Man about town ... Philip Seymour
Hoffman and Mimi O'Donnell.
Photograph: Chris Jackson/Getty
Lesson one from last night's Baftas: nominations are not awards.
Barely a month ago it looked as though The Constant Gardener was all set to mop up at the annual British Academy shindig, bucking the trend of all those tiresome Stateside events that seemed hell-bent on lavishing their praise on Brokeback Mountain. At the time, Fernando Meirelles's British-backed, Africa-set thriller led the field with 10 nominations. Last night it converted that glittering promise into one lone concession prize (for best editing). The big winner, needless to say, was the film about the cowboys.
Lesson two from last night's Baftas: actors are not the characters they play.
This, of course, is a truth that movie stars have been stressing for as long as the movies have existed. Anthony Perkins did not, like, really dress up in his mother's clothes and stab women in the shower, and Woody Allen (if he is to be believed) is not actually a neurotic New Yorker with a penchant for younger women. But this year's crop of nominees could almost be accused of protesting too much.
First, Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal went out of their way to explain that their acclaimed impersonation of closeted gay ranch-hands was simply that. Then last night we had the faintly queasy spectacle of the (otherwise admirable) Philip Seymour Hoffman trumpeting his hetero credentials while accepting his best actor award for Capote. Hoffman may have managed a pitch-perfect rendition of an eccentric homosexual writer in the film, but in the flesh he is all man - with a bona-fide girlfriend to boot. "I want to say I love her and that she looks really hot," Hoffman declared from the stage. Presumably it was only the presence of said girlfriend that stopped him inviting all the bodacious ladies in the audience back to his hotel room for a little late-night partying.
Lesson three: the Baftas are Oscar's dress rehearsal
This is something that has been suspected for some time. I have always felt a vague sympathy for the Golden Globes, which find themselves discussed only in terms of the pointers they offer as to who is going to win at the Academy Awards. But it seems this sympathy is misplaced, and that the Oscar rivals are here to praise Oscar and not to bury it. Their success - indeed, their whole reason for being - appears to be down to how accurately they anticipate the Academy Awards that follow them.
So rather than honouring The Constant Gardener (as the nominations suggested they would), the Baftas fell into line and honoured Brokeback Mountain instead. If last night's awards are duplicated on March 5, Brokeback Mountain will scoop best film and director, while Philip Seymour Hoffman and Reese Witherspoon will be take the acting Oscars. Right now all of this seems entirely probable, and yet it gives the awards calendar a machine-tooled, identikit feel that turns every star-spangled, red-carpet parade into Groundhog Day. Maybe it is time to officially merge these events into one big ceremony: the Golden Baftascars. In the meantime it's becoming harder and harder to tell them apart.
