So much has been said about the silliness of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association -- by Golden Globes hosts, no less -- that I'm loathe to pile on, especially from 350 miles north and many degrees removed.
But when this day rolls around every year, with the breathless declarations of the Golden Globes as the bellwether to the Oscars, I am reminded of an ancient German lady -- a card-carrying member of the foreign press -- and her voracious appetite for noodles, if not the entertainment business.
She sat next to me at a press conference at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. Robert DeNiro was announcing some project; I forget what. Of course, there was a buffet spread in the back of the room for reporters. Those of us who fancied ourselves legit avoided it, preferring instead to schmooze the publicists (legit?). But not this woman. She piled her plate high with pasta and carried it to her place before the podium.
She didn't look up at the initial speakers, network executives and writers. She didn't take notes. She ate. And ate. Then it was DeNiro's turn to talk. Mid-way through, she had finished all her food. Nothing left to do, she looked up. She stared hard at DeNiro. Then she elbowed me. "Who is that man?" she whispered, jerking her chin toward DeNiro.
"That's Robert DeNiro," I whispered back.
"No!" she cried. She looked at me as if I was an idiot and shook her head.
"That is NOT Robert DeNiro! Robert DeNiro does not have a mustache!"
LESSON LEARNED: Do not bet on anyone who grew a mustache for a part to win. Sorry McConaughey.
