The Golden Globes Review

Swallowing this insult, and putting on an easy, comfortable show for the audience, would mean letting the HFPA get away with using him. So Carmichael unpacked its thorny implications in the form of questions he asked himself and his friends. Could he allow himself to participate in the Golden Globes’ bid for a comeback story, ignoring the racist history — and present — of the organization putting it on? Should he just take the money and be done with it?

For fans of Rothaniel, Carmichael was doing what he does best: talking honestly about his place in the world, with a dash of comedy mixed in. The style that has become Carmichael’s signature is intimate and unimpressed by bullshit. For part of the monologue, he sat on the steps of the Golden Globes stage, seeming to address himself more than the audience. He didn’t bother entertaining PR defenses or delusions of grandeur. He talked about getting encouragement from the Golden Globes producer, Stephen Hill, who invited him to host. Hill insisted that Carmichael had earned the invitation with talent, charm, and singularity, not because he was Black. “But Stephen’s Black, so what does he know?” Carmichael asked. “They’re not going to tell him why he’s here, either.”

It was clear that many of the guests in attendance had prepared themselves for a graceful slide back into usual awards season form. They seemed ready to leave behind the controversy that weighed on Carmichael. There were few laughs, though there were plenty of genteel smiles.

Nobody in the room wanted to hear Hollywood’s uncomfortable truths. This sentiment was made most glaringly obvious when Carmichael introduced Jay Ellis and Glen Powell, two presenters and stars of Top Gun: Maverick. Carmichael joked about trading Tom Cruise’s returned Golden Globes for the safe return of Shelly Miscavige, the wife of the leader of Scientology, who hasn’t been seen publicly since 2007. Ellis and Powell then proceeded to deliver a dozen fawning jokes about Cruise while everyone pretended not to notice the dissonance.

In hosting, Carmichael bore the lonely responsibility of representing the awards show in its entirety. He needed to balance its aims against its hypocrisies, its stated values against its actual practices. He needed to entertain an increasingly drunk audience, celebrate the artists being honored, and speak truthfully about an institution that was paying him to flatter it.

It was a trap. And the only way out was to relinquish the ostensible goal of comedy — getting a giggle — in favor of the truer, more radical one — eradicating taboo to tell the truth. Hollywood’s taboos are firmly cemented, especially on nights like these, when celebrities and fans alike are accustomed to basking in the glamour. But Carmichael was, perhaps unintentionally, the perfect comedian for the moment. Whether or not the HFPA knew what they were doing, they hired the best person to call them on their bullshit. And if the Golden Globes are really back, which seems inevitable, at least Carmichael didn’t lift a finger to put the awards back up on their pedestal.●