It's Awards Season, folks, and if you're anything like Kerry Trotter, it's leaving you wanting for some genuine inspiration. And the award for Most Overdone Gripe with the Culture of Celebrity goes to... read on.
The champagne cork was popped, the red carpet looks were assessed, and my husband and I had our evening cleared. The Golden Globe Awards were on, and we were standing an excited vigil.
Quick cut to 30 minutes from its start, with my husband’s nose in Twitter and my fed-up hands in a sink full of dishes, blowing raspberries from the kitchen where I could just barely hear the litany of tired, insincere acceptance speeches. “Booo!” I intoned during shaky-voiced thank yous to the Hollywood Foreign Press. “Oh, come ON!” I’d howl when winners scoffed at the canned orchestral music swelling to cue their brevity. “For shame!” I’d bellow during feigned shock at winning (seriously, Meryl? You didn’t see that coming?).
And now the Oscar nominations have been announced. It’s upon us again, folks, Awards (Malaise) Season.
As I age, I find this happening with more frequency—lots of build-up for the Hollywood Deference Parade followed by weapons-grade disappointment. The sentiments of “Yay! Pretty dresses! Beautiful people! The arts!” quickly devolve into wishing them all an afternoon spent at a Kolkata orphanage, or more humbling in their world, an afternoon spent waiting for a table at a restaurant.
Now, this all sounds awfully jerky and curmudgeonly, especially since I’m about as superficial as they come (and because receiving a Golden Globe to, say, an up-and-coming actor or director is a very cool thing), but I walked away from the awards show feeling genuinely sorry for many of the A-Listers present. Is this it? The end-all, be-all of their already award-laden existence? A “Not Oscar”?...