The Hollywood Foreign Press (who are they, exactly?) has spoken, for the 72nd time. Their little globes, shimmering all golden, have been tossed into the hands of celebrities for doing their job. Isn't that grand?
Were you even watching or listening?
More importantly, what and who were you wearing?
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| Veronica Lake you sold it so well. |
Around our dive, football blared from one screen, the pre, pre, pre, pre-Red Carpet buzzed from one and kiddie shows screeched from my iPad for a certain blue-eyed toddler.
Watching the show created even more questions than it answered.
Why does Kelly Osbourne still have lavender hair? How can people with such entitled lives appear to be so boorish (Liev Schreiber)? What are people thinking when they wrap themselves in print fabric to be viewed by millions?
Even with champagne, the shindig was just mildly entertaining.
At the end of the semi-glam feast, I could not help but reflect back to classic films and iconic stars.
Of course they were shady and shifty as hell in all probability, yet when they presented themselves to the adoring public, they pulled out all the stops and sold the glitz and glam for all it was worth.
So, thank you Turner Classic Movies, for keeping the illusion alive. Old Hollywood you are dreamy.
There is no illusion left in Hollywood. Even smoke, mirrors and rear-screen projection can't infuse mystique into the current lot of celluloid images.
Oscars, it's your move!
Gotta dash...
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From the Left-Side: Got to say, RS, you are right-on talking about the death of Hollywood mystique. It's life imitating art -- like Dorothy, we are depressed to find out the Great Oz is only a man with a megaphone.
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