After many months occupying screens of every size, after adorning countless magazine covers week upon week, after being force fed endless images of their gurning, Botox-ridden faces, we reach the time of year when celebrities finally get a little bit of recognition.

The film industry awards season is upon us, and if you ask me, it’s about time these unsung heroes of the stage and screen finally got some much-needed attention.

In a three-month period, from December to February, there are over 30 ceremonies of masturbatory self-indulgence from Hollywood, ostentatiously congratulating itself on another year well done with a flurry of golden statuettes and red carpets.

Let’s put aside the fact that most of these events are terrible in and of themselves: favouring whoever has the biggest “campaign” budget; awarding only the actors “brave” enough to play a disabled Holocaust survivor with a speech impediment, and invariably snubbing the best work. 

The unqualified worst aspect of any awards show is the red carpet. The carpet itself is fine – I have nothing against carpets – rather, the awful rigmarole that takes place on it. At some point this precursor to the ceremony became a ceremony in itself, a catwalk by any other name for rich people to wear expensive clothes, stand with hand on hips and pout while a gaggle of paps howl, before undertaking an illuminating five-minute interview with a chimp. 

Last Sunday’s Golden Globes featured TWO HOURS of preamble coverage from punctuation-abusing entertainment channel E! – two whole hours. I managed 20 minutes before the pools of vomit started to stink up the place. “Who are you wearing?” is a question which could only be less vapid if it was put to Leatherface from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre. 

How’s this for hard-hitting investigative journalism: at the Golden Globes, one excitable young lady with a microphone cornered supermodel Elle Macpherson by gushing: “I’m obsessed with you, I love reading about you in all the magazines, you seem to get better every year, how do you do it?” VOMIT. “I guess I get happier every year.” VOMIT. “What’s your favourite body part?” VOMIT. “My heart.” PROJECTILE VOMIT.

Who are these people? Are they journalists? Do they have press passes? If they went to a journalism school of any repute, then surely their opening question would be along the lines of “How do you respond to accusations that the entertainment industry – of which you yourself are wholly complicit – is directly responsible for the prolonging of third world poverty?” Then and only then could they be permitted to ask a follow-up: “Is this truly the night of 1,000 stars?” 

What exactly does the red carpet contribute to the advancement of cinema, the art form? I don’t remember André Bazin’s Cahiers du Cinéma essays ever weighing into the debate about backless dresses. As a card-carrying film nerd, it feels a bit like the cool (or rather, attractive, well-dressed) kids have muscled into the library club and are ruffling up the bookshelves, making a right mess of the place. With awards shows becoming ever more painful for genuine film fans to watch, it falls upon a skateboarding dog in a bowtie to save the day by distracting everyone from the awfulness of the occasion. Never leave us, Uggie.

More John:

... on silent film

... on press hypocrisy