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| Joan & Percy with Tom Ford at Vanity Fair Party |
JOAN COLLINS: I'm an Oscars voter, but after an awards season of slim pickings, I have to ask: Why are so many new films dark and disturbing - whatever happened to glamour?..
From early January to mid-March, Hollywood turns all a-twitter. It’s awards season in La-La Land.
Covens of stylists fly in a selection of gowns for the ‘female actors’ (a term I still reject in favour of the gracious and feminine ‘actress’) and also for some of the more flamboyant ‘male actors’.
At the heels of the stylists come the make-up and hair experts, nail technicians and facialists. They arrive from New York, Paris and London and work feverishly to make their client the epitome of, if not glamour, then beauty and ‘trendiness’.
he most outrageously OTT outfits are fought over by certain starlets anxious to get their picture anywhere on the vast array of social media and internet platforms. Press reps are no longer obligatory in Hollywood, unless you want to grab an interview on the equally vast array of talk shows that proliferate on the airwaves. The performer is perfectly able to do well with a catchy appearance on Instagram or TikTok.
Things have changed so much in Hollywood since the advent of the web and social media. Audiences no longer flock to the cinemas, as they can easily see movies on their devices a few weeks later.
Consequently, the quality of the new films, in terms of pure entertainment value, has dropped and what is now offered are overly dark, disturbing, angst-driven movies with convoluted plots and quite ordinary-looking performers.
The pickings have been slim at this year’s awards season and I’m finding it hard to love any of them. There are some fine actors giving excellent performances — sadly in below-par features.
We arrived in LA the day before the first big awards show, the Golden Globes, which we watched on TV. Many gongs are bestowed for both TV and film.
It’s usually lots of fun as it’s held at the Beverly Hilton hotel and the booze flows freely. But, as usual, the tone of the evening is set by the host, and this year . . . oh dear, where did they find Mr Jo Koy, a so-called comedian of the ‘new wave’ (i.e. ‘woke’)?
He was about as funny as Sir Keir Starmer at Prime Minister’s Questions. Even the liberal audience groaned at the awfulness of his endless opening monologue. I longed for Bob Hope or Johnny Carson or even, ha ha, George Hamilton and me, who hosted in the 1980s. Come back, Ricky Gervais, all is forgiven!
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| Joan presenting at The Emmys with Taraji P Henson |
The next major event, which was rescheduled from its usual September slot due to the SAG-AFTRA (entertainment industry union) strikes, was the Emmys, which is for TV shows only. There are dozens of categories, so it usually runs for three hours or more.
This year, I was asked to present the award for Outstanding Limited or Anthology Series along with Taraji P. Henson, star of Empire.
In contrast to the Golden Globes, we were seated at a theatre, much like the Oscars. We could barely get a bottle of water — hence the backstage green room where drinks were available was quickly packed.
Taraji and I walked arm in arm on to the stage to the strains of the Dynasty theme.
To my amazement, the entire audience, which contained some very recognisable faces such as Jennifer Coolidge, Jeff Bridges, Jessica Chastain, Michael Shannon and Kieran Culkin, rose to its feet in a standing ovation!
‘What’s this?’ I muttered to my co-presenter.
‘They’re doing it for you, honey,’ said Taraji.
‘I think they like us,’ I whispered — shades of Sally Field.
‘No, it’s for you,’ she mouthed. Utter grace. Talk about ‘roar of the greasepaint and the smell of the crowd’ — the ovation brought tears to my eyes.
Hollywood is a tough town with a short memory, and I haven’t done much work in the U.S. since American Horror Story in 2018.
Like a good drama, however, the evening was full of personal highs and lows and did not begin quite as auspiciously.
Our driver was not informed of the correct route to the theatre, and when we ended up in the bowels of a parking lot we knew we were in the wrong place.
After we had toured the entirety of downtown LA, we eventually screeched up to the red carpet with minutes to spare.
‘I’m sorry, the red carpet is closed,’ chirruped a bored, official-looking female barely out of high school.
Fortunately, the ‘handler’ assigned to me turned up at that very moment and brushed her aside.
I arrived to be greeted by an animated Billy Bush, cousin of George ‘W’, who was a popular host of U.S. entertainment programme Access Hollywood. He’s infamous for being fired after a hot mic picked up Donald Trump boasting to him in 2005 of grabbing women ‘by the p***y’.
He immediately informed me that he was looking for a new wife and would I be interested? My husband Percy was not amused.
I was then informed by the head honcho that I had to rush to my seat as the television broadcast was starting.
The Peacock Theatre in Los Angeles is a massive structure which easily holds thousands of people. One must cover miles before arriving at your destination which, in my case, happened to be the first row. In Jimmy Choos, this is not a mean feat.
After my ‘turn’ on the stage, I suggested we go to the post-show party early to avoid the crush. ‘Oh, we’ve told the driver exactly how to get there — you won’t have the same problems,’ the organiser informed me.
My heart sank when I saw Jeff Bridges and a line of stars getting into their cars ahead of me, even though the broadcast had not ended.
We toured downtown LA in its entirety for a second time before finally alighting and running to the entrance — only to be told by an ancient guard: ‘This is the exit.’
Another yomp ensued to the real entrance, in which we were accosted with the chilling refrain ‘Hey, aren’t you Joan Collins?’ A slightly unhinged fan wanting a ‘selfie’ was duly informed that we were in a rush to get to the party.
‘Oh, no problem — I’ll take you, so you avoid the crush at the entrance!’ He led us on a vertiginous path through closed ramps and dizzying stairways that led to a kitchen where puzzled waiters and cooks demanded: ‘Hey, aren’t you Joan Collins?’
The party was in full swing with literally thousands of people I didn’t know, but every second step I was approached for another ‘selfie’.
We decided on a hasty retreat and retraced our steps. We arrived, winded, back at the ancient guard’s station — the exit.
No sooner had I opened a bottle of the plentiful supply of water on hand when I heard ‘Hey, aren’t you Joan Collins?’ for the umpteenth time.
I resigned myself to turning around and trying to offer my most gracious smile. It was fortunate that I did. It was Ted Sarandos, the head of Netflix.
He was a most charming man (rare in a studio boss) and I recounted our trials and tribulations, whereupon he said, ‘Don’t you worry, that won’t happen at my party’, to which we had been invited.
True to his word, the doors opened as if I was the most cherished of beings, and I was escorted to a VIP area where we were fed and watered and we danced, to the most danceable hits of the 1970s and 1980s spun by the DJ. It ended up being a wonderful night.
The following week, the big Oscars and BAFTA contenders started to show up on the new streaming apps which we members of the Academy of Motion Pictures Arts and Sciences must use to judge the entries.
This is a cumbersome process. Percy has to tee the films up for me, but even he can’t control the endless pauses which randomly occur while watching a movie one had no desire to see in the first place. It’s all in the hands of wifi.
Something else I miss at Oscars time is the slim little book that voters used to receive every year. It contained a complete list of every eligible movie and named the entire cast.
It was easy to vote because you just filled in a form, as opposed to having to remember the title of a movie or an actor and scroll down endlessly on your device to find the entry you’re looking for.
Again, it’s Percy to the rescue, but I’m sure I’ve missed many fine performances because it’s so much more complicated and time-consuming.
I was impressed by Annette Bening, playing long-distance swimmer Diana Nyad in the film Nyad, but not so by Poor Things, which was the hot favourite in the Best Picture and Best Actress (sorry, female actor) stakes.
Bottom-lining the plot of the latter, Emma Stone becomes a hooker in a Victorian brothel and spends a lot of time gyrating nude with a variety of elderly or repulsive-looking men.
In Nyad, the most gyrating that happens is when jellyfish attack Bening. But I must admit that Emma Stone shone, even if the movie was endless.
I wondered if Emma had to be cajoled into doing this full-on nudity or if she did it voluntarily. I was reminded of when I was asked to go topless and I objected, but was persuaded by the argument that Jane Fonda and Glenda Jackson had done it.
Perhaps some young actress in the future who rebels against doing totally nude scenes will be told ‘Well, Emma Stone did it . . ’. It sets a precedent.
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| Joan with Blaine Trump at Clive Davis Grammy Party |
Then came the Grammys. We were invited to record producer Clive Davis’s pre-Grammy party at the Beverly Hilton. The same party which, in 2012, was rocked by the sudden death of Whitney Houston only hours before the start.
Many stars were in attendance, including Cher in a studded leather jacket who gave me a friendly ‘Hi!’.
Dionne Warwick saw me from her table and, most graciously, came over to chat.
The Grammys pays tribute to musical talent, and this year the line-up at this preview event featured some great acts from yesteryear, including Dionne and Gladys Knight. Tom Hanks gave a brilliant speech with his uniquely charming yet slightly sardonic delivery.
After the Grammys came the People’s Choice Awards, where Hollywood’s highest-paid actor Adam Sandler pretended to receive People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive award.
At the Screen Actors Guild Awards, many stars arrived in fancy dress which would not have been out of place at Jonathan Ross’s Halloween party.
The highlight for me was Meryl Streep, Anne Hathaway and Emily Blunt stealing dialogue from their characters in The Devil Wears Prada to present an award — very funny.
At all of these awards shows, it was invariably Oppenheimer that won Best Picture and its star, Cillian Murphy, Best Actor.
Then, for light relief, came the Billboard Women in Music awards, at which busts and bare midriffs were much in evidence.
One woman on the ‘green’ carpet wore a black dress that bared a boob, which she covered coyly with her hand, presumably all evening. Boy, were her arms tired!
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| Joan attends the Chanel / Charles Finch Pre-Oscar Party |
One of the most coveted and exclusive invitations is the Chanel party thrown at the fabled Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills hotel ahead of the Oscars.
Co-hosted by film producer Charles Finch, the party boasts dozens of heads of studios, producers, directors and a substantial smattering of stars.
We arrived on time at 7:30pm to see Oscar nominee Robert De Niro holding court at the bar. I loved watching all the players interact with each other as I sipped my cocktail. We chatted — partially in Italian, I might add — to Anjelica Huston’s brother Danny, and Matteo Garrone, the director of Best International Feature Film contender Io Capitano.
Then Elizabeth Chai Vasarhelyi and her husband Jimmy Chin, co-directors of Nyad (my favourite movie this year) asked to meet me and we formed a mutual admiration society, as I did with Alexander Payne, director of The Holdovers.
I was pleased to see Colman Domingo’s place card next to mine, as I admired his performances in Rustin and The Color Purple (not to mention his fashion sense).
Imagine my disappointment when executives of a major studio, tasked with getting him to commit to an upcoming role, changed the seating in order to flank him!
All’s well that ends well, as my dinner companion was the superbly knowledgeable Addison O’Dea, boyfriend of charming Minnie Driver.
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| Joan & Percy on Vanity Fair red carpet.. |
Next came the piece de resistance — the Vanity Fair Oscars viewing dinner party, held at the prestigious Wallis Annenberg Centre for the Performing Arts.
The U.S. daylight savings time change caused the event to begin an hour earlier, so it was still hot and sunny as we arrived at 3.30pm to do the usual rounds of interviews and photo calls.
We strolled down a winding corridor covered in red carpet which led into a cavernous, beautifully decorated room. An oval bar in the centre and a giant screen at one end, facing dozens of sofas and comfy armchairs, made it a viewers’ paradise.
We said ‘Hi’ to all the usual suspects — Jeff Goldblum in a gold shirt, Mad Men’s Jon Hamm dapper in a blue tux, and Sir Patrick Stewart with his vivacious wife, aptly named Sunny.
We watched half of the Oscars on a sofa then were called into an enormous dining room which seated 250 people on round tables and in booths covered in faux animal print.
I was delighted to have Tom Ford as my dinner partner, ever immaculate, while Percy, for the second time round, was sat next to a very animated Monica Lewinsky.
Over three-and-a-half hours, there were frankly no surprises — although I was happy that most of the technical awards went to fellow Brits!
After dinner we went out on to an enormous balcony and hung out with a make-up-less Pamela Anderson, accompanied by her son and an ebullient and always funny Isla Fisher.
We sat with Michael Douglas and said hello via FaceTime to Catherine Zeta-Jones, who had opted this year to stay at home (it was remarkable how many couples flew ‘solo’ this year.)
By the time it was 8:30pm I was exhausted and eager to leave, but we still had to wait 45 minutes for our car, which was stuck in the middle of a Palestinian flag-waving demo. Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose as they say in La Belle France. Nothing ever changes — just like good ol’ Blighty.
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