Breaking Baz At Golden Globes: Universal Afterparty Was The Place To Be; ‘Anatomy Of A Fall’s Justine Triet Eyes Cillian Murphy; Christopher Nolan On Bond Rumors – Again
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Once upon a time, you could attend a dozen afterparties following a Golden Globes ceremony and never leave the Beverly Hilton, they were all under one roof. Cities were constructed up on the actual roof or atop the parking lot.
You’d emerge from the show and trot downstairs to HBO. Then you’d queue by a bank of elevators and go visit Universal. Warner Bros and In-Style would be through the lobby, past the bar, down a long corridor.
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Once you’d tired of them, you’d take a golf cart — some of us walked — to where, say, Sony was located.
Paramount was that-away. Netflix partied on the moon.
Harvey Weinstein would hold court in Miramax-Weinstein land. Many of us were at the Weinstein bash when we heard the news of David Bowie’s death.
You’d come outta the Disney rave and hear tell of delicious lamb cutlets over at Amazon. Can that be right? No, forgive me, the cutlets were HBO’s forte. So much food. There were no starving people after a Golden Globe cookout.
And, come on, no one went thirsty either. After a while, folk were so intoxicated they’d stagger or crawl on their bellies to the next gig. I’m exaggerating somewhat, but I’m also not because over three decades I witnessed plenty of people over refreshing themselves at each stop.
Whoopee was had by one and all.
There was a distinct lack of a knees-up after Sunday night’s Golden Globe Awards now that’s it’s under new management.
Billboard had something going on where once HBO hosted with the most-ess.
Dunno much more than that because the Billboard event was an exclusive gathering to which Breaking Baz was not invited.
There was something else happening near the far lobby exit area, and that was about it. Everything else was taking place off-site, away from the Beverly Hilton. People literally were walking around in circles not knowing what the heck to do.
Four members of the shuttering Hollywood Foreign Press Association said they were walking to the Universal party at Tommy’s Beverly Hills over at North Canon Drive.
We — I happen to be a Golden Globe voter but not a member of the HFPA — had given Universal’s Oppenheimer the Crown Jewels — five top-notch awards including Best Motion Picture Drama to Emma Thomas, Christopher Nolan and Charles Roven, Best Director to Nolan, Best Acting Drama honor to Cillian Murphy, Best Score for composer Ludwig Göransson and Robert Downey Jr. for Best Supporting Actor.
Its sister studio Focus Features garnered prizes for Paul Giamatti as Best Actor – Comedy, and Da’Vine Joy Randolph taking the statuette for Best Supporting Actress in Alexander Payne’s The Holdovers.
There was much to celebrate.
Also, dear reader, it was the only party I’d officially been invited to attend. No tears, please.
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But hey, listen, I’m not mad at Netflix for not inviting me to their shindig at Spago’s. They’d kindly informed me that it was a “small” party for their nominees and that “unfortunately, it’s at capacity.” It was good of them to let me know, and to be fair, they hadn’t known I’d be in town, right?
Netflix’s TV side did very well — wins for Beef, The Crown and Ricky Gervais’ Armageddon; their motion pictures won zilch.
It made me think of Harvey Weinstein. Can’t quite remember the year, but one time the company’s films failed to collect the expected haul (expectation in awards season is not good for the heart). I was seated right at the back of the Beverly Hilton ballroom, as per usual, and I witnessed Weinstein screaming words at his awards team that would have made a Fleet Street editor blush. It was vicious and horrible, like Napoleon eviscerating an enemy army.
I digress.
So I followed the four HFPA women to Tommy’s Beverly Hills. It was good to get some fresh air and also good to mull over the winners and the show itself.
Turned out that we, none of us, cared not one jot for the host Jo Koy. I’m not at all easily shocked, though my wife does accuse me of having a prim English side that rears its head once or twice a year. The prim side said that Jo Koy shouldn’t be invited back next year.
Come on, Golden Globes! Next time book a host in September so that there’s a ton of time to hone material. And if you’re going to go the insult route, do it with aplomb.
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The four good HFPA women also noted that many of the acceptance speeches were dull — perhaps not in the room but for people watching from their couches at home. We all agreed, though, that Lily Gladstone’s historic moment when she won Best Actress, Drama, for Killers of the Flower Moon stood out. Yes, that was good. Can’t deny, though, that a part of me felt sad for Carey Mulligan, who’s the beating heart of Maestro.
But elsewhere it was hard to recall a genuinely viral, funny moment. I did like the priceless comedic scene between Kristen Wiig and Will Farrell when they presented the Best Comedy or Musical Film –– Poor Things won it. It was the only time Harrison Ford cracked a smile. Otherwise he wore a look on his face that said, “Why the feckin’ hell am I here?!”
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Perhaps he should have visited the bar at the back, which boasted not one but two bar areas and a constant stream of yummy food curated by Chef Nobu Matsuhisa. There was yellowtail jalapeño, black cod with miso, salmon tartare with caviar and so on.
Helen Mirren, Harrison’s 1923 co-star, was in there ahead of the show happily sampling Nobu’s grub with husband Taylor Hackford.
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The Nobu cuisine was a smart move, though a lady from Netflix remarked aloud that she would have welcomed one of those lamb cutlets of yore.
Christine Vachon, one of the producers of Todd Haynes’s nominated film May December and of Celine Strong’s Past Lives, also was enjoying the Nobu spread but was a little peeved to have been seated out in the boondocks. “We got Todd moved to a decent spot, but it lets us know where we are on the food chain,” she quipped sharply.
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It was freezing out as we five — the four upstanding women from the HFPA and me — continued to walk with purpose toward Tommy’s Beverly Hills to be embraced by the good people from Universal, though we did wonder why they weren’t up on the roof at the Beverly Hilton.
As we strode, I ventured to suggest that the HFPA had been scrubbed up so clean that it had lost a little of its fabled joie de vivre.
Yes, the bad apples in the HFPA have quite rightly been booted outta the organization, but maybe the new overlords at Dick Clark Productions might benefit from consulting with these more honorable remaining members of the HFPA and dig into their knowledge; embrace them, don’t shun them. Just my opinion. By the way, the Globes now are owned by Deadline parent PMC along with show producer Dick Clark Productions in a joint venture with Eldridge.
And the studios should party in situ next year. Of course, it would be chaotic, but trooping about the Beverly Hilton from party to party is part of the fun. If you arrive at the Golden Globe Awards in a party mood, then the whole thing goes with more of a swing. The vibe is set from the get-go. Right?
I mean, I chatted to Bridgerton’s Jonathan Bailey as he was exiting the ballroom’s bull pit, where all the stars had been seated, and he was ready to play but was being forced to go off-campus, so to speak, to do it. “I’ve heard all these stories,” he marveled, his eyes twinkling.
He was attired in a white suit created bespoke by Givenchy. All of Us Strangers acting nominee Andrew Scott also wore the snowy look. The two thespians gave each other a hug when they saw the clash.
Bailey was headed to Netflix. Or to the CAA party and maybe end up at the Château. He wasn’t sure. See how difficult it is when party choices have to be made? Agony.
We five finally arrived at Tommy’s Beverly Hills and rushed toward the outdoor heaters where the check-in team were seated. We ascended to Tommy’s. The last time I was there, back in January 2020, it was an establishment serving Italian fare. There had been a bit of argy-bargy going on the night I visited; something to do with a liquor contract. I’ll leave it at that.
There was jubilation in the air. This was the place to be. I soon forgot about Netflix.
Cillian Murphy arrived and joined his wife Yvonne McGuinness and one of his two sons. It was touching observing publicists Craig Bankey and Kevin McLaughlin, partners at Main Stage Public Relations, guide him to his banquette. They were beaming with pride because they’d been with Murphy forever. Similarly, Da’Vine Joy Randolph had given a lovely shout- out to Marla Farrell, her rep at Shelter PR.
Earlier, back at the Beverly Hilton, I’d bumped into Justine Triet, director of last year’s Palme d’Or winner Anatomy of a Fall — it won Best International Picture and Screenplay at the Globes — and she confirmed that she and Murphy had met in West Hollywood in November. “I’m a huge admirer of Cillian’s, and we’d like to do something, but at the moment I don’t have a project,” she lamented.
Alas, I failed in my efforts to ask Murphy his thoughts about Triet because he had joined Universal top brass led by NBCUniversal Studio Group Chairman and Chief Content Officer Donna Langley in a private room — blue velvet curtains were drawn — that was off limits to the likes of me. One has to pick one’s moments about gaining entry into forbidden enclosures; there’s an art to it, and there needs to be a damn good reason to insist on going in.
However, I did get to ask Christopher Nolan whether he celebrated with champagne or his beloved Earl Grey tea. “Neither,” he responded. “Sparkling water.”
One time I asked him if there was any truth whatsoever about him directing the next James Bond film. Just to quickly explain, I asked a similar question years ago, and back then he had been interested in at least exploring the idea. Not now, though. The rumors are “bollocks,” he insisted. “Pure bollocks,” in fact.
For a brief moment Sunday night, I wondered whether Triet’s movie also would win the Best Drama Film prize. After all, as one of the four HFPA women who’d been on the long trek from the Beverly Hilton to Tommy’s Beverly Hills observed, “People forget that the Golden Globe Awards voters are international and based all over the world” and bring a different sensibility than most other movie awards. She noted that it wouldn’t have been at all out of kilter for Anatomy of a Fall to have collected other gongs.
Robert Downey Jr., now changed out of his dress shirt and sporting a red round-necked sweater, clearly was delighted with his Supporting Actor win for Oppenheimer.
Someone asked him about playing a Black man in the film Tropic Thunder and how had he learned to “talk Black.” Actually, it was a gent by the name of Carl Tabor who’d asked the question. And Downey obliged him with an answer. Tabor, who I didn’t know, shoved his phone in my hand and asked me to take a photo of him and the actor. Only with Downey’s permission, I said. It’s up on Tabor’s Instagram account now.
Later into the night, Oppenheimer costume designer Ellen Mirojnick overheard me chatting about Richard Attenborough’s film Chaplin, which featured Downey in the title role. I’d covered the set in London for a couple of days. “I designed the costumes for Chaplin,” Mirojnick told me, but she hadn’t been over for the UK part of the shoot. “You know how long ago that was?” she asked.
Shaking my head, I didn’t want to be reminded.
Thirty-two years, she whispered. We fell about laughing and shared a couple of tales about “Dickie” Attenborough, then she noted how then, as now, she and Downey were able to “find the character in the costumes.”
Much later on, I realized that Mirojnick had spoken before when Basic Instinct was shown, and we were all obsessed with that revealing dress Sharon Stone wore. That costume certainly found the character Stone played.
My colleague Pete Hammond joined me for a chinwag, and we ended up serenading Universal’s Jennifer Chamberlain with a chorus of “Happy Birthday to You.”
A few hours later, I stopped by the Château Marmont, but it’s not much fun there at that hour when one’s not imbibing anything stronger than a cranberry and orange juice cocktail.
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