NATURALLY, as a woman with functioning faculties and a passing interest in gauzy fabric, I love awards season.
What more does one need to brighten the bleak, bitter mornings of January and February than the excuse to sit at one’s computer with a frothy coffee, typing, ‘Amy Adams red-carpet outfit’ into the internet for an hour?
The hits, the misses, the turns and the tumbles. The opportunity to find out, once and for all, what the purpose of Taylor Swift is. It’s all such a jolly promise.
But the truth is that, like karaoke parties, sashimi or movies starring Katherine Heigl, awards season is one of those slightly disappointing things you’ve always forgotten your disappointment at by the time the next one rolls around.
No sooner had I woken up, opened half an eye, reached for my laptop and groggily Googled ‘Gplden gLobes reD carpt’ than I remembered why I always finish the winter feeling vaguely dissatisfied by the world (it is definitely awards season, not all the refined carbohydrates and slipper socks).
Hollywood just doesn’t know how to choose a nice frock any more.
It’s as though sheer affluence has overwhelmed our stars to the point where they can’t tell, ‘pretty’ from ‘looks like something I once did with tinfoil to punish my Barbie’.
Armies of stylists and hordes of designers toil for months to achieve what any of the rest of us could manage with two hours, a Debenhams giftcard and some double-sided tape.
They tend to fall largely into three categories.
Predictable but dull, which means anything Reese Witherspoon wears; original but odd, which involves a lot of peplums, high necklines and hair that has been woven into its own weather-proof hat, and half-dressed, which means the sort of kidney-chilling flesh exposure that might lead normal folk to assume your outfit was half stolen on the way to the ceremony.
It’s a good job, then, if we don’t have the frocks, that we do have the funnies. If you’ve not watched Tina Fey and Amy Poehler’s opening duologue from the Golden Globes, I strongly suggest you look it up now.
The whole thing was a perfectly-pitched delight.
Here’s a plan, perhaps: while the comedy giantesses take the stage by storm, we could leave the red carpet to the men – who with the occasional exception of a jazzy bowtie or lumberjack beard, have been consistently letting the side down for decades.
‘What were they THINKING?’ the magazines can scream, over photos of Matt Damon and Colin Firth in aquamarine lamé with daring necklines.
That would see me through until March just nicely.