There’s really no getting away from the fact that the most powerful red carpet fashion statement at any Golden Globes occurred in 2018, when almost all of the women who attended showed up in black gowns and tuxedo suits in solidarity with Time’s Up and #MeToo. So the coincidence that this year the ceremony took place the night before the start of a criminal trial of Harvey Weinstein, the man whose transgressions in part gave rise to the movement, was bound to add a certain scrutiny to what everyone decided to wear.
Would they continue what they had started, and try to make their clothes about more than just a pretty dress? Or would they return to the status quo, in part established by Mr. Weinstein, when fashion choices were driven more by brand marketing and money than by personal preference, and good taste and safety ruled? Would, in other words, the biggest trend of the night be an actual trend, or an idea?
When Jennifer Lopez, in a giant strapless Valentino ball gown with an even more giant Christmassy green and gold bow on the front, like an enormous gift-wrapped relic of the holiday (and red carpets) past, or an irresistible piece of meme bait, made her entrance, it appeared things were reverting to ye olde form — despite the fact the idea of women as presents just waiting to be uncovered supposedly went out with Victoria’s Secret.
But then things took a turn for the weirder. The men may have been playing it mostly safe this time around, Billy Porter in his version of the Bjork swan dress, a white tux swan train, detachable for sitting, excepted. (He just keeps raising the entrance stakes with every appearance, to the extent that it is hard to imagine what he will do next. The pressure!)
But the women were, as Tom Hanks said in his speech after receiving his Cecil B. DeMille Award, “going there.” Admittedly, he was talking about acting, not clothes, but the concept was the same.
So while there was a lot of red — because, you know, red carpets, royalty, etc., and why not, when it looks as good as it did on Helen Mirren (in Dior), Scarlett Johansson (in Vera Wang), Nicole Kidman (Versace) and Zhao Shuhzen — and a lot of not-trying-too-hard black and white, especially in very simple black and white strapless columns (hello, Zoë Kravitz in Saint Laurent, Greta Gerwig in Proenza Schouler, Reese Witherspoon in Roland Mouret, Cynthia Erivo in Thom Browne), it was the mega-sleeve that dominated. The more exaggerated, space-taking-up, the better. Out of the way, buster!
See, for example, the power puffs on Dakota Fanning’s lilac Dior, and Lucy Boynton’s metallic Louis Vuitton; the emerald green flying buttresses of Jodie Comer’s Mary Katrantzou and the blood red balloon sleeves of Olivia Colman’s Emilia Wickstead. See the steroid-fueled leg o’muttons of Bel Powley’s Miu Miu, and the fantastic flutes on Zoey Deutch’s bright yellow plunge-neck Fendi jumpsuit, which looked both like a coronation robe and utterly contemporary.
See the winged victory pleats of Cate Blanchett’s gold Mary Katrantzou, curling around as if they were about to unfurl, paired with a crystal bra/harness. Harnesses being another unexpected accessory of the evening, thanks to Kerry Washington’s Altuzarra tux ’n’ chains (Timothée Chalamet wasn’t there in person, but he was, apparently, in spirit). Armor or meta-comment on breaking free?
Probably both. Either way, a little unsettling. But that was all to the good. Because the most striking, memorable, styles of the night were not easy-to-digest dresses. They weren’t even necessarily all that flattering. They were challenging. They were gloriously, sometimes ridiculously, risky. Sometimes they were just ridiculous. And that was totally fine. In fact, it was a relief.
They included Joey King doing her best impression of oscillating sound waves in Iris Van Herpen’s “Dichotomy cape-dress” (so-dubbed by the brand and a name that sounds like the refrain of the moment), and Charlize Theron doing her version of the Jolly Green Amazon in one-shouldered Dior goddess drapes over a peekaboo black corset: a little bit citrus grove, a little bit in-your-face-fleshy.
And they included Gwyneth Paltrow in a sheer, high-neck, multi-tier mulch brown gown by Fendi that revealed — well, undies, ab muscles, multiple Bulgari diamond necklaces, you get the idea — called to mind some sort of Cher continuum, and may well get her on all sorts of worst dressed lists.
What, it was hard not to wonder (a lot of social media was wondering), was she thinking? What was that?
Here’s my guess: the polar opposite of that sugar-pink Ralph Lauren dress she wore in 1999 when she accepted her best actress Oscar for the Weinstein-orchestrated Miramax film “Shakespeare in Love.” A declaration of independence from anyone who would presume to tell her what was the right thing to wear — the thing that might further her career, or nab her that lucrative brand contract, or toe the classic line. A nod to the fact that she has built an entire business post-Harvey, all on her own, and doesn’t have to rely on any power broker any more. She is the power broker.
And if she wants to wear something that leaves everyone else scratching their heads … well, she is in a position to do that.
It’s about time.
