Awards Season Has Arrived

You know something’s going right with your evening when it kicks off with a chauffeur leaping out of a sleek black Audi and holding the door open for you.  Yes, awards season has well and truly arrived; the highlight so far being Slumdog Millionaire’s string of successes at Sunday’s Baftas. But also in London was the 29th Film Critic Awards last Wednesday. And this (unprecedented in my life) aforementioned exhibition of graceful  luxury set the tone perfectly for the awards ceremony held in the Grosvenor Hotel, Park Lane.

The night started with a champagne reception in a room adorned by black and white pictures of Marilyn, Cary and other carved-in-stone legends from a bygone era.  One wall was covered entirely in silver shimmer; this combined with several massive footlights, bustling photographers and the ‘oh! I’ve just rubbed myself against you’ crowdedness made for the feel of a very Hollywood lock-in. My friend and I spent most of our time pursuing, by various athletic shimmies, trays of champagne.

It wasn’t long before we were ushered into a grand room, where chandeliers twinkled from high ceilings and fifty tables laid with wine, water and starters beckoned people to their places. Chair of the Film Critic Awards, Jason Solomons, got things rolling from the stage, promising a ceremony that was ‘fast, efficient and decisive.’ He name-checked a few of the stars, dramatically patronising English born, French émigré, Kristen Scott-Thomas: ‘We drive on the right here, no Euros!’ which caused a great roar of laughter.

Mariella Frostup and Paul Gambaccini took their positions as hosts and, true to the words of him with the key to the xenophobic joke store, rattled through proceedings with good natured chemistry.

Slumdog Millionaire won three awards: Attenborough Film of the Year, British Director of the Year and Screenwriter of the Year. The Wrestler also did well winning Film of the Year and Actor of the Year for Mickey Rourke. The latter, whose famed and touching return to form after years in self-destruct mode, laughed with relief and rambled happily as he accepted his award via videolink, all the while stroking Loki, a Chihuahua terrior that goes most places with him.

The grand finale came with The Dilys Powell Award for Excellence in Film which went to Dame Judi Dench, but not before she had been eloquently introduced by David Gritten of The Daily Telegraph and Halliwell’s Film Guide. His praise was brimming with respect, until, with the euphoria of a man reaching the crescendo of his efforts, he announced, ‘the critic’s annual service goes to…errr…annual award‘ and with that he turned and lowered his head to an anguished fist.

After a gripping montage of her celluloid achievements, Dame Judi – clad in black velvet and smaller than she seems on screen – received her award with typical grace, adding with an understated smile, ‘I’m thrilled about the service.’

And so concluded the irreverent, rapid-fire awards ceremony delivered and received with sincerity and charm. These results have been somewhat swallowed by the Baftas and no doubt they will be by the forthcoming, preened US elephant that is the Oscars, but no-one has a greater verbal appreciation for film than a critic, so for integrity mixed in with the glamour, the critics’ vote is choice.