Last night, while watching a bit of the Golden Globes, I wondered: What if actors had to write their own lines? We wouldn’t be doling out movie awards each year like blocks of government cheese. That’s because there wouldn’t be any movies to see.
How about that Mickey Rourke? He’s begun to look like a claymation caricature of himself, and sound like the guy you encounter at Stockman’s Bar after a few too many 7&7s. Kate Winslet is still easy on the eyes, but I now feel truly blessed by all the awards she didn’t win: the woman is a windbag, babbling away like an 8th-grade valedictorian hyped up on Mountain Dew. Colin Farrell is even more tedious, boundless narcissism emanating from every carefully coifed hair as he rambles his way through far too many minutes of our fleeting lives.
But we love that kind of stuff, don’t we? Love to see the beautiful people make asses of themselves, clutching their awards and droning on like regional honorees at an Amway convention. Love the painfully practiced smiles of those who didn’t win. Love every stammered word and clumsy expletive. It makes the Hollywood gods seem a little more mortal, a little more like ourselves. Makes us thank the Lord for writers.
Then again, a little of it goes a long way. This year I’m thinking of putting the Oscars on DVR, so I can race past the tedium and see, for my own edification, how much time it really takes to announce the nominees, show a few clips, and present the damned award. I’m guessing a half-hour, tops. But I’m also guessing the wife won’t hear of it.