Alas, the winter entertainment landscape is very bleak this year, owing to the striking Writers Guild of America. I'm not privy to the details, so I don't really have a dog in that fight. But as a trained screenwriter, I do empathize with my fellow scribes, because the pressure to churn out ratings-generating material faster than most of us can sign our names must be daunting.
Apparently the gist of this latest riff with Hollywood big guns involves money, rumors of unfair practices, and a few hurt feelings, as usual. If I earned a living by working in film or television, I'd be very concerned that the Reality TV Monster is taking over the world, one episode of American Gladiators at a time (although Gladiators features its own Big Girl, 'Hellga!' so it can't be all bad!). Maybe if there were more shows like Ugly Betty, the world would be a better place...at least, for writers, and for us Big Girls.
But who knew that this strike would pre-empt my beloved Awards Season? My one true vice (besides my addiction to chocolate) is a sick affinity for the glitz and glamour of the big Hollywood awards shows, from the Golden Globes to the king, Oscar. Despite giving myself credit as a literate person who can negotiate the difference between reality and fantasy, every winter I crave the glamour of the red carpet: the imagined swish of silk on the screen, the sparkle of bling, the air infused with too much hairspray and perfume, and the catty media pointing out Fashion Disasters for all the world to see. As a life-long Big Girl with Celebrity Aspirations, I'm glued to my TV, imagining that some day, I too might be encased in jewels, swathed in tulle, and go blind from the glare of a thousand flash bulbs pop-pop-popping in my face.
Shame on you, my fellow writers! How dare you rob me of my chance to live vicariously with the stars! Not for me a glimpse of Johnny Depp, or Julia, or George, or Queen Latifah, or Jack. My withdrawal symptoms are so bad, I'd be happy with Joan Rivers in last year's Armani. But the writers' strike reduced The Golden Globes to a mere press conference, and poor Latifah resorted to wearing a pants suit. A pants suit! Oscar is quaking in his golden boots, fashion designers, jewelers, handlers and agents in La-La Land are panicking, but as David Letterman said in The Late Show™ monologue on January 14, "...and the winner is, the American Public!"
Au contraire, Dave! I admit the awards shows get a tad ridiculous, and as world citizens who are supposed to have more important things on our mind than fashion (select from: whales, global warming, buying locally grown, feeding the hungry or cat juggling), we shouldn't drop what we're doing to watch a bunch of people parade around in their prom clothes. But it's winter, and we need some excitement.
Get real, who among us wouldn't LOVE to be on that red carpet? Show me a woman who tells you she'd pass on the opportunity to have an all-day spa and makeup session, be clothed in a couture gown made to her measurements, slip her tootsies into handmade shoes that fit like a glove, and clasp a Harry Winston jewel around her throat, and I'll show you a woman who needs serious therapy. Now before you go calling me on the carpet (not the red one, that other one where you scream at me to grow up), bear in mind that perhaps we Big Girls have more of a penchant to fantasize than our svelte sisters. When you don't get invited to the dance, it swells in significance, to the point of obsession. Hmmm...
I don't presume to have any answers, but it strikes me that if you're sitting around with a group of your fellow writing professionals, shouldn't at least one of you be able to shake a red pen, and resolve the conflict with a happy ending?
Maybe I should call Hellga from American Gladiators and ask her to put the Big Girl Hurt on the WGA, and get this thing resolved in time for Oscar!
I wonder what they'll do with all the little chocolate Oscar statues...
© 2008 Bunkie Lynn
Maybe Hellgal should put the hurt on the networks rather than the WGA. They just want what is fair. I hope things are resolved before the Oscars (just because I want to see Glen Hansard perform). However, if it isn't, I'll blame the networks and not the writers.
