The Golden Globes prides itself on being a rollicking bash and
unpredictable live TV. Snarky, bleeped jokes, boozed celebs saying damnedest
things, and bizarre picks in the TV categories like Mozart in the Jungle —
the Drunk History version of the Oscars.
Maybe
motivated by backlash to frequent emcee Ricky Gervais, maybe nudged by network
partner NBC, or maybe responding to our divided, touchy political moment, the
Hollywood Foreign Press Association, in their infinitely curious wisdom,
decided to play it safe and sane this year, tapping people-pleasing late night
party clown Jimmy Fallon to front the star-humping frivolity. But beyond the
pre-recorded song-and-dance opener, a spirited, affectionate parody of La La Land, the city
of stars didn’t game for Fallon’s brand of fun and games. It didn’t even seem
in the mood to shine.
The
presenters were mostly all business and seemingly sober, the winners were
mostly thoughtful and serious, acting the part of gracious if abashed. The
worries of the world – and specifically, worry over President-elect Donald
Trump – weighed heavily on their smoothed brows and fuzzy faces. (The hottest
fashion look for men? Revenant grief beards.) Hugh Laurie was feeling
apocalyptic, accepting his trophy for The Night Manager with a joke about this being the last Golden
Globes. His costar, Tom Hiddleston, who also picked up some hardware, tried to
use his moment in the limelight by turning our attention to suffering in the
Sudan, but his I’d-like-to-get-serious-for-a-sec anecdote of humanitarian
workers binging The
Night Manager backfired on him, an attempt to highlight the
value of Hollywood
entertainment in general that ended up sounding ridiculously
self-serving. (The story would have been better if it was actually about
another show, ideally one in his category.) Jake Gyllenhaal, tasked with
introducing Deadpool, a nominee
for best picture, musical or comedy, couldn’t muster an iota of enthusiasm for
it. The funniest bit of the night ironically summed up the downbeat tenor of
the evening: Kristen Wiig and Steve Carell exchanging mock-tragic recollections
of seeing their first animated films. Future generations will remember this
Golden Globes the way Carell remembers his “Fantasia Day,” if they remember it at all.
I
did wonder if perhaps some of the attending and participating celebrities were
uncomfortable with the event, or even trying to lightly sabotage the show by
being decidedly un-starry in protest of NBC. The network — which is currently
airing a new edition of Trump’s old reality show The Apprentice (he’s still a credited, paid producer,
too) — has been accused of normalizing the president-elect, most notably with
his controversial appearance on The
Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon last year, when Fallon, a resolutely
non-political comic, tousled his hair and treated him with kid gloves. Fallon
did take a shot at Trump during his Globes monologue with an in-passing joke
likening the president-elect to King Joffrey, the petulant boy ruler on Game of Thrones. It
played, to me, like a bid to get back on the right side of history, or at
least, on the good side of his audience.
I
was rooting for Fallon to succeed and thought he could. The Golden Globes and
Fallon are made for each other, on a spiritual level, at least. Both aspire to
unpretentious, good-time entertainment. But Fallon wasn’t just unfunny, he was
bad at being Jimmy Fallon. He vamped poorly during his monologue when the
teleprompter broke – a shocking fail given his profession. He dug his hole
deeper with a risky impression of Chris Rock doing a riff on The People vs. O.J. Simpson: American
Crime Story, which not only made me squirm but got me thinking that
Chris Rock would have been an infinitely more interesting host for this show.
(Although I wasn’t a huge admirer of his Oscar hosting last year.) His
“Chastain and the Redmayne” hip-hop serenade of Jessica Chastain and Eddie
Redmayne, set to Cypress Hill’s “Insane in the Membrane,” wasn’t “Uma-Oprah” awful, but it was close and
cringy-embarrassing for everyone involved, including us. His shouty, exuberant
introductions of the presenters honored his fanboy brand positioning but
were at odds with the “Can we service our Oscar agendas while not making a big
deal out of all this?” mood of the room. Like most Globes hosts, Fallon faded
away as the evening progressed. He wasn’t missed.
Actually,
the show was hurting for any kind of identity at all until Viola Davis — a
winner last night for her blistering turn in the film Fences — took the
stage again to give the Cecil B. DeMille Lifetime Achievement Award to Meryl
Streep. Suddenly, a bland and lachrymose ceremony that seemed to be content to
be a mere dispenser of trophy baubles found spark and meaning. Davis’
tribute to her acting inspiration, colleague, and friend was a raw, poetic
salute to Streep’s formidable personality and vital talent. “She is an observer
and a thief,” said Davis. “She waits to share what she has stolen on that
sacred place, the screen. She makes the most heroic characters vulnerable; the
most known, familiar; the most despised, relatable.
Dame Streep.” The camera
cut to a teary Streep, nodding as if Davis had cut her to quick in the best
possible way, which made this line from Davis — speaking, it seemed, for at
least two generations of actresses — even more impactful and real: “You are a
muse. Your impact encouraged me to stay in the line. Dame Streep, I see you. I
see you.”
Streep
— always extraordinary at accepting awards — gave a speech that saw all of us
and inspired everyone. With a voice hoarse from a week of lamentation (she had
attended the funeral of her friend, Carrie Fisher), Streep used her time to
speak powerfully to the moment. She, too, grieved Trump’s election. But instead
of making like Laurie and indulging apocalypse, she tried to rally those in her
field and others, including journalists, to do their jobs and to do them well
on behalf of all Americans, particularly those most threatened by his example
and promised policies, in hopes of impacting the culture in redemptive ways.
She closed her speech by recalling something Fisher had once told her: “Take
your broken heart, make it into art.” Streep’s remarks erred with grandiosity
and erred with a whiff of smugness.
(YOU’RE WRONG ON FOOTBALL, MERYL, JUST
WRONG.) (But I’m with you on MMA.) But her points were clear and correct. On a
night haunted by the reality of Trump that few had the guts to engage directly,
Davis and Streep teamed up to give us a scene that reconciled the frivolity of
the occasion and the gravity of our era by reminding their peers of their
better calling as artists and reminding everyone in culture making and culture
keeping industries the importance of pursuing great work that speaks the truth
and holds those in authority accountable. They also seemed to find a way to
enjoy themselves on the stage, thereby accomplishing something else few could
do last night, too.
Streep’s
words also helped to frame the narrative of the entire show. The best
winners were those that celebrated diversity and honored beautifully made,
soulful work born of pain, resilience, and world-facing engagement. They also
acknowledged and celebrated diversity. Moonlight won best picture, drama. Tracee Ellis
Ross won best actress, comedy, for her work in ABC’s black-ish; she dedicated
her victory to “all of the women, women of color, and colorful people.” Atlanta picked up two awards, one for best
television comedy and best actor, comedy for Donald Glover, who spoke nervously
yet eloquently of the show’s inspiration.
It was an example of the HFPA’s
storied penchant for using their TV categories to jump on hot new things, but
also a rare example of the HFPA giving the award to a hot new thing that truly
deserved it. (Unfortunately, they upheld the tradition of questionable calls in
other categories: another rookie, Netflix’s good-not-great The Crown, won best TV
drama.) The night belonged to La La Land, the
bittersweet, Technicolor ode and scold to absolute and absolutist Hollywood
dreamers.
It sucked up seven awards, the biggest haul of any movie at the
Globes since Midnight
Express picked
up six in 1979. It was at least one award too many for Damien Chazelle’s
enjoyable and precious valentine to his industry, and my Twitter feed tells me
I should protest this. The film is now officially this year’s Really Good Movie
That Suddenly Becomes Worst! Thing! Ever! Just Because It Wins Too Many Awards
at the Expense of Other Worthy Things. (Last year, it was The Revenant.) But don’t
worry, La La Land. I won’t hold
the Globes against you.
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