Your favorite Golden Globes diary/Heated Rivalry fan club is here 🏆🏒
Awards season is basically fashion week without fashion shows, and that’s fine with me
Howdy fashion fans, and welcome back to AND ANOTHER THING!
One of the best gags from Schitt’s Creek: “What’s your favorite season?” Alexis Rose asks her mother to get to know her better.
“Awards!” Moira responds.
Same, Moira. Same.
Behold! My diary of the four days leading up to the Golden Globes, which felt like an unofficial fashion week without fashion shows. (It also felt like a Heated Rivalry fan festival, which I willingly joined, of course.)
Chanel, Louis Vuitton, Tiffany & Co., and Christian Louboutin all sponsored starry bashes leading into the big night. I also toured the new Lucas Museum of Narrative Art with its cofounders, George Lucas and Mellody Hobson; drank a few gallons of green juice; and “took lots of meetings,” since that’s what everyone says they do in this town.
Fair warning! This is a long one—someone was busy.
Sit soft and keep reading for the most exhaustive Golden Globes diary you’ll find anywhere.
DAY 1: Wednesday, January 7th
My son Noah and I walk to our local New York coffee shop at around 7 a.m. (My daughter Grace joins typically, but this morning she refused to get out of a princess costume.) I get an extra-large English breakfast tea with steamed oat milk, and Noah gets an apple juice. An hour later, I load my kids and my luggage in a taxi, drop them off at school, and head to JFK.
I was impressed by how smoothly all this went. This never happens. This was a good omen.
When it comes to caffeine and calories, all bets are off on a travel day. At JFK, I order a venti English breakfast tea on the Starbucks mobile app and pick it up on my walk to the gate. Yes, two Ventis before noon is a lot, but whatever. At least I never vaped! (This is my excuse for a lot of vices, by the way.)
Fun fact: airplanes are the one place I don’t maniacally search for Wi-Fi. Call me old-fashioned, but soaring 40,000 feet above the earth still feels like one of the last places you’re entitled to some peace and solitude. As long as I’m not on deadline, I want no texts, emails, or contact with whatever’s happening down there.
I re-watched Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, then put on my headphones and listened to a classical playlist while flipping through a giant stack of reading material I brought from home. As I’ve said before, a pile of newspapers, magazines, and new books slowly accumulates by my front door until I have time to read them, and my favorite place to do it is on a long-haul flight.
I’m not proud of how I packed for this trip. Usually, for a four-day trip, I’d do carry-on only; my Rimowa roller would be meticulously planned, every inch optimized, every single item essential. But I was too exhausted to do all that math last night. I didn’t start laying out my outfits until after midnight, and by then I was off my packing game.
Of course, L.A. style is more casual. Still, I’m officially too old to wear anything resembling streetwear or normcore at fancy events, so suits are easier, even in a city where the locals only wear them when they’re going to weddings and memorials. I grabbed three suits still on their hangers, rolled them up, and tossed them into a big roller. (When I landed, I immediately regretted checking a bag.)
What is happening at LAX? After all that construction, we still have to walk for miles? We landed in the Tom Bradley International Terminal, the baggage claim was in Terminal 4, and my Uber was somewhere in between. Not that I was complaining. It was warm and sunny, and I passed another Starbucks and—yes—I got another venti English breakfast tea. Don’t worry, this is my last one. Three’s my limit.
I travel a lot, and whenever possible, I stay at friends’ houses. Hotels can be sceney, and more often than not, my friends have nice kitchens and fully stocked fridges. But this trip was packed with meetings, so I booked a room at the Sunset Tower.
When I checked in, there was a chocolate tower that read, “Welcome to the hotel, Mr. Brown.” I’m friendly with the proprietor, Jeff Klein, so naturally I texted him to complain that it was my partner’s name on the reservation, and not mine. It was also a ruse to get a second tower—and it worked:
That night, the Golden Globes celebrations officially kicked off. Chanel took over the Chateau Marmont to celebrate Gracie Abrams, the new face of Coco Crush, the brand’s jewelry line. Few brands do production like Chanel—they have the budget, the visual codes, and the gumption to knock your socks off.
At this dinner, though, I wasn’t only thinking about removing socks. I had the best seat in the house—next to Connor Storrie, who plays Ilya Rozanov, the Russian hockey captain whose romance with Shane Hollander on the Canadian TV show Heated Rivalry was all anyone could talk about from Thanksgiving to Christmas.
When he sat down at the table, I immediately regretted wearing a suit. Connor was in something shiny, black, and clingy, and his hair was styled in soft curls like a Roman statue. I was in a beige corduroy suit. I felt like an adjunct college professor at a liberal arts college.
As part of Chanel’s immersive party experience, everyone received a hotel room key upon check-in, and an on-site engraver personalized it. Most people chose their names, but I asked myself, what was I going to do with a Chanel hotel key that says “Derek”? Instead, I had my daughter’s name engraved—Elizabeth Grace.
At the table, I looked at Connor’s key. He had “enthusiasm” engraved on his. Perfect.
The actress Sarah Pidgeon was sitting on my other side. I’m embarrassed to say that the only thing I knew about her was the brouhaha caused when Ryan Murphy released unedited test shoots from his new series, American Love Story, which chronicles the romance and tragedy of JFK Jr. and Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. Sarah plays CBK, and those photos were sartorially inaccurate—wrong-size Birkin, wrong shade of blonde, cheap fabrics. The internet was pissed. I felt guilty associating her with the wardrobe and wig malfunctions because she was so charming and dignified. (Later, I found out she played Diana—the tortured, magnetic frontwoman—in the Broadway musical Stereophonic, which made me like her even more.)
When Connor sat down, I introduced him to Sarah. He smiled and said they’d actually met once before. “I injected you with heroin, between your toes, and then we had sex,” he said with a smile. “For a part.”
It took a moment, but Sarah connected the dots—he was talking about Tiny Beautiful Things, the Hulu series based on Cheryl Strayed’s book, where Sarah plays young Clare, the reckless, self-destructive version of Kathryn Hahn’s character, who bottoms out in drugs and promiscuity.
In Sarah’s defense, she said her character had slept with four men that day, so it was hard to keep all the actors straight. Welcome to Hollywood!
As the night went on, it became clearer that Connor was the most buzzed-about man in the room. Everyone asked for a selfie. (Obviously, I was a gentleman and waited till the end of the night to ask for mine.) His enthusiasm was contagious—he told us how he was waiting tables a few months ago, and the reaction to the show has been nothing short of surreal. Before Tessa Thompson introduced the musical guest, she scanned the crowd, locked eyes with him, and cooed, “Everyone wants to meet you.”
So, who was the musical guest? Per Tessa’s introduction, she slid into the guest’s DMs when her latest project dropped—the best breakup album of all time, West End Girl. It was Lily Allen, and it was only the second time she’d performed the new music. (She apologized for not being able to keep a straight face during the first chorus of “Pussy Palace.”)
During Lily’s set, Gracie came and sat at Lily’s feet on the floor for a better view. Everyone joined in when she sang “Madeline.” It was a moment, and it was terrific to see Lily basking in the limelight. That’s how you take lemons and make lemonade!
After the show, I loitered with friends in the Chateau’s courtyard until my phone switched to “Do Not Disturb” mode at midnight. Nowadays, that’s my cue to go home. I polished off my last glass of red wine and got a lift from Samira Nasr.
DAY 2: Thursday, January 8th
I woke up at 5:55 a.m. I told myself it was jet lag, but I’m sure the last glass(es) of red wine didn’t help.
My phone is set to stay on that Do Not Disturb setting until 7 a.m., in hopes of getting a good, full night’s sleep. I rarely make it.
Am I the only one who never appreciated sleeping late when I was younger? In my teens, I could sleep for hours and hours. Till noon! Till my mom woke me up! Now, I’d pay someone a zillion dollars for a good eight hours.
I did exactly what you’re not supposed to do first thing in the morning—I rolled over, grabbed my phone, and logged on. In Minneapolis, a 37-year-old mother of three named Renee Good was shot and killed by ICE agents. Still horizontal, I began the all-too-familiar pattern of descending into the toxic news rabbit hole, clicking past sensitive content warnings to watch a shooting from various angles. At the time, exact details remained unclear: federal officials said she was trying to “run over” an agent, but footage showed her trying to drive away.
I know you’re here to read about the froth and fabulousness of award season in Hollywood. Still, this sort of continued unchecked aggression by the current administration is shocking and unacceptable. Watching the mayor telling ICE to “get the fuck out of Minnesota” gave me goosebumps. Maybe I should take this out of my diary. Perhaps I shouldn’t. I don’t know—it’s hard to see this stuff, but we can’t ignore it, can we? Fuck it, I’m going to leave it in here.
An hour later, I wanted to clear my head and signed up for an 8:10 Barry’s Bootcamp in West Hollywood. This is not an #ad—but I’d love it to be. Why won’t someone from Barry’s call me?
After I worked out, I went to Earthbar for a Green & Lean smoothie. Confession: I have never been to Erewhon. I sort of don’t think I’m cool enough. I’m definitely not rich enough.
I’m also partial to Earthbar because it reminds me of my early days in L.A. Way back in the early 00s, I’d stay at the Standard Hotel, which cost $149 a night. (Which looks like it’s finally being renovated—does anyone know what’s going on over there?) A friend would pick me up in his beat-up car, and we’d drive to Runyon Canyon to gossip and hike, and reward ourselves afterward with Earthbar shakes. Those were pre-social media, pre-Hailey Bieber smoothie days. Ah, nostalgia.
When I got back to the hotel, I remembered I needed to call housekeeping to reattach the button to the jacket I’d worn last night. No joke—when I found out I was sitting next to the hot Russian from Heated Rivalry, the button literally flew off my jacket:
Back in my room, I sat at my computer for a few hours. I read every newsletter in my inbox before noon so I can spend the rest of the day writing, editing, and working on Substacks like this one. I’ll be in London later this week for the opening of Richard Avedon: Facing West at Gagosian Grosvenor Hill, an exhibition of rare prints from his iconic In the American West series, so I was prepping for that. (Let me know if you’re in town!)
A few weeks ago, I was offered a facial at Biologique Recherche, so I walked to Melrose in the afternoon. Yes, I walked. I walk a lot in LA, even if people look at me like I’m nuts when I say so. It’s ridiculous to take an Uber anywhere less than a mile—plus, Melrose Place was downhill. Easy.
My esthetician was named Alicia, and she was lovely. She told me I was dehydrated and had a thin skin barrier, but I told her my beauty icon was Clint Eastwood, and I thought fine lines made me look more distinguished. It was clear she had never heard anyone say that before, and she looked at me like I had 10 heads.
While I was on the bed, my mom called. Sheepishly, I asked Alicia if I could answer, and she said yes, as if I were being silly to ask. Am I the only one who thinks it’s rude to be on your phone while someone is doing their job?
No emergency, just mom being a mom. When I hung up, I asked if people typically take calls during treatments, and Alicia told me she has seen some wild stuff, and I’m not talking about taking calls or scrolling Instagram. Alicia says people go online shopping when they’re getting a facial. She’s watched people Facetune their selfies—a very meta moment at a beauty salon. She’s even seen people have full-on Zoom meetings with their camera off during a treatment. I guess that’s the LA version of multitasking?
That night, Louis Vuitton creative director Nicholas Ghesquière and W magazine editor-in-chief Sara Moonves hosted a dinner to kick off awards season. The venue was an incredible Brutalist house in Trousdale—a hilltop fortress of concrete, aluminum, and glass, which was built by Oakley founder James Jannard. By the way, it can be yours for a cool $68 million!
I wore a two-button, single-breasted deep-heather-gray Armani suit that matched the concrete. (This was not an accident, by the way. Louis Vuitton has hosted dinners here before.) At dinner, I sat with Teyana Taylor, an actual force of nature, and legendary Vogue fashion editor–turned–L.A.-based jewelry designer Lisa Eisner.
I first became aware of Teyana when she starred in a music video. In person, she was even fiercer. Drop dead sexy, confident, with an angular face that looks like a 1970s illustration by Antonio Lopez. I was obsessed then, and I’m obsessed now.
Halfway through dinner, Teyana complimented Lisa’s jewelry and then launched into a conversation about how red carpet dressing is an art form. Sure, she uses celebrity stylists when she needs to—often it’s the duo Wayman + Micah—but she is creatively fulfilled by working directly with designers to execute a shared vision, when she has time, of course.
She’ll call up creative directors directly, bring in her ideas, ask for real dialogue, and often push back. “Why do you want to do this in red if I don’t like red?” she asked, as an example. “But if you tell me a good reason why you want it red, if there’s a process and a tight idea, I’ll wear the fuck out of that red dress.” She gave Lisa and me a sneak peek at the Schiaparelli couture dress—which came with an exposed diamante bow G-string—that she wore to the Globes on Sunday.
Ghesquière has a tribe of devoted ambassadors, many of whom were in attendance. At dinner, he sat between Oscar winners Emma Stone and Jennifer Connelly, and across from Chase Infiniti, the breakout star of One Battle After Another, LISA from Black Pink, and Sentimental Value star Renate Reinsve.
The Haim sisters were there, even Este, who just got married on New Year’s Eve. (Vogue had all the details on her Louis Vuitton wedding dress.) I snuck over to give her a big kiss on my way out. I was hoping to get home in time to watch the new episode of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, but I fell asleep before Rachel Zoe could even utter her new tagline, “I’d die for fashion, but now I’m living for me.”
DAY 3: Friday, January 9th
I woke up and did the same thing as yesterday: a little doomscrolling (Kristi Noem’s entire existence remains absurd and offensive), walked to Barry’s Bootcamp, Earthbar, and Starbucks (in that order), then came home and sat in front of my computer.
My friend Jen was supposed to come over for lunch, but she bailed at the last minute. This happens often in L.A. I’m not sure if that’s because of traffic, the general lack of urgency in that town, or maybe people are just stoned all the time?
My first reaction when someone cancels on me is to be mortally offended. How dare you! But soon my mood shifts because, ultimately, there’s no greater gift than canceled plans. That’s someone giving you free time back! I secretly love it, but I’ll never tell my rude, selfish, flaky friends I feel that way.
I ordered room service—scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, one piece of brown toast, and two avocados (they really do taste better in California)—and prepped for a block of Zoom calls.
What did we do before Zoom, guys? I genuinely can’t remember how we got anything done pre-2020. Emails and conference calls? Do I still own a fax machine?
In the afternoon, Emma Chamberlain came over for tomato soup and kale salad. Emma was my first friend born in the post-millennium era. When I worked at YouTube, she was one of fashion’s star partners (check out this video of me giving her fashion week tips in, gulp, 2019). The first time we met, we were talking about how surreal it was to be in New York in the aftermath of the terrorist attacks of 9/11. I asked where she was that day, and she sort of hemmed and hawed until she finally told me, err, she was only four months old when that happened. Wowza.
After she left, I had a drink with Helen Estabrook, the Global Head of Film and Television at Condé Nast. All I wanted to talk about (all week) was Heated Rivalry. Helen approached my obsession from an industry POV: The show hit at a sweet spot when the world was harsh, and we were all searching for light content; plus, these new stars were unknown and very much available for press junkets. She pointed out how most publicists encourage their clients to lie low between Thanksgiving and Christmas to save some juice for awards season—whereas these guys were everywhere. (Don’t believe me? Just check Evan Ross Katz’s Instagram.) She said the wild success was a convergence of all those things—good content, a hungry public, and available talent. I agreed, but felt compelled to add, “And they’re really hot.”
We agreed that whoever was running communications for Heated Rivalry deserves an award. Or a nap?
After Helen left, I grabbed a martini with my new friends, Blair and Lauren from Substack, who were in town for the W magazine party the next night. We met at the Tower Bar, which was fabulous people watching: Jessica Alba was in a corner with Keke Palmer; Josh Safdie was near the lobby with some of the other folks from Marty Supreme; Elle Fanning bumped into Vivienne Rohner, who didn’t realize they were in the same restaurant even though they’re dating brothers—Gus and Theo Wenner, respectively.
For dinner, I walked (again!) from the Sunset Tower to the Chateau Marmont. This time, I was spotted on Sunset Boulevard by Selby Drummond and Aurora James, who rolled down their car windows and heckled me for walking in L.A. It’s faster to walk, people! And it’s not like I was wearing heels.
Tiffany & Co. was hosting a dinner in the hotel’s legendary Bungalow 1 (this is where James Dean and Natalie Wood rehearsed Rebel Without a Cause) to celebrate Amanda Seyfried in The Testament of Ann Lee, a historical musical drama directed by Mona Fastvold. In it, Seyfried plays the founder of the Shakers, exploring the sect’s origins through music, dance, and intense performances. Fun fact: Mona is married to Brady Corbet and co-wrote The Brutalist.
To my utter delight, I was seated next to François Arnaud from Heated Rivalry, who plays Scott Hunter. Three nights in LA, and I had already gotten selfies with half the cast of the most popular show on TV? One more and it’s a hat trick. (See, I get sports.)
I tried to amuse François with my hockey puns, but I’m not sure how they landed. (He seemed to like, “Go puck yourself,” well enough.) Fun fact: He’s French Canadian, but spent more time skiing than playing ice hockey. I’m mentioning this in case anyone wants to write a gay erotica novel about snow skiers, which Canadian broadcaster Crave could turn into another series. Call it Slippery Slopes?
Someone at the dinner, whose name rhymed with Shamanda Shayfreed, wondered if the Elsa Peretti for Tiffany’s candlesticks were inspired by a particular member of the male anatomy. For the record, they were not. But Elsa was a wild woman, so I wouldn’t have put it past her. (Check out stylist Kate Young’s video about Elsa Peretti for more on the late, great fashion icon.)
After dinner, I walked back to my hotel, where Neon, the film distributor, was hosting their pre-Golden Globes party. Scott Hunter—I mean, François—had snuck out of dinner before me to go there. I’ll give you one guess who everyone wanted a picture with: the full pucking cast of Heated Rivalry!
(That’s my last hockey pun, promise.)
DAY 4: Saturday, January 10th
Brand new day, same old morning routine: Barry’s, Earthbar, Starbucks.
I had some extra pep in my step that morning because I was getting a sneak peek of the Lucas Museum of Narrative Art with none other than George Lucas, the legendary filmmaker and creator of Star Wars, and his wife, Mellody, the financier and co-CEO of Ariel Investments. (When I saw the other people who had signed in for tours—with names like Obama and Oprah—I felt very special.)
Mellody refers to the space as “George’s masterpiece,” and she’s not wrong. The museum is stunning. Truly incredible. It was designed by architect Ma Yansong of MAD Architects, and it looks like it landed in LA’s Exposition Park from another galaxy. The museum will house artifacts of comic art, film art, illustration, photography, and storytelling from across cultures and centuries. Think Norman Rockwell meets comic books meets cinematic ephemera. And a fabulous Frida Kahlo self-portrait in there, too. It’s a shrine to imagination.
George talked about wanting this to be the first major museum devoted entirely to narrative art—basically, honoring storytelling as a serious artistic discipline. No white-wall intimidation. No snobbery. Just imagination on display.
Much of it is still under wraps until the big opening in September, but it’s already a testament to George’s vision. The lobby looks like the inside of a spaceship—there are no corners—and it strikes the perfect balance between awe-inspiring and welcoming. He wanted a museum that felt friendly to children, adults, adults who think like children, and kids with larger-than-life imaginations.
Watching this brainchild come to life has been a privilege, and so many people are excited for it to open in the fall.
After the tour, I went to Jamie Patricof’s 50th birthday party. I mean, “darty.” The full-time movie producer and part-time Substacker had a specific vision for the celebration: a food-truck cookout brunch birthday party. I was obsessed.
Taking over a vacant lot in Mid-City, he asked his friend DJ D-Nice to spin ’90s hip-hop, and installed food stalls from Kang Kang, Ho Kee Cafe, Mariscos Jalisco, Burritos La Palma, Burger She Wrote, and Taqueria Frontera. He even flew in Jon G’s from North Carolina.
Finally, someone who loves Mexican food and ’90s music as much as I do.
In the middle of the party, Jamie made a touching speech about how he never thought he’d be an Angeleno. He was born and raised in New York, where his whole family still lives, and his first job as a teenager was photographing underground hip-hop clubs for the now-defunct Rap Sheet magazine. (I hung one of his early pictures of Jay-Z in my kitchen.) But he moved out west two decades ago as a fledgling producer working on Half Baked, assuming he’d only stay a few years. He never left.
I was especially happy to see his father, Alan Patricof, in the audience. Jamie comes from good stock: in 2022, when he was 88, Alan became the oldest man to finish the New York Marathon.
After the party, still smelling of tacos and beers, I went to meet my friend Cleo Wade’s new baby. Her name is Magnolia, and she’s beautiful. She—baby Magnolia that is, not Cleo—fell asleep on my chest, and I didn’t move for two hours. Bliss.
Non-obligatory plug: Cleo has a new book coming out in April—pre-order it here!
That night, W hosted its annual Best Performances party at the Chateau Marmont (yes, again!). (Maybe it’s time to open some new places in LA, guys?) (And yes, I walked there.) This year’s sponsors were Christian Louboutin and my fabulous new friends from Substack.
What makes W’s Best Performances package so special is that it treats awards season less like a coronation and more like a creative playground. Under Sara’s leadership, it’s become a place where actors get to experiment—visually, stylistically, emotionally—rather than just pose in another tux or ball gown and repeat the same regurgitated PR-approved talking points. The shoots are cinematic, fashion-forward, and often a little strange.
A huge part of the magic is Lynn Hirschberg, whose interviews are intimate, intelligent, and disarming. (I’d tag her, but she doesn’t do email, much less social media.) Her gift is the way she makes talent drop their guard and actually say something real. Together, Sara and Lynn have turned the package into a cultural moment: less about trophies, more about storytelling, risk-taking, and the idea that performance itself is an art worth celebrating.
I like to get to parties early, scope the place, and say hi to the hosts and hostesses. I’m not good at many things in life—but being a fabulous party guest is one of the things I excel at.
I spent most of the night behind the DJ booth with Harley Viera-Newton and DJ Ross One. (Those are her dancing shoes at the end of the evening, below.) One of the highlights was watching Jennifer Lopez crash the dance floor when they played ‘Let’s Get Loud.’
Another highlight? Observing one of our friends from New York who—no joke—flew all the way to L.A. to come to this party with the explicit goal of getting photos with the cast of Heated Rivalry. I’m proud to say he succeeded.
The party was supposed to end by 11 p.m., but at midnight, everyone was still going—Lynn barefoot on the dance floor with the Fanning sisters and the Haim sisters, Sara on the patio, resplendent in a custom-made Conner Ives jacket.
Once again, my phone went into Do Not Disturb mode at midnight, and I dragged myself out. This was especially difficult because the cast of Heated Rivalry, who spent the first part of the night at a Vanity Fair party nearby, were still on the dancefloor. I was proud of myself.
Selby and I walked home and spotted a producer of one of the Golden Globe best picture nominees at Doughbrik’s pizza across Sunset Boulevard. I’m not ashamed to say I accepted a slice on my way home.
DAY 5: Sunday, January 11th
In our house, awards shows are sacred experiences. After four days of fashion in L.A., I wanted to get home and be planted on my sofa, clutching my phone for fashion updates with a laptop nearby for research, ready to consume the Globes. I had agreed to join Vanity Fair’s live blog, and I took it very seriously.
Oh yeah—I missed my kids too.
So, on Sunday morning, after sleeping three whole hours, I headed to the airport for a 6 a.m. flight back to New York.
Yes, earlier in this diary, I said that the joy of flying is having the private time to catch up on my reading and writing, and to indulge in a little psychological detachment from the real world. Not this time. I was asleep before takeoff and didn’t wake up until we were landing.
When I got off the plane, a flight attendant said she’d been worried about me. “We kept checking your breathing to make sure you weren’t dead,” she smiled. (As a reminder, according to my in-depth interview with my dermatologist, flight attendants often have bad skin because there are no UV filters on plane windows!) I wanted to say, “It’s Golden Globes weekend, sweetie.” But all I could manage was a faint smile as I shuffled off, still in a daze.
I made it home in time to do bathtime and bedtime with Grace and Noah! Over the holidays, the writer Billy Norwich—who had an office near my cubicle when I was an assistant at Vogue more than twenty years ago—sent them a copy of his children’s book, Molly and the Magic Dress.
Our friends Bee, Keith, and Sebastien were already in our living room when the kids fell asleep, ready to do this. On the VF blog, I provided such insightful commentary as, “The Nanny (Fran Drescher) introducing Kevin from Home Alone (Macaulay Culkin) to the strings of “Return of the Mack” is the kind of feel-good awards show content I came here for.” And, “Has anyone else noticed that Charli xcx and Selena Gomez are wearing the inverse version of the same gown? (Or have I had too many martinis?)”
I found the on-air geo-tagging of nominees odd, but I was obsessed with the music selections. Of the latter, the only explanation I can come up with was that millennials must have fully taken over the control room at these things. Why else would Usher’s “Yeah!” have been queued up when Stellan Skarsgard accepted his Golden Globe for supporting actor in the drama Sentimental Value?
I’m a fashion classicist at heart, so I loved seeing so much polish on the red carpet. (Haters will say it was boring, but ignore them.) Vogue posted every look. My favorite chicks included Jennifer Lawrence in Givenchy, Elle Fanning in Gucci, and Miley Cyrus in Saint Laurent. (OK, come through Kering brands!) Rose Byrne’s Chanel dress was inspired by the emerald gown Kiera Knightley wore in Atonement, one of my favorite fashion moments in film. I reported that Kate Hudson’s Armani dress took 200 hours to produce, with 100 hours already spent on embroidery.
Coleman Domingo is the best-dressed, always. The suavest man was Michael B. Jordan in a chocolate-brown Prada suit, and shoutouts to Leonardo DiCaprio in Dior and Jacob Elordi in Bottega Veneta. And I guess Seth Rogan stole the suits from The Studio because he looked sharp, too.
At the top of the show, I was rooting for Nikki Glaser, who, like me, is from St. Louis and uses cruel humor as a love language. Her monologue was incredible. She opened with a sharp political joke about “A-listers on a list that has been heavily redacted,” and then quipped that “the Golden Globe for best editing goes to the Justice Department.” I respected her playful swipe at CBS, the network airing the show, riffing that it’s now “America’s newest place to see BS news.” And this one resonated: “Just like the podcasters nominated tonight, I should not be allowed to be this close to Julia Roberts.”
As you probably know, Paul Thomas Anderson’s dark comedy One Battle After Another had a huge night, winning four trophies—including Best Musical or Comedy, plus directing and screenplay honors—and Teyana took home Best Supporting Actress for the film in a tearful speech. On the TV side, Netflix’s limited series Adolescence swept its categories, and medical drama The Pitt won Best Drama Series. (I used to have such a crush on Noah Wylie in the 90s!)
I was fine with a category for Best Podcast of the Year (go, Amy Poehler!) and I appreciated Wanda Sykes’s special message for Ricky Gervais: “I love you for not being here.” As the crowd erupted, she explained why: “Because if you win, I get to accept the award on your behalf, and you’re going to thank God and the trans community.”
Annoyingly, the telecast didn’t air Helen Mirren receiving the Cecil B. DeMille Award or Sarah Jessica Parker taking home the Carol Burnett Award; you can watch them now. (Those awards were handed out in a different ceremony a few days before.) But I guess we've got to make cuts somewhere?
Yet, the show still ran 18 minutes late, a sin for early bedders like Bee and Nick. When they were asleep, I snuck into the freezer for dessert, the cookie dough that Bee brought for dessert.
Is there a sweeter way to finish the night and this newsletter?
Thank you for reading all the way to the bottom!
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I’m flying to London tonight, but I’ll be back with more fashion fun soon.
Stay safe and chic,
Derek C. Blasberg
I am biased but this is the best newsletter yet! Thanks for the kind words and loved the recap.
I too have stayed at the Sunset Tower and walked to the Chateau Marmont - as everyone should! It's so close! 😂 Very much enjoyed this, obviously jealous as hell of all the Heated Rivalry encounters 😍