By John E. Finley-Weaver in San Diego
(SDJW photo)
Yo, what’s up my Northern Hemisphericals? And to my Austral Hemi Homies, Oy, what’s goin’ down? Copacetic? If not, I hope thoughts and things get better for you.
What follows is my review of this year’s [which is “actually” last year’s] Golden Globe Awards. But it’s not, because I didn’t watch the show. And, I have yet to even read about the trophy winners. But this most definitely is about them, even though it’s almost absolutely not.
But first, happy new year!
Sure, sure, most of you reading this did the ol’ Rosh Hashanah, followed by some minor or major atoning for this or that. Or not. Our Nubian neighbors had their Enkutatash at about the same time, back in September. Astrophysicists got themselves an itty bit more daylight this side of the Earth’s bulging midsection on the 22nd of December. The Gregorian world did new year on the first of this month. Our Sinitic siblings are about to have theirs in February with Mr. Ed, in a dragon costume, leading the parade as Grand Marshal. And the hirsute and hippy Hamadryads will be t’werken from the rear in a March 20th procession that gets us all on the same relative, calendrical page.
And also in March, both ending and beginning the cinematic orbit of 2025, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences will do their little shindig somewhere in Hollywoodland. And somewhen, somewhere, the Directors Guild of America and film and television tech nerds will pass out the bright and shinies to the best and favorite in a slew of categories.
But until then, we are smack, dab, not-quite-in-the-middle of small screen and large screen awards season.
We are aware, like Moses, tiny in time and in size, as we behold the magnitude of the Mount Sinai surrounding us, the infinities of all that are not television and movies. Puny and short-lived, we can but muster the shadow of a wisp of comprehension of all that is within and without. Of all that is behind and ahead.
We look back and we look forward.
And I look at little Bobby Reiner, a menschkin in the making, with a giant, chocolate milk mustache covering his upper lip, playing with some wood fire truck beneath a dinner table while his dad and Mel Brooks bounce jokes off each other. I imagine myself, being down there huddled quietly, a secret set of ears hearing the raw works comedic genius bloom and segue to the next topic of conversation. Or, to witness an older Rob and his childhood friend, Albert [Brooks] Einstein, purposefully cracking each other up in duels of blossoming mirthmaking.
I’m gonna miss that guy, but I know that he had a good life and that he did good with his life.
We laugh and we cry, all the while destined to never stop, until we must.
But until then, that day unknown, we gather and grub and delight in the spirits, both actual and metaphorical. We celebrate our triumphs, curse our defeats, and the wisest amongst us, learn from them both. And, Hashem willing, those same among the wise will share and instruct that we may all benefit, dammit.
Okay, enough with the hopey dopey philosophizing, already. It’s time to take a peek at the Golden Globes Awards recipients for 2025 . . . .
. . . Okay, I’m back, all returned from the journey through the lands of the World Wide Web, a little muddy, but my inner child is happy being muddy. And I love a well-earned, hot shower.
Yeah, some people won. And some people un-won. The victorious had a wonderful evening and a step-up in their respective careers. The mere nominees, a little less so; but merely to be nominated is a huge compliment and boon.
So, Hamnet, a movie about a dead baby . . . . Too real. Nope. I do movies to avoid the real world, if only for a few hours. Ain’t likely to watch that. But John!, one of the many voices in my head shouts at me, this is William Freakin’ Shakespeare’s dead baby, Dude! The costumes, the set pieces, the old-timey language, the bodice-ripping, the tragic fuel of art itself!
My thespianic rejoinder: Nah, . . . . I’m good, Bro’. Settle thee down, Jack.
But, make a dark and erudite comedy titled Shakespeare’s Zombie Baby and I’ll watch the heck out of it; in fact, I’ll buy the Blu-Ray and even attend fan conventions while wearing full, period costume, complete with a double set of pectorally-placed, ketchup-filled miniature seltzer bottles that make tiny blood geysers for when, as in the movie, little Hamnet, the Z-babe all bedecked in high-collared, Elizabethan swaddling cloth, convinces a sleep-deprived Willy to suckle him at his dad’s man teats.
Twice.
Big mistake. Twice.
Aw, heck. “Billy Shakespeare, I can’t quit you.” If Hamnet is still playing in theaters after I attend to many other personal and social obligations, I’ll watch. If not, then definitely in-home, two feet from the television set in order to get the big screen vibe.
Again, real world ickyuck is what I go to the movies to avoid. Hmmm, there’s Brian’s Song, (1971) starring James Caan and Billy Dee Williams. A vanilla and chocolate love story about two manly men with tight ends, huddling and wide receiving and rooming together with dreams of getting into the end zone. So footbally. So deathy. So meh.
And then there’s 50/50, (2011) starring Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Seth Rogen, who done won a goldie globe for The Studio on Apple TV, which I ain’t got. Darn. Still, that 50/50 movie is also about cancer and young people getting cancer. Sheesh. Slap me upside the head with some Terms of Endearingly Steely Magnolias, (1983,-89) why don’t you? Nope. I ain’t never gonna watch them neither.
But hey, Timothée Chalamet of Marty Supreme won for Best Actor. I wrote in praise of you and your film a few weeks ago. You’re welcome, Pal. (Psst, wire a few francs my way when you have the time. We can do this again!)
And my favorite(?) film from last year, One Battle After Another, it won for Best Picture in the Musical/Comedy category, as did Supporting Actress of the film, Teyana Taylor.
Yippee.
And that’s it, for now. I am somewhat at peace in my cinematic universe, although never striving for true satiation, because I gotta keep the fires of that hunger burning.
As for you, dear Reader, movie well and live better.
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John E. Finley-Weaver is a freelance writer based in San Diego.