Sophie: “She’s like M.I.A. I found her. She can’t speak English. She’s from Sri Lanka.”
Hanna: “I’m from Germany.”
Sophie: “I think I’d quite like to be a lesbian. One who’s like a supermodel. But we’d only hold hands and I think I’d probably marry a man.”
Sophie: “Hanna! You mentalist!”
Hanna: “Should I let him go?”
Sophie: “As opposed to whatttt?!”
Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer won Best Actress and Best Supporting Actress, respectively, for their performance in The Help at last night’s Critics’ Choice Awards. The Artist won everything else and George Clooney bobbed his head in merriment [tipsy] throughout the entire show as he figured he would clench the win for Best Actor for his performance in The Descendants. He did. Then he chuckled some more.
My attention to this award show was cursory at best. After Octavia Spencer won and stated during her acceptance speech “…glad to have a job that pays…” in front of an audience of Hollywood’s moneyed elite, I felt my temperament shift unfavorably toward ‘the man’ and envisioned the weary field slave gazing longingly at the front porch of some White family’s antebellum Charleston plantation as Massa and Madame and little Elizabeth and Thomas sipped sweet tea their mulatto brewed.
It got too real.
Then I read Black Enterprise’s “Why Your Support of ‘Red Tails’ is Important for Black Hollywood" and turned the show off. It’s no matter. My favorite part of award season is watching Joan Rivers and Kelly Osbourne banter during Fashion Police.
Kelly: “Tilda Swinton looks striking. It’s her.”
Joan: “Fine! Well at least she’s reticent and self-possessed in stature. You can always tell when someone thinks they look good. It’s in the eyes. I can’t tell Tilda a damn thing.”
The Steve McQueen’s, Tom Ford’s, and Sophia Coppola’s of the world employ real-time prosaic as thematic catharsis. All tragic. Superbly directed.