February, 1968
NBC’s telecast of the Foreign Press Association’s 25th annual Golden Globe Awards had to be seen to be disbelieved. This ludicrous event is so suspiciously corrupt even NBC and the Federal Communications Commission have sent lawyers to have it investigated. But award-giving, pointless as it is, is still big business, and it also gives viewers a chance to see their favorite stars make fools of themselves in public, so the Golden Globes were back, minus some of their sponsors, who backed out at the last minute. After a few boring words from the FPA’s president Howard Luft (No relation to Sid—this Mr. Luft comes on like a Sid Caesar takeoff on Eric Von Stroheim, interspersed with shots of the stars laughing at him from their tables), emcee Andy Williams summed up what followed: “If you’re a winner or a loser, it really doesn’t matter too much.”
Then Mary Tyler Moore, looking like a buck-toothed Dorothy Lamour, and Peter Lawford, looking like a retarded court jester with his new baby bangs, presented the Best Director award to Mike Nichols, who didn't show up. Nancy Sinatra (No matter how she spends her father’s money, she always looks like a pizza waitress) gave the Supporting Actor award to Richard Attenborough, who didn’t show up either (tough-broad closeup of Janet Leigh with a cigarette hanging from her lips).
Carol Channing accepting the Supporting Actress award, thanked “Julie Andrews and her wonderful cast,” whatever that means (closeup of Julie Andrews, telling somebody a story and not listening). John Wayne staggered onstage to present the Best Actress in a Comedy award to Anne Bancroft, who didn’t show up (closeup of Roman Polanski and Sharon Tate, eating). Sally Field, “delicious, delectable, delightful” star of Flying Nun, flew in from the top of the ceiling, got tangled up in her wiring, and was left hanging there. Her award went to Best Actor in a Musical or a Comedy, Richard Harris, who didn’t show up. “He isn’t here,” said Faye Dunaway, who didn’t win anything. “For once in his life, common sense prevailed.”
After some interminable Pagliacci-like suffering from Jerry Lewis, the Best Comedy or Musical Film Award went to The Graduate (closeup of Warren Beatty cursing). Then after an insipidly limp medley of song nominees, Andy Williams introduced his wife Claudine, with something hideous in her hair that looked like stringed popcorn. She gave the Best Song of the Year award to a six-year-old song from Camelot. Rod Steiger did show up to get his Best Actor in a Dramatic Film Award, although presenter Jim Brown called it “In the Heap of the Night” (closeup of Warren Beatty cursing). Natalie Wood, looking like she had just come from a yoga lesson, gave the Best Dramatic Film of the Year Award to the same film (another closeup of Warren Beatty cursing). Candy Bergen, in a riding habit, looked alternately shocked and amused (as well she should be) when her film Live for Life won Best Foreign Film of the Year.
It was the one genuine reaction in an evening of hypocrisy and ho-hum boredom that included a Best Male TV Performer Award, a Best Female Newcomer to the Screen Award, a Best Favorite World Performer Award and, as if determined to prove once and for all what trouble movies are in, there was even something called the “Female World Film Favorite” Award. It went to Julie Andrews, who stopped talking long enough to say a simple “Thank you.” The whole blooming agony looked like it would never end.
Just last week Newsweek magazine reported denials from the Foreign Press Association that its members give awards to the stars who throw the biggest feeds. “We are not influenced by a glass of champagne,” snapped Luft. “Kirk Douglas threw a party last year, and what did he win? Nothing.”
This year there was even a special category called the Cecil B. DeMille Humanitarian Award. Who won? You guessed it. Kirk Douglas.
The only award the Golden Globes didn’t hand out was an All-Time Worst Evening in the History of Show Business Award. But I guess that wouldn’t look nice. You’re not supposed to give prizes to yourself.