Inside the Golden Globes one of Hollywood’s glitziest award ceremonies
Overwhelmed by the celebrity crowd I slipped off to the bathroom for some respite. Who I saw next, touching up her lipstick in the mirror, did little to calm my nerves.
Inside the Beverly Wilshire Hotel – forever known to fans of the film Pretty Woman as “Reg Bev Wil”– I am being attacked on all sides. My glam squad (consisting of a makeup artist contouring with the brush strokes of a Renaissance painter, and a hairstylist wielding a blow dryer like a weapon) are working their magic on my jetlagged face, hair and décolletage in preparation for the Golden Globes. The awards ceremony doesn’t start until 5pm this afternoon, but at midday sharp the duo arrived at my hotel door, armed with fake eyelashes and enough hairspray to reanimate a corpse. “So, what are you nominated for?” the makeup artist trills as she bronzes my cheekbones. I think it might be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
I’m just a lowly Aussie journalist, see, in LA to attend the Golden Globes as a guest of Moët & Chandon, the official champagne provider of the evening. For one night only, I’m at the epicentre of show business. Over the course of the night my eyes will scan the familiar faces of people I know intimately, and yet don’t know at all. It seems as if every working actor in the game is here. And yet it’s also the most exclusive event in town.
The Golden Globes are the first, and bubbliest, event on the awards season calendar but the looser reputation of the event belies a serious production. Organisers are ruthlessly efficient. There will be no hesitation to leave famous guests stranded outside the auditorium if late to return to their seats. Further, no matter who you are or what you do, you will go hungry if you haven’t finished your plate of Nobu miso black cod before showtime.
This event is, of course, a precursor to the main course of the Oscars in March and this year’s iteration arrives at a crucial time for the town. An unprecedented, 118-day long actors’ strike ended mere weeks before the January 8 ceremony. Celebrities can promote their movies again. And the awards aren’t going to win themselves.
The excitement was already building on arrival at LAX the previous afternoon. Next to me at the baggage carousel, waiting patiently for his Rimowa cases, was the actor Ebon Moss-Bachrach (the scene-stealing Cousin Richie from The Bear). Then, that night, over a casual dinner of crab cakes and caviar at the Polo Lounge, I sipped champagne just tables away from Mark Wahlberg and Edward Norton (dining separately).
On the morning of the Globes, I dash around the corner from the hotel to the upmarket Beverly Hills grocer Erewhon, in search of Diet Coke. (Erewhon does not stock Diet Coke. They do, however, sell prebiotic soda, which is not the same thing.) While there, I spot Rebecca Corbin-Murray, the unflappably elegant stylist to Florence Pugh, picking up a tray of the store’s TikTok-famous Hailey Bieber Strawberry Glaze Skin Smoothies. (Ingredients: collagen, sea moss and hyaluronic acid; each smoothie costs $US18.) I expect Florence’s skin to be phosphorescent this evening.
Awards season in Los Angeles is always a madhouse, but this year the mansion seems even madder than usual. That afternoon, after being bronzed and blown out and squeezing into a ballgown, I sit in bumper-to-bumper traffic down Wilshire Boulevard on my way to the ceremony. It takes more than an hour for our car to crawl the kilometre and a half from the hotel to the Beverly Hilton, where the Golden Globes has been held since 1961. While the limousine idles, we make small talk about who we think will win best dressed. (Greta Lee, the nominated star of the devastating romantic drama Past Lives and a true fashionista, is everyone’s pick; I spot her at the bar later in a backless ivory Loewe gown looking exquisitely regal.) Periodically, the police stop to make inspections, sweeping each car for bombs.
Finally, just after 3pm, we arrive at the red carpet. It’s a scene of unseasonably cold, windy chaos. Every assistant publicist in California is shivering while peering bleary-eyed at their iPhone. “Stand back,” a security guard bellows and the crowd parts like the Red Sea. “I wonder who we’re making way for,” I whisper to a fellow guest, as we clear the area for what could only be a major arrival. Taylor Swift? Selena Gomez? Oprah!? “Stand back for the drone,” the security guard yells. The airborne camera buzzes slowly past us, followed by an entourage of pilot, crew and security.
Once the excitement dies down, I notice everywhere. Rosamund Pike is standing at the start of the red carpet, back straight as a rod, while an assistant blots her face underneath her lace veil. Abbott Elementary’s Quinta Brunson strides towards the photo wall holding the hand of her publicist. Hunter Schafer, star of Euphoria, battles the wind in a blowsy Prada gown. I spy Teo Yoo, Lee’s stoic and statuesque co-star in Past Lives, hovering at the entrance to the ballroom. “I’m a bit overwhelmed,” he admits, motioning to the commotion. I get it. In the time it takes for us to exchange pleasantries, Joaquin Phoenix, Julianne Moore and Helen Mirren sail past us into the ballroom.
At 4.14pm sharp I make my way inside, so as not to miss the aforementioned Nobu on offer for an early dinner. My table is in the third row, next to the creators of last year’s TV juggernaut, the video game spin off The Last Of Us, which means that all night the show’s stars, Pedro Pascal and Bella Ramsey, stop by for chats. When I arrive at my table, the only person seated is Victoria’s Secret model Taylor Hill, quietly tucking into some sashimi. “It was so cold outside,” she admits, “I thought I’d just come in,” apparently feeling as if her lonely presence required some explanation.
Over the next half hour, our tablemates Hari Nef – the actor who is so brilliant in Barbie; she’s the one who yells “Flat feet!” at Margot Robbie – and the playwright Jeremy O Harris trickle in. “Who are we rooting for?” Harris grins, pouring drinks for the table. “Barbie!” Nef exclaims, as she sips on an appropriately pink glass of Moët & Chandon Rosé.
Just before kick-off, I nip to the bathroom, where it seems every A-lister you’ve ever heard of is hanging out. Hannah Waddingham is in one corner, deep in conversation with Meryl Streep. “It’s so warm I think I might stay in here,” the statuesque Ted Lasso star sighs.
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Next to me at the vanity, Jennifer Aniston touches up her lip gloss.
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(Doesn’t she have people to do that for her?) As we exit the bathroom Aniston reaches out for Matthew Macfadyen, who played Tom in Succession, as he makes his way up the staircase. “I’m a huge fan,” Aniston coos. Macfadyen appears genuinely starstruck. “I’m a huge fan, too,” he blurts out — but Aniston, who seems to exist in a constant state of motion, has already moved on. “There’s Will!” she yelps upon spotting Mr Ferrell. “Willy!” she beams, hitting him with two exaggerated air kisses. I take my seat just as the countdown for the show begins. Waiters are moving fast and furiously through the room, collecting half-eaten plates before the ceremony commences. “One minute,” an announcer intones. “10, 9, 8, 7 …”
Anyone not at their table when the numbers run out has to hover at the top of the stairs until a commercial break. And that means anyone. I spot Elizabeth Debicki, Mark Ruffalo and Sam Claflin all locked out during host Jo Koy’s opening remarks, which are greeted with a deafening silence. Koy attempts a joke about the birth of Robert DeNiro’s seventh child: “Your last performance has got to be your greatest performance ever. How’d you get her pregnant at 80?” Bridgerton’s Jonathan Bailey, seated in front of me, winces.
The ceremony unfolds at a brisk pace; the Golden Globes upped their nominees to six per category and added two new awards this year, which means the whole thing moves like it’s on rails. Judging by star power alone, the Globes are a roaring success. Taylor Swift is here, seated incongruously at the Poor Things table between Willem Dafoe and director Yorgos Lanthimos; she’s very animated when her friend Emma Stone is announced as Best Actress. Margot Robbie, Bradley Cooper, Carey Mulligan, Natalie Portman, Harrison Ford, Bruce Springsteen and Steven Spielberg are all here. Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck are here. Timothee Chalamet and Kylie Jenner are here, canoodling. An invitation tonight is the hottest ticket in town; someone tells me that not even all the journalists who vote for the Golden Globes made the cut, which makes me feel improbably lucky.
During commercial breaks, timed to a militarily tight two minutes, I roam the room. I spot a very bronzed and buff Barry Keoghan of Saltburn fame leaving the dessert buffet as Florence Pugh walks in. “The bar is in the back!” someone declares. “Fabulous,” she grins.
The countdown expires and I register who is now stopped at the top of the naughty stairs.Andrew Scott and Leonardo DiCaprio are stuck there for four awards. I later spy Nicolas Cage – celebrating his 60th birthday on the night of the Globes – and his wife Riko locked out towards the end of the evening. Emily Blunt was too slow to make it back to the Oppenheimer table to see her director Christopher Nolan win, much to the amusement of her husband John Krasinski (Jim in The Office), who laughed as she ducked under the cameras and made a dash for her seat. The Oppenheimer table is a high-spirited one; nobody cheers louder for Cillian Murphy’s Best Actor win than his co-star Robert Downey Jr.
Another chummy table is the one for TV series The Bear, where stars Ayo Edebiri and Jeremy Allen White are locked in close conversation for most of the evening. Edebiri is nominated for an award – Best Actress in a Comedy – and just before the winner is announced, Allen White leans over to squeeze her knee in support. She wins, and everyone at the table leaps to their feet.
The evening wraps up when Oppenheimer is announced – by Oprah – as Best Picture. At the bar, I run into Australian screenwriter Tony McNamara, beaming with pride for his film Poor Things’ win in Best Musical or Comedy. I walk out of the ballroom next to newlyweds Billy Crudup and Naomi Watts (she’s wearing her husband’s jacket for warmth), and spot Jared Leto hopping excitedly from foot to foot by the exit. There’s a scrum of people waiting for limousines, including Greta Gerwig and Noah Baumbach, enjoying a husband and wife date night and blissfully unaware that, in just a few weeks, Gerwig and Robbie will be the centre of an Oscar snub fiasco when the pair are left out of the Best Director and Best Actress categories respectively. (They were nominated at the Globes and both lost: Gerwig to Nolan and Robbie to Stone.)
Our table decides to skip the queue and walk the three blocks to the Waldorf Astoria, where Moët & Chandon’s after-party is kicking off. Jeremy O Harris is imploring Tyler James Williams, the sharp-suited star of Abbott Elementary, to join him for a drink. “I’m in production,” he sighs, tiredly. “Quinta’s going though.” At the after-party, DJ Anderson Paak spins Kylie Minogue records for the stars. A car is waiting to whisk me back to the hotel just before midnight, where I peel off my false eyelashes in the bath.
The next morning is my last in Los Angeles. The Hollywood dream is over; it’s back to Sydney, and deadlines, and jet lag. At breakfast, as I contemplate what to do with my final LA hours, a very conspicuous bodyguard is hovering alongside the person settling into the table next to me. It’s the rapper A$AP Rocky – father to Rihanna’s two beautiful children – sitting down for breakfast. City of stars. Nobody pinch me.
