The Gospel According to John

Parsing the Golden Globulars: Fashion Edition, Book Three: Pretty Pretty Princess

There are plenty of choices for Pretty Pretty Princess. I feel Jayma Mays deserves a mention. Also, Olivia Wilde. Toni Collette. Emily Blunt.

But all those bitches can suck it. Because without a doubt, the best dressed was

Monica Gellar.

Yes, yes, I can hear you all bellowing "the fuck?" and "bitch please", but that just serves to underline your ignorance. You should really take the time to get all the facts before you make a judgment like this. Nobody has short-listed this as "Best Dressed", and they do so at their peril. Why? Because this dress is the creation of a designer whose inspiration is divine, the handiwork of the Creator, the stitchery of the universe's seamstress.

Who created this dress?

Parsing the Golden Globulars: Fashion Edition, Book Two: Yes, But...

Sigh.

Sometimes I can't decide what's more infuriating: the people at these shindigs who look terrible, or the people who WOULDN'T look terrible if it weren't for one tiny, incredibly ill-advised sticking point. Let's begin with the reigning queen of the "Yes, But", Miss Drew Barrymore. 

Parsing the Golden Globulars: Fashion Edition, Book One: Really?

In keeping with the ceremony, there wasn’t really anyone who REALLY jumped out and looked amazing, and there wasn’t really anyone who REALLY jumped out and looked awful. There were no real incidents. Everything was just sort of fine or kind of not fine but really not all that bad and whatever my God I think the weird untelevised writers’ strike Globulars were more interesting than this year’s.

Be that as it may, just because the bar wasn’t raised particularly high or low does not mean everyone was beneath praise or above reproach.

In fact, my day-after-Globulars began, upon logging into my email, with IMs awaiting me from my dear darling Camaryn (sister to the ever-witty Miss Kate and the victim--or beneficiary?--of this), which went thusly:

Which seems like as good a place to start as any. Ahoy!

Parsing the Golden Globulars: Awards Edition

This was the boringest (not a word, is now) Golden Globulars ever. No one got drunk except for apparent human Weeble Kevin Bacon, nobody made any memorable gaffs, Gervais was just sort of there, nobody other than Mo’Nique (ooh--and RDJ) really gave us any oratorical fireworks, Avatar won best picture and will probably win the Oscar too because God is cruel and also it’s Friday and the Globulars were Sunday so who even cares anymore anyway.

But, we should give credit where credit is due. So let's briefly discuss who won, who lost, who should have won but didn't, and what it all means.

Who Needs E When There's the TV Guide Channel?

So, as previously mentioned (long-windedly), this Sunday is the Oscars! Wee! And we all know that the best part of the Oscars is not celebrating filmic excellence, but making fun of people on the red carpet!

Am I right?

And, as any American with his priorities in order knows, E! is the place to go for red carpet coverage. But not anymore. Trust me on this. Forgo the E! and click on down to the TV Guide Network.

After all, why would you watch cock-obsessed muppet Ryan Seacrest and Skeletor McMarried-to-that-dude-from-The-Apprentice on E!, when TV Guide Network’s coverage is hosted by a laboratory-made hybrid?

Holiday Movie Guide, Retitled from "And So Begins Another Oscar Race, the Final Installment (Until After Christmas)" Or: Mickey Rourke Is Kind of Mesmerizing, and Not Just Cuz His Face is Effed

I went to see this movie for a few reasons. Firstly, it’s directed by Darren Aronofsky, who is one of my favorite directors and made Requiem for a Dream, which, along with PT Anderson’s Magnolia, was one of the very first movies I ever saw that made me neeeeeeeeeeed to learn about filmmaking. It’s a masterpiece.

Secondly, Marisa Tomei (TV’s A Different World) is in it, and we love her because we have no other option. She is Marisa Tomei.

Thirdly, it has been buzzed about for months because of Mickey Rourke’s performance.

A quick word about Mickey Rourke, in case you’re not familiar.

Holiday Movie Guide, Retitled from "And So Begins Another Oscar Race, Part 5," Or: I'm Kind of Afraid of Meryl Streep

Right?

So, it’s the one everyone’s talking about. In this corner, Meryl Streep as a merciless nun. In that corner, sad-sack Philip Seymour Hoffman at his sad-sackiest as a sad-sack priest who may or may not have a sad-sack heart of gold. Aaaand go!

Holiday Movie Guide, Retitled from "And So Begins Another Oscar Race, Part 4," Or: Nixon Really Was a Bit of a Shit, Huh?

In our (meaning me and my non-existent editorial team) continuing coverage of this year's panoply of Oscar-bait films, we take on a few more of the gems currently taking up screens at the local moviehouse, just in time for your annual trip to the cineplex to get the hell away from your sister's husband before you kick in his stupid face and your nagging grandma before you throw spiked egg nog in her eyes. Hurrah!

First up...

And So Begins Another Oscar Race, Part 3, Or: I Wish the HFPA Didn't Hate Gay People

Well, at least they get to celebrate in the movie.

So you know how I was saying earlier how badly The Reader--in the elegant bon mots of my Aunt Kris--sucks canal water? 

Well. The Hollywood Foreign Press Association, a loose conglomgeration of, well, foreign press, who are in charge of awarding the Golden Globes and who are long believed to be mentally retarded because they consistently, every year, make at least one egregiously stupid nomination at the expense of one far more deserving thus proving, EVERY YEAR, how fucking incompetent they are, have decided that The Reader was really good--really good--while Milk was just, you know, "meh," and really has nothing to offer except Sean Penn's performance.

GAY HATERS!

And So Begins Another Oscar Race, Part 2 (Electric Boogaloo)

Rumor hath it upon the Rialto that this little curry platter’s gonna be nommed for Best Tikka Masala, and dammit, I think it should be. (It shouldn’t win, but it should be nommed.) Of course, it was already nommed for a Golden Globular, so that bodes well.

Slumdog Millionaire is the story of Jamal, played by Dev Patel (Newcomer with No Credits to Include in Italics), a desperately poor orphan raised by thugs in the slums of Mumbai (the artist formerly known as Bombay, where the gin comes from) who enters himself into the Indian version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire and wins the jackpot (pipe down, you know this in the beginning of the movie, I'm not giving things away. God.). He is arrested on suspicion of cheating. But due to the interventions of fate? the Baby Jesus? Vishnu? A cow? The Universe? Or something?, Jamal's life has been filled with random, chance encounters that happen to line up with the questions he's asked. The obscure 1970s-era Indian movie star he is questioned about happened to have done an impromptu autograph signing in his neighborhood when he was a boy; when asked to recall the physical details of a certain Hindu goddess, he remembers catching a glimpse of a figurine in a stall while being chased by killers in a bazaar.

You know what it's kind of like?