“Why in the fuck is anyone watching the Golden Globes?” Manohla Dargis plagued Sunday, one of the flagship feathers of the cinema pages of New York Times, who was obviously not perm to his newspaper that evening, but on Twitter, as the ceremony orchestrated for ages by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association began, a foretaste of the Oscars – postponed, them, in this special season at the end of April. So, roughly and in chaste French: “Why the hell would anyone watch the Golden Globes?” Before supporting. “This is stupid. Everyone knows that [les Golden Globes] are stupid, bad for movies (and your brain). No one needs to see this except the hapless reporters who are literally paid to watch. So why would people bother looking at this shit, even “ironically”? Go watch a movie, for crying out loud. ” At the exit of the journalist, to which we can not be wrong, we can however oppose that are also more or less dearly paid to attend this vanity fair of the gags of communicators, agents, employees of luxury brands who have revamped the nominees. and remitters (who would otherwise have found nothing to put on), uncredited or badly credited collaborators – the African-American co-director of Drunk, Kemp Powers, would have incidentally learned a few hours before the ceremony that the (victorious) nomination of the film also concerned him – and of course the main stakeholders: filmmakers, producers, performers, artisans and film or television fiction technicians, called to to be for the most part disappointed but for once not forced to keep a smile of convenience for the rest of the evening since everyone was staying at home and likely to shove the TV out of the penthouse window.
What spectacle was nevertheless offered to spectators, paid or not, for once all referred to a form of horizontality of retransmission on the sofa? Essentially that of yet another aperitif or corporate meeting on Zoom, as if we had not had enough supper – certainly all cameras on (so March 2020) -, with loose connections and spitting microphones, experienced hosts but as distanced as ever (Amy Poehler and Tina Fey were slashing one from New York, the other from Los Angeles), and as usual torrents of speeches and pieces of gratitude speechless, the most vibrant of which, spoken by the widow of posthumously awarded actor Chadwick Boseman, returned the affair to its virtual dimension: “He would say something beautiful, something inspiring.”
They have seen Netflix take everything or almost everything on a front that not many people still dispute with it, the series (with its locomotives The Crown and the game of the lady), but bump once again, despite shovel nominations, against the damn old glass ceiling that denies them the trophy for best film, even in this year when many people were not there to compete for their attention. moviegoers from all over the world – if not Disney, a little box that goes up, founded in 1923, one of whose outbuildings committed Nomadland, by Chloé Zhao, already Golden Lion in Venice and double winner of the evening (best film and best director). The third feature film (after the beautiful The Rider and the Songs that my brothers taught me) of a talented filmmaker with a hypersensitive style, whose portrayal – from a sentimental crowd of true stories – of a constellation of unattached existences crisscrossing the United States in a van could appear a dreamed antidote to our confined era if it weren’t so overwhelming with political emptiness. In France, this Oscar favorite is due in theaters for the end of April – subject, of course, to an unlikely reopening by then.
In the meantime, we have counted the guitars exhibited in Aaron Sorkin’s living room or ogled Regina King’s doggie, possibly rented to a major brand for the occasion. We saw the instigators of the wedding, targeted both by an investigation denouncing questionable practices (between corruption and tax concealment) and accusations of sealing diversity (not one of the 90 or so current members of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, which organizes, is black), announce only after careful consultation in a non-meeting mixed in the hot tub of a palace, they had decided to change and do everything better next time. Or the next one. Because rather than be proud of the coronation of Chloé Zhao, only the second crowned director, they should remember that the previous and pioneer was Barbra Streisand, for Yentl, which was then in substance moved that its price inaugurates “New opportunities for so many talented women”. It was 1984, thirty-seven years ago – not many people remember it, and yet, back then, far too many people were watching it.