Reflections in a Golden Globe

I have the feeling that Hollywood awards shows enjoy a robust secret life of viewership among radicals and assorted cultural snobs—it’s like that impulsive, furtive dash to McDonald’s in the dead of night, driving you almost without will or consciousness to line up for that Big Mac and fries, wracked with at least one evening’s worth of self-loathing in the aftermath of this crime against your and the planet’s well-being. With the Oscars and Golden Globes, it’s only two nights of malicious ogling and masochistic stupefaction per year, so you say, what the hell, and jump in, knowing that these are six or seven hours of your life irretrievably lost to eternity.

Seldom, however, has an awards show served up such a sumptuous feast of elite self-aggrandizement as this year’s edition of the Golden Globe awards, dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equally predatory and all women equally victimized, and that the big-corporate morass of TV/movie commercial “product” is worthy of three hours of momentous self-congratulation and verklempt thanking of agents, spouses, children, parents, and beneficent heads of giant studios. Swathing themselves in obscenely expensive designer black is as close to an insurrectionary gesture as the rich, beautiful, and erratically talented entertainment elites will ever allow themselves—other than chanting “I’m with her” while stumping for the corrupt war criminal of their choice who at least has the…

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