Ubi sunt globi?
Since there has been absolutely nothing happening in the world of film and television for the past several days, I find my thoughts traveling back long ago to my halcyon days in academe. As an undergraduate majoring in Spanish and French, a lot of my studies were in literature, and I was always intrigued by that European medieval genre of poems called ubi sont. That’s Latin for “where are they?” and the poems were characterized by pondering on the fates of the strong, beautiful and virtuous who were no longer around. They dripped with nostalgia and focused on the transitory nature of life and on human mortality.
What has prompted this wistful meditation? If you know this website and pay attention to entertainment news, then you probably already know. My opening clause to this looming diatribe was firmly tongue embedded in cheek. Once again the world—but mostly me apparently—has had to contend with the dreaded Golden Globes.
So here’s my own contemporary update to the ubi sunt poems—without the meter or rhyme or any other actual poetry stuff.
Where is Bruce Vilanch when we need him? I have asked this question a few times before, but boy, could we really use him these days. If you aren’t familiar with him, try to get a hold of the documentary Get Bruce. He single-handedly kept awards shows above a minimum level of entertainment for years, and he definitely knew how to amuse. Practically every witty aside or zinger joke that awards presenters and/or hosts spouted for an entire age were coming from him. This year’s host Joy Koy sure could have used him, but more about that anon. The banter between co-presenters has long gotten to the lame and dreadful point that the lameness and dreadfulness have now pretty much become not only part of the joke but actually the whole joke. There was a time when presenters would at least pretend that they were coming up with their remarks spontaneously and were voicing them sincerely. Now they do everything they can to distance themselves from their own lines. Koy actually resorted to disclaiming his numerous bombs by clarifying (denying) that he himself hadn’t written them.
Where is Ricky Gervais? I’m not asking why he didn’t show up to collect his award in one of the brand new categories, Best Stand-up (really?). That answer is self-evident. After all the years that he hosted and ruthlessly savaged the Globes and the sponsoring Hollywood Foreign Press Association (HFPA) as well as everyone in the room and by extension the entire Hollywood entertainment community and system, he probably figured (rightly) it was a trap. He might not have got out alive. No, I’m asking, if you can’t find a host that is at least moderately funny, then why can’t you at least bring on someone who forces you to watch and pay attention the way Gervais did? Prior to the telecast I was unaware of Joy Koy’s work and talent, and frankly I still am (ka-ching).
Where is the HPFA? Dead and gone after the world finally copped on to all of its shadiness, illegitimacy and con jobs. Yet the Golden Globes go on. After all the fuss two years ago, they just issued a press release instead of having a ceremony (something about a pandemic, but that didn’t stop anybody else), then last year they were back like nothing had happened. How did that happen? Well, kind of how you would expect when people need a pretext to hold onto something that strokes a lot of entertainment industry egos and makes a lot of money to boot. They told us that everything was okay now because Dick Clark was in charge—even though the world’s oldest teenager had been dead for a dozen years. Now when award recipients get a trophy, instead of thanking the HPFA they thank in the vaguest of terms “the journalists.” Whatever.
Where are the journalists? I’m not asking about the ones that supposedly voted for these awards or how representative they are of anything. I’m asking about the journalists that cover this annual alcohol-fueled (leave that to the home audience, please) pretend cosplay event. Every year they go through the motions of covering this thing like it’s actual news and/or significant. And even after the supposed sudden realization two years ago it was all a sham, they’re now back repeating the same unsubstantiated and unjustified assertion that the Golden Globes are somehow a harbinger of what will happen at the Academy Awards. It makes you wonder what other things the news media routinely repeat that aren’t true at all. (Insert your own favorite conspiracy theory here.)
Where are the Irish? Among the worst offenders of pumping up the Golden Globes is the Irish state broadcaster (RTÉ) which, like most state broadcasters I’m familiar with, rarely exams its own internal dogmas. Their angle, of course, is how great the Irish are doing in the awards competition. Dublin journalists were very excited about all the acting nominations their fellow citizens had racked up. They seem poised for a huge number of Irish wins, apparently not noticing that all the nominations were in a single category (Best Male Actor in a Film – Drama), so only one of them could actually win. In the end, the right one did, making Cillian Murphy (Oppenheimer) the only Golden Globe winner (that I can think of anyway) to whom I have personally spoken—however brief and forgetful as it would have been for him. Did Cillian have a good night? Well, the guy nearly got laid before he could even get up to the stage to collect his award. As it happens, half the nominees (Cillian plus All of Us Strangers’ Andrew Scott and Saltburn’s Barry Keoghan) in the category were Irish. Of course, RTÉ insisted that the Irish had won three prized on the night, counting Yorgos Lanthimos’s Poor Things as an Irish movie because of the production involvement of Irishman Ed Guiney and his Element Pictures.
Where is my sense of humility and magnanimity? In short supply these days, I confess. Okay, let us acknowledge some of the several things that the Golden Globes—as a stopped analog clock does twice a day—got right. Making Oppenheimer the big winner was one. Honoring the TV series Succession was another—although I get awful tired of journalists (them again) insisting on talking about as if it were a docudrama about Rupert Murdoch and his family when it clearly isn’t and is in fact more likely a thinly disguised take on the writers’ and producers’ own families. Also, some of the acceptance speeches were pretty good: Robert Downey Jr. (Oppenheimer), Ayo Edebiri (The Bear), Kieran Culkin (Succession), Lilly Gladstone (Killers of the Flower Moon). And even I had to admit that the dancing bit by presenters Kristen Wiig and Will Ferrell was pretty fun.
And let me give a shout-out to (of all people) Taylor Swift. I was a bit of fan when she was a young thing with a guitar singing her heartfelt country-western songs, but I kind of lost interest after I noticed all her songs were kind of the same and usually about some guy she had broken up with. Lately I’ve mostly just admired her for her business savvy and acumen, but I need to give her another look. I’m sure she could use the support. She cut quite a figure sitting there like the queen of homecoming. No, her Eras Tour movie didn’t win in the category that was especially created just for it (instead it wound up as Barbie’s consolation prize), but she won me over in a split-second when Joy Koy made that stupid joke about her. She just sipped her glass of wine and pretended she didn’t hear him. And maybe she didn’t. I kind of hope not.
Anyway, I am again now officially Swiftie-adjacent.
-S.L., 9 January 2024
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