AFTER the tiresomely bloated Oscar ceremony, I think it’s safe to officially declare the Golden Globes as the awards ceremony to hunker down for. For one, it’s the earliest award of the year (I’m talking about the circussy ones, not the honourable badges of merit dispensed by sombre batches of movie critics across America) — so there are no clear favourites yet. My heart was in my mouth when AR Rahman won the Golden Globe. At that point, he was literally the outsider — and when he won, the reaction was as much revelry as relief at being able to exhale again. But after the Globes, after Slumdog Millionaire swept every single awards ceremony, Rahman became the hot favourite. So even when the great man won the two Oscars — a glorious event we’re not likely to see again in our lifetime — it was something of an anticlimax.
Oh, there was great pride, greater joy. What was missing was that nail-biting dread in the pit of the stomach, the desperate desire to look upwards and mutter oh please, please, please — and not just for Rahman. Despite ringmaster Hugh Jackman’s valiant attempts to orchestrate distracting, carnivalesque sideshows, this year’s Academy Awards ceremony was a creaking, groaning bore — about a half-hour’s worth of entertainment padded with three hours of unctuous platitudes that made it appear that the people being honoured had cured cancer or AIDS or both. This is showbiz, folks and to most people, that means stars. I’m as appreciative as the next person about the doughty documentarian who chronicles the effects of dwindling shoe polish supplies on the footwear of the Nicaraguan military, but can they not make these segments interesting?
But what about the homey banter, you ask — the carefully rehearsed chitchat between the presenters? Barring the awesome twosome of Tina Fey and Steve Martin (kudos for pulling off that Scientology joke in a room filled with some of the religion’s most famous and powerful practitioners), was anyone remotely amusing? These people are entertainers. They are paid to entertain us. And all they can come up with are flatulent nuggets like, “If the score is the narrative of a movie, the song is the punctuation”? Couldn’t all these lesser categories — lesser only in terms of wattage, not achievement — have been reduced to the airing of the five relevant film clips followed by the “and the winner is” announcement?
And couldn’t the time thus saved be apportioned to, oh, an actual tribute to Paul Newman, preferably from Robert Redford? One of the greatest stars and actors and screen presences of our time passes away, and all they could do is tack on a bit of his dialogue at the end of an unending obituary montage, lumped alongside clips of lesser lights like Van Johnson and Nina Foch? Even the major awards were preceded by such illuminating insights as “(a director’s job is) clarifying the intent of the screenwriter’s world” and “helping each actor find true connection to the material.” (And here I was, thinking that the on-set carpenter was responsible for all that.) By this time, wouldn’t even the most ill-informed moviegoer be aware that a set decorator’s job is to, well, decorate the sets?
In contrast, our own awards shows aren’t so bad after all. You may not respect any of them, but at least there’s all that eye-popping bling, with big stars doing their thing. That’s why the Golden Globes are far more entertaining. They have more awards in the acting categories, which ensures that more actors show up, the beautiful people whose names we recognise and pay good money to see on screen. (When was the last time you went to a film because it was art-directed by so-and-so?) Oh, beautiful people did show up at the Oscars too — but to honour the nominees with such hushed deference, they appeared to be delivering eulogies. It was heartbreaking to see the iconic likes of Shirley MacLaine and Sophia Loren being reduced to shills, luring us into buying the supposed greatness of Angelina Jolie’s laughably overheated performance in Changeling.
Robert de Niro had it better, being called upon to make a case for Sean Penn’s performance in Milk. Apart from the ones Rahman was competing in, the only category I was invested in was Best Actor, as it featured Penn and Mickey Rourke, two of my favourite performers from the 1980s. I haven’t seen either performance, but I was happy that Penn won. He is that rare actor, like the early Pacino, whose commitment to the craft matches the commitment to the audience, making us experience the effects of the processes he’s putting himself through. De Niro and Meryl Streep, for instance, are excellent technical actors, but they sometimes get so locked up inside their characters, you sense the greatness in their performance but you don’t particularly feel it. With Penn, however, the line of communication is always open, and if only for that, I can’t wait to see Milk.
baradwajrangan@epmltd.com