Remove Weinstein from the equation and it seems likely that The Artist would have starved. Michel Hazanivius’s ravishing silent comedy – black-and-white, with title cards – was a late addition to last year’s Cannes. Then Weinstein threw his weight behind it, snapping up distribution rights and bullying the film towards the winner’s podium. Wins for The Artist, The Iron Lady, W.E. and My Week With Marilyn ensured this was a terrific night for Weinstein, who mentored all four. Small wonder the stars referred to him as “the boss” (Artist producer Thomas Langmann), “the punisher” (Madonna) and even “God” (Meryl Streep). (XB) Photograph: Charley Gallay/Getty Images for TWC
It wasn’t just The Artist that harked back to Hollywood’s past. Sunday night’s ceremony proved that the heroes of yesteryear have adapted rather nicely to a 21st-century era of Twilight and the never-ending sequel. There were prizes for Steven Spielberg, Martin Scorsese and Woody Allen, those easy riders of 70s cinema. Meryl Streep collected the best actress gong for her role in The Iron Lady and then lamented the fact she had left her reading glasses back at the table. Possibly the most popular winner was 82-year-old Christopher Plummer, garlanded for his role as a closeted gay father in the comedy-drama Beginners. Accepting his award, the Canadian-born veteran paid tribute to Hollywood as “the home of King Kong and Rin Tin Tin”. This led some wags to wonder aloud whether he had known them both personally. (XB) Photograph: Danny Moloshok/Reuters
Ricky Gervais came to the Globes in the role of roguish upstart, on hand to flame the guests and pour scorn on the organisers. He returned as prodigal son, cosy court jester; his sharp edges worn down by three years at the presenter’s podium. Yes, there were the obligatory gags about “Jodie Foster’s beaver” and about how the Globes were that “bit trashier, bit drunker” than the Oscars. But where was the venom? Perhaps the most damning review of Gervais’s performance came from Johnny Depp, who quipped: “Oh boy, he’s so much fun.” All it took was one backhanded compliment to puncture the illusion that Gervais was ever anything other than one of the gang. (XB) Photograph: Handout/Getty Images
Gervais set the schoolboy tone. “I’ve got a huge vocabulary but a tiny penis,” he informed the gathered dignitaries. “Doesn’t matter, I don’t care. It works. It’s fine.” The hilarity barely had time to die down before Seth Rogen stepped on stage to present an award alongside Kate Beckinsale, and confessed he was “currently trying to conceal a massive erection”. Finally, it was George Clooney’s turn. The Descendants waxed lyrical about about Michael Fassbender’s performance in sex drama Shame. “I’d like to thank Michael Fassbender for taking over the frontal nudity responsibility I had,” joked Clooney. “Honestly, you can play golf like this, with your hands behind your back.” Future historians may record that this marked the moment when the “trashy, drunken” Golden Globes cast off the last of its inhibitions. (XB) Photograph: NBCUPHOTOBANK / Rex Features
Lace and silk in creamy hues were everywhere, often with trains simply crying out for bridesmaids to fluff them up for the photographers. Angelina Jolie rocked oyster silk Atelier Versace (vamped up with a few flashes of scarlet), Jessica Biel’s delicate ivory lace gown had a suitably bridal train, which Madonna managed rather embarassingly to step on, Elle McPherson was in a cream, corseted number and Charlize Theron wore a diaphanous Dior couture confection in palest pink. The only things separating some of the frocks from actual wedding dresses were the thigh-high splits and plunging necklines. (AF) Photograph: Rex Features
Since the donation of the Statue of Liberty, America and France have rarely seen eye to eye. This year’s awards season, however, may mark a new rapprochement. Not only is Globe winner and Oscar front-runner The Artist a French film, albeit one that doesn’t require any of the subtitles that make viewing foreign language films such a chore, but two of the other heavy hitters, Hugo and Midnight in Paris, are doing their best to restore Gallic-US harmony. The former, directed by Martin Scorsese, is set in a richly reimagined Gare du Montparnasse, and rescues from obscurity the work of pioneering film-maker Georges Méliès. The latter is Woody Allen’s ode to the American expat scene of the 20s, cleverly combining a bit of gallic love with Allen’s own unashamed hatred of the present day. No one stood up at the Globes and sang the Marseillaise, but surely they may if The Artist sweeps the Oscars? (AP) Photograph: Jeff Vespa/WireImage
