wide, wide margin.

BEST PICTURE (MUSICAL/COMEDY) ModFab and Nathaniel are feeling sanguine about underdog Little Miss Sunshine, but I'll be surprised if the HFPA doesn't recognize its own mirror image in the chintzy but delicious Dreamgirls. I gave every one of these nominees a B– (save the execrable Thank You for Smoking), so I barely care who wins, though my weather-vane inclines slightly toward the anarchic energies of Borat.

BEST DIRECTOR Eastwood for Iwo Jima is a dark horse worth worrying about, but I'm still guessing, and hoping, that Martin Scorsese has a safe lead. These are the two most deserving candidates, so it's hard to imagine things going too, too wrong.

BEST ACTRESS (DRAMA) Does anyone think Helen Mirren might win? My tea leaves tell me she is going to just eke it out over Maggie Gyllenhaal in Sherrybaby. Kidding, of course, but I'm not kidding when I say that Gyllenhaal would get my vote, unless the balloting caught me having a soft spot for the wonderful Penélope Cruz. (I know everyone's all about Mirren and Dench this year, but I don't get the fuss about either of their performances.)

BEST ACTOR (MUSICAL/COMEDY) I th

BEST ACTOR (DRAMA) The HFPA seems like the right organization to go along with the Peter O'Toole renaissance. The big payoff for telecast viewers if O'Toole wins is that we'd have a royal flush of funny, funny people winning all the top acting prizes. Venus hasn't opened in Chicago yet, so I can't say how I'd feel qualitatively about an O'Toole victory, but Whitaker (my pick), Smith, and DiCaprio in The Departed already set a high bar for this race.

BEST ACTRESS (MUSICAL/COMEDY) Never mind that my favorite here was Annette Bening, to whom I am usually pretty indifferent. If you can't see that Meryl Streep has this one sewn up, take a hint from Miranda Priestly and go "bore someone else with the details of your incompetence." Meanwhile, here is the most burning question I have about this year's Globes: what does one wear to accept a trophy for Prada? Play to the rafters, Meryl.

BEST ACTOR (MUSICAL/COMEDY) I supp

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS With any luck, Jennifer Hudson will sing her acceptance speech, since she's so much more alive when she's belting and wailing. With any real luck, Emily Blunt or Adriana Barraza would pull an upset, but while I'm hoping for that to happen, I'll also keep my fingers crossed for a tree that grows real money, an eighth day in the week, and an evacuation of American troops from Iraq.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR Eddie Murphy manages the neat trick in Dreamgirls of playing a show-stopping, scene-stealing character without actually trying to steal and stop the movie. In my own mind, this gives him a slight edge over the potent and reliable Mark Wahlberg. For the Globes voters, I'm hoping he clears the serious threats posed by Jack Nicholson and even Brad Pitt.

BEST ACTOR (MUSICAL/COMEDY) It seems to me th

BEST SCREENPLAY Just like in the Best Picture category, The Departed so outclasses the rest of this field that it's hard for me to understand why there is a competition, and even harder to understand why the HFPA probably won't go for it. I think it's safe to discount Little Children and Notes on a Scandal as aspirants. My instinct here tells me the same thing as in Best Picture (Drama)—that The Queen's shelf of awards is about to get a lot more crowded—but this is also Babel's best shot for a win, and presumably the HFPA doesn't want to send their leading nominee home empty-handed.

BEST FOREIGN-LANGUAGE FILM I still expect Pan's Labyrinth to manifest some real presence on the Oscar roster, and it will surely make a game attempt at this prize. Still, I can already hear the tinkly piano in the hotel ballroom as Clint swipes the win for Letters from Iwo Jima. Like most Americans, I haven't had any opportunity to see The Lives of Others, but among the other four, Letters would certainly be my pick.

BEST ANIMATED FILM Happy Feet, I guess, but for an organization that bestowed Best Picture awards on Beauty and the Beast and The Lion King, what's with the ghettoization? Maybe, in a year where even the trailers of all the computer-animated movies made me crazy, I'm especially averse to singling out the format for special recognition. Plus, Monster House obviously won't win, even though it was better integrated and more satisfying than the two blockbusters.

BEST ORIGINAL SCORE The Globes voters, bless them, are much more willing to go out on an unpredictable limb in this category than the AMPAS composers are. Maybe it's silly to predict againt Babel, since this is another promising arena for saving that picture from a possible 0-for-7 batting average. Still, I'm licking my finger, testing the wind, and sensing an upset blowing in from the East for The Painted Veil. I'd be fine with that, though a win for Clint Mansell's majestically ethereal mood music for The Fountain would make my heart leap.

BEST ORIGINAL SONG Y'all better let the girl sing and give her a blue ribbon, or her daddy will have your asses on the phone in the middle of the night. Seriously, you best know whom you're dealing with. Matthew isn't going to start it with Meryl, especially if he saw Prada, but don't think he won't knock you and Prince if his daughter loses to a limping song about penguins. A father's way, indeed.

BEST ACTOR (MUSICAL/COMEDY) I'm sorry, I keep falling asleep when I try to think about this category. I cannnnnn Yikes! It's coming on again! I'mmmm sure Sacha Baron Cohen willlllll [Blacks out]

(Image © 2006 Canal+/Miramax Films)

Sending Flowers to Myself...

...on the occasion of the first birthday of this blog. All the pleasures of infancy without any of the teething rings or the ear infections. Though it occurs to me I am still up at odd hours with this thing. Anyway, thanks for continuing to read!

That first day of blogging was occasioned by last year's Golden Globe Awards, most memorable to me now as the occasion when bogus winner Leonardo DiCaprio implored audiences to "keep giving help to the tsunami." Even without a year's distance, I can't say I have much to add about this year's Golden Globes, either. For the third year running, I'm almost totally unmoved by this year's crop of major awards contenders. At least in 2003 I could make a personal obsession and enormous mea culpa out of Charlize Theron's Monster performance, and nearly alone among my friends, I really admired Million Dollar Baby last year. Almost all of this year's front-runners are more palatable to me in concept than in point of fact, to say nothing of straightforward mediocrities like Walk the Line and Match Point. This year's ceremony, which I only observed as a sort of corner-of-my-eye affair on Derek's roommate's tiny TV—featuring the kind of reception that a cheap antenna in Queens is likely to buy you—reminded me of the movies it honored: polished, unembarrassing, but unremarkable beneath a pleasing, gleaming surface.

It is symptomatic of my dyspepsia about this year's awards season that all of my favorite Globes moments came from the TV actors. Two of them came from Geena Davis alone: reminding us what a knockout she often managed to be at these kinds of affairs, especially in bright red, and hooking the whole audience with that hilarious bit of apocrypha in her acceptance speech. It suddenly didn't matter that the two episodes of Commander in Chief I have seen have been so tepid and milky, not least because the writers seem so scared of fully realizing Davis' character and because she hasn't done much to raise the game of her own accord. I loved when Sandra Oh, looking like a million bucks for the second year running, described the nervous rush of the winning instant—"I feel like someone just set me on fire!"—and I loved that S. Epatha Merkerson, virtually alone among repeat Globe- and Emmy-winners (or Globe- and Oscar-winners) managed to give two distinct speeches that were both funny, warm, and sincere: "I am 53 years old, and this was my first lead in a film," she semi-tearfully confessed, before adding, "and if I weren't in the middle of a major hot flash, I would have something to say about that." Merkerson also had, in Jesse L. Martin, the dreamiest date of the evening.

No real fashion praisesongs to deliver, though Eric Bana and Viggo Mortensen sure cleaned up good, and Maria Bello, Felicity Huffman, and Kate Beckinsale stole Uma Thurman's good idea from last year in brilliant white. (Beckinsale's only worked, though, when she ditched the ridiculous fur wrap.)

As the Golden Globes Turn

I didn't post earlier today about this morning's Golden Globe nominations because, frankly, I was too frigging cold. The furnace went out in my apartment last night, right around the time it hit 10°F in Hartford. I woke up this morning the spitting image of Rose DeWitt Bukater Dawson, clinging to my little plank, blowing on a whistle, realizing that the only omitted touch that could have made that scene in Titanic any more gruesome would have been a little pile of papers floating next to Rose, waiting to be graded. (It's the end of the semester, honey, and there just aren't enough boats.)

I do care about the Golden Globes, I do. But I disagree with anybody who says that these nominations really establish anything Oscar-wise. No film is ruined that wasn't already in trouble, and some of the "omissions" were predestined: neither Peter Jackson nor Terrence Malick has recently been this group's cuppa. By the same token, precious few people or films should be taking any Academy nods for granted. To make this all a little more specific, especially since it's all. so. important, here's a category rundown. The nominees in the paler font are the ones I haven't seen, though check back in tomorrow, after I've rumbled in the Kong jungle, and again this weekend, when I've at least tested my quavering suspicions about The Family Stone.

BEST PICTURE (DRAMA): Brokeback Mountain; The Constant Gardener; Good Night, and Good Luck.; A History of Violence; Match Point
I didn't expect Munich to be a major nominee, guessing that it would only cop Picture and Director nods, so I admit that I'm a little surprised to see Match Point in its slot (at least, that's the way I read it). I'm not totally ready to hand Brokeback Mountain the Oscar just yet, but like Ang Lee's Sense and Sensibility a decade ago, it at least looks to have the Globe all sewn up. (My own vote as of now, before seeing the others: A History of Violence)

BEST PICTURE (MUSICAL/COMEDY): Mrs. Henderson Presents; Pride & Prejudice; The Producers; The Squid and the Whale; Walk the Line
Four inevitabilities—The Producers benefits from the HFPA's total suckerdom for filmed Broadway musicals—but I thought Squid's spot would get gobbled by Wallace & Gromit. I'm delighted to see Squid mentioned, which would narrowly get my vote over the radiant Pride & Prejudice, but I'm suspicious we're going to be asked to stomach a Walk the Line sweep all through this M/C division.

BEST DIRECTOR: Woody Allen; George Clooney; Peter Jackson; Ang Lee; Fernando Meirelles; Steven Spielberg
As you can see, I don't have much room to comment quality-wise, though again, check back tomorrow. Lee is the obvious choice for the win, though the HFPA does love to shake it up in this category, so Woody Allen is a close alternative, and Clooney and Jackson should at least show up in dressy shoes. (Note, too, that you can smuggle a Cronenberg film into the party, but you can't make it too obvious.) Updated: Jackson has it all over Clooney and Meirelles, but I'd still say there's room for others to surpass him in my esteem.

BEST ACTRESS (DRAMA): Maria Bello; Felicity Huffman; Gwyneth Paltrow; Charlize Theron; Zhang Ziyi
Prediction-wise, a two-way race between Huffman and Zhang, who seems like the sort of fashion-plate dumpling that the HFPA favors when they aren't guilted into a Brenda Blethyn. I'm giving Zhang the edge. Meanwhile, I'm hoping Bello didn't just introduce unnecessary category confusion into her campaign, and I hope Paltrow and Theron get to share a table and knock back some Cosmopolitans in the name of all that is blonde. (Gwynnie was good in her movie, and since she seems to be the target of some kind of popular-favor fatwa these days, I admit I'm pleased for her. Still voting for Bello, though.)

BEST ACTOR (DRAMA): Russell Crowe; Philip Seymour Hoffman; Terrence Howard; Heath Ledger; David Strathairn
The year's most crowded acting category, and indeed, this is a formidable list. With the certain-to-win Ledger still waiting on my dance card, I'll take the underdog position and confess my ballot goes to Howard, who raised a whole film on his shoulders with nothing—no mimicked mannerisms, no star cachet—to help him. And it's not just a degree-of-difficulty vote; good as Crowe, Hoffman, and Strathairn were, I think Howard was better...and I'm frankly stunned to see him here. (Fiennes seemed fated.)

BEST ACTRESS (MUSICAL/COMEDY): Judi Dench; Keira Knightley; Laura Linney; Sarah Jessica Parker; Reese Witherspoon
Category make Nick angry. Admittedly, glad Danes is missing. But Where Is Joan Allen??? (cuz that film wasn't no drama). Sacrificing Allen's thistly, funny, sexy, and scary Upside of Anger turn to Sarah Jessica Parker, a stiff wet blanket in the Family Stone trailer, is by far the year's major indignity—especially since you know Parker's only here because she's been such a cutesy ballerina every time she won for Sex and the City. Doesn't matter since Witherspoon's a lock anyway, but that's nearly as dismaying. She's better than I've ever seen her in Walk the Line, but I'll be repeating this from now till March (get used to it, Gabriel): if Reese Witherspoon wins the Best Actress Oscar, it'll be the least impressive performance to do so since Sally Field walked her own dusty road in Places in the Heart.

BEST ACTOR (MUSICAL/COMEDY): Pierce Brosnan; Jeff Daniels; Johnny Depp; Nathan Lane; Cillian Murphy; Joaquin Phoenix
Meanwhile, the worst of this year's acting nominees so far as I have seen is certainly Johnny Depp, who shot a bullet of Too Weird right into the beating heart of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and literally killed it from his first entrance. His opposite is Jeff Daniels, who strides into The Squid and the Whale with perfect, lithe confidence, playing someone with gallons of overconfidence, and even if the movie weren't already so special, Daniels would make it so. Kisses to him, but the trophy, obviously, to Phoenix. (Oh, and I was sure Ledger would double-dutch with a Casanova nod, but apparently, he couldn't even squeeze into an already expanded list.)

BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS: Scarlett Johansson; Shirley MacLaine; Frances McDormand; Rachel Weisz; Michelle Williams
Johansson's another one whose performance doesn't do it for me in the trailers; her line reading and coy playing of "No one's ever asked for their money back" carries the distinct Chanel of teenagers playing dress-up. Anyone here could win except for McDormand—MacLaine is least likely after her, but the HFPA has always really liked her. I'd be casting a strong vote for Weisz myself: an actress I used to dread who bravely played against The Constant Gardener's transparent favorite-choosing among its own characters.

BEST SUPPORTING ACTOR: George Clooney; Matt Dillon; Will Ferrell; Paul Giamatti; Bob Hoskins
A perfectly wide open category, every which way. Clooney will win at least something at the ceremony, and maybe it's easiest to honor him here. The Crash-heads are passionate and legion. Ferrell suits HFPA's celebrity appetites. Giamatti is getting a big, undeserved push. Hoskins is heard to be a delight in a Jim Broadbent role, and seems like a Globes type. With no great choices and no bad ones, I'd check Clooney's name for myself and then forget that I did.

BEST SCREENPLAY: Brokeback Mountain; Crash; Good Night, and Good Luck.; Match Point; Munich
The voters are going to have to work in close concert to make sure Allen gets one prize and Clooney gets one, too. The stories behind both victories are just too lickable for the Globes to pass up. I'm guessing it's Allen here, but GNGL won't sign off easily, and none of the others can be written off, either. (Crash would normally suffer for lacking a Picture nod, but given its reputation for Really Saying Something, I wouldn't rule it out. And with only GNGL to compare it to, I'd vote for it.)

BEST FOREIGN-LANGUAGE FILM: Kung Fu Hustle (Hong Kong); Merry Christmas (France); Paradise Now (Palestine); The Promise (China); Tsotsi (South Africa)
With Munich and Paradise Now both in contention, I really wish Vanessa Redgrave were going to be around. But I'm betting, based on dust, wisp, and stupid intuition, that the winner comes down to the kinetic Kung Fu Hustle and the purportedly touching and Toronto-stamped Tsotsi.

BEST ORIGINAL SCORE: Brokeback Mountain; The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe; King Kong; Memoirs of a Geisha; Syriana
Alexandre Desplat is my boy, but the minimalism of his Syriana atmospherics don't really seem like a Globes choice, though it sure outclasses the dull dull dullery of the Narnia tinkling. Brokeback will notch one here on the way toward its morning-after headline tally. Updated: I tend to like James Newton Howard's scores, and I did again here, so I'd call it about a draw quality-wise with Syriana's.

BEST ORIGINAL SONG:
Okay, you know what? NO. Just no. This category should have been euthanized so long ago. Every year, the HFPA, just like Oscar, has to scrape together some nonsense, but this year is especially tinny. That Alanis Morissette track over the Narnia credits was close to risible, and yet it's nominated. (A little bit ironic—dontcha think?) Mel Brooks did what all the show people do and wrote a new song explicitly to grovel for a trinket. Let's just ignore this category and see if it goes away.

CECIL B. DeMILLE AWARD: Anthony Hopkins
Spool the montage. I want to see him gobble the ground round in Titus, totter around the tablets in Alexander, potter around the greenhouse in Amistad, act with his wig in Instinct, and go crack crazy in Legends of the Fall, and I still want Jodie Foster to call him "inspiring" and "impeccable" in that heavy-lidded, lower-lipped way of hers. If at all possible, I would like this to go on for 39 minutes, with lots of surprise cutaways to see who is drunk.