The show is over, but the after-party rages on. Join the Grantland staff as we try to piece together the events of the 71st Annual Golden Globe Awards.

Justice for Amy

Andy Greenwald: Just after 9:30 p.m. on the East Coast, Andy Samberg won the Golden Globe for best actor in a television comedy. To say he was surprised would be an understatement. On a night when acting flustered was more de rigueur than awareness ribbons, Samberg seemed legitimately stunned. Don’t get me wrong: I was happy for him. He’s a funny guy who’s having fun playing a snarky cop while learning to play well with others. He seems like a good dude. He’s married to a harpist. But even considering the Golden Globes’ obsession with hot new things (see Homeland in 2012, Girls a year ago), this seemed preposterous. Brooklyn Nine-Nine could very well be deserving of awards at some point in the future. But after 12 episodes, it’s not yet anything other than a new comedy with good bones, great genes, and a better-than-average chance of success. In other words, it’s Sosie Bacon, not Kevin.

At 9:35 p.m. I tweeted this:

I understood, of course, that the two weren’t in direct competition with each other. In fact, no one probably cheered louder for her old SNL pal Samberg than Poehler herself. She’s that kind of person. Generous, friendly, and self-effacing to a fault, Poehler is the sort of professional who constantly deflects credit to others and is willing to make out with a 53-year-old lizard in purple shades if a throwaway bit demands it. She’s more than willing to take one for the team. Her work on and off the set with Parks and Recreation proves she’s willing to take everything for the team.

But who cares about that? Nice people lose at stuff all the time. What galled me was the fact that Poehler, one of the best comic talents of her generation — a fact she was proving live and in real time on that very stage — had never been recognized with the arbitrary, silly, and yet still somehow meaningful bestowal of a Hollywood trophy. Like Steve Carell before her, Poehler appeared doomed to be ignored for doing so many little things so well, for taking each one of those little things — be it dressing up as Tina Fey’s adult son or, in Leslie Knope, crafting one of the sweetest, strongest characters in recent television history — so seriously that it became easy to forget how they eventually added up into something huge and brave and inspiring.

It didn’t seem fair. It didn’t seem right. And, weirdly, the universe agreed.

21 minutes later:

Parks and Recreation may remain under-respected and winless — Brooklyn Nine-Nine, insanely, took that category last night, too. But at least its star got to have a little shine. I’m going to choose to believe that the Golden Globe for best actress in a TV comedy — a nonsense award handed to Amy Poehler by a shadowy cabal of Dutch gossip bloggers and Corsican ombudsmen — is more than just a reflection of a great year of TV acting. It’s an international thank-you for giving us a decade of fierce and hilarious joy. It’s definitive proof that Amy Poehler is a global treasure, even if only small, extremely specific groups of committed, antisocial weirdos — live-tweeters, TV critics, and now the Hollywood Foreign Press Association — are able to recognize it.

Random Thoughts on the Golden Globes

Molly Lambert:

• So many guys had ponytails and buns. It was one of those unpredictable trends that becomes obvious when you see a convergence of so many man buns in one place. I had just been wondering what happened to all those Gallery Girls topknots that were so prevalent in hip neighborhoods a couple years ago, and now I know: They affixed themselves to Jared Leto’s head. Sadly, Leonardo DiCaprio has a regular haircut right now, so we didn’t get to see him wear a formal headband. I’m not even being an asshole right now; I would actually be so into it if he wore a headband to the Oscars. I love headband Leo.

• The Woody Allen tribute was uncomfortable for a lot of reasons. Woody wasn’t there. The Vanity Fair profile of Mia from earlier this year was the elephant in the room. I felt embarrassed for Diane Keaton when she sang, because she was still addressing somebody who probably wasn’t even watching. It was too much like when Clint Eastwood talked to that chair. In support of his sister Dylan, Ronan Farrow tweeted, “Missed the Woody Allen tribute – did they put the part where a woman publicly confirmed he molested her at age 7 before or after Annie Hall?”

• Back to Leo: Did you notice he kept gesturing with his thumb like Bill Clinton? This made me think he might actually make a great Bill Clinton in a biopic. Bill Clinton doesn’t need a pussy posse because he is a one-man pussy posse.

• Jessica Lange is so cool, and gives such great side-eye.

• Joanna Newsom is also so cool, and I wish she had written and sung the songs for Frozen. Can we get her to do the music for a Pixar movie about the evolution of life on Earth?

• I’m glad Amy Adams won, and I still stan for her, but her speech was pretty actressy and a lil’ bit rehearsed-sounding, and y’all know Jennifer Lawrence would have gone face-down in that red-carpet sewage pile and still managed to come back up smelling like sweet ’n’ sour nail polish and making everyone laugh.

• I just realized that Tina Fey’s quip about there being “a special place in hell” for Amy Poehler after she won for Parks and Rec was not supposed to be faux jealousy, but a reference to Taylor Swift’s response to Fey and Poehler’s jabs at her when they hosted last year. Fey and Swift will be best friends by next week because they both know the code of the junior-high girl, although they’ll both obviously uphold omertà. Keep your friends close and your frenemies closest.

• Remember, kids, these were the fun awards. It’s only going to get longer and more airless as the serious nominations start. You’ll be longing for the wooden presenter banter and overlong best picture sizzle reels when you’re watching a 10-minute interpretative dance number about Wall Street traders, astronauts, and slavery.

The Death of the Mani-Cam

Emily Yoshida: Two years ago, the cinematographic masterminds behind E!’s red-carpet coverage debuted what was to be their most feared and respected weapon yet: More targeted than the 360 Glam Cam, more zeitgeisty than Glam Central Station, the Mani-Cam was to capitalize on the Hot Hollywood Nail Art Trend, both documenting the ombrés and whimsical half-moon articulations and and encouraging their relevancy in the wider culture. Was Big Nail behind this? Was Zooey Deschanel getting some kind of payout? We may never know. All that is clear is that as soon as the Mani-Cam made its big debut, nail art on the red carpet quickly fell out of vogue, with a lone Deschanel still carrying the whimsy flag in her jewel-daisy adorned hands. The Mani-Cam, suddenly faced with an onslaught of dull taupes and tasteful glosses, became the Bling Cam by default, forced into taking shots of $1 million Jacob the Jeweler cocktail rings — fine work, but a far cry from the reason it got into this business.

And then, as if to mock its fall from grace, in walked soon-to-be Globe winner Elisabeth Moss. Elisabeth had always wanted to walk the Mani-Cam, she told Giuliana Rancic. She was excited. For the first time in so long, the Mani-Cam felt wanted, felt like it could finally do the job it had been put on this earth to do.

R.I.P., Mani-Cam, 2012—14, brought down once and for all by the burgundy-lacquered middle finger of Peggy Olson. You dared to ask us to rise to the artistic challenge of your demanding lens, and we shrank back in fear, hiding behind mockery and snark. We never deserved you, Mani-Cam. Long live Stiletto Cam.

Bisset: A Long Walk to the Podium

netw3rk: Here’s a time-saving idea for next year’s Golden Globes: a robotic crane arm that comes down from the ceiling, lifts the winners from their seats, and transports them to the stage like one of those games at an arcade. The Beverly Hilton Hotel bar begins serving at 2:30 in the afternoon, followed by a champagne dinner at 3:30. By the time the show goes to air, the earth’s entertainment elite have been pickling for nearly three hours in an atmosphere of pure alcohol. It’s simply too much to ask the likes of, say, Jacqueline Bisset to navigate a serpentine path of seemingly several hundred yards across a crowded banquet hall, all the while trying not to elbow the Harvey Weinsteins of the world in the head, before finally arriving at the stage to try to squeeze in a rambling speech under the walk-off music shot clock.

The Gospel Album According to Matthew

Wesley Morris: Once upon a time (like, as recently as 2010), Matthew McConaughey seemed stuck in the mud. In 2013, he starred in a movie called Mud, and now people want him to touch them as they did in 1996. Where barely matters. In lieu of flesh, he might consider our ears. Right now, he can be heard at the end of The Wolf of Wall Street humming and talking his way through the cave-mannish “The Money Chant,” which is as close as McConaughey might ever come to Bruce Willis and Laurie Anderson at the same time.

In any case, last night he received his Golden Globe, for best actor in a drama. He took the statue from the daughter of Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick and did a low, tribal-looking “What’s up, homie?” dance move with Jessica Chastain. He then proceeded to use his drawl to give a speech of such idiosyncratic deliciousness that you could taste both mesquite and weed. You could also hear the start of something wonderful and musical and possibly produced by Questlove. In green velvet and with orange skin, he spoke of love, of rebirth, of his mama, of commitment. He did so with some stank, a little soul, and a little more sweat.

Adapted from the speech, here is a track list from his upcoming gospel album, The McConaissance:

• “Alrite Alryght Alriiiiiight”
• “Unexpected But Graciously Accepted”
• “Mr. Redford, Mr. Hanks”
• “Idris”
• “Chiwetel”
• “86 Times”
• “Skin In the Game”
• “Here It Is”
• “Wouldntna Come 2 Me”
• “Kick My Ass Out the Door”
• “Go Git It (McCona-Hey!)”
• “My King”
• “Yes Ma’am”
• “Just Keep”

Julia Louis-Dreyfus: Queen of the Pained Smile

John Lopez: Even with a booze budget as limitless as the Hollywood Foreign Press’s, you can never totally numb the undercurrents of pathos and schadenfreude that electrify any awards show. But the cameras are rolling and roving, so everyone has to be ready at a moment’s notice with their go-to pained smile. As mere mortals, we don’t appreciate how truly hard that is — we’re watching a room of pros. Whether it’s Joaquin Phoenix stone-facing Fey and Poehler’s monologue wing shot or Sandra Bullock’s polite guffaw at Alfonso Cuarón’s awkward herpes joke (or even Lorne Michaels cat-grinning when Andy Samberg smugly thanked the “team”), there’s a master class to be had in enigmatic grins.

Those who follow Veep, however, know who the true da Vinci of the double-edged smile is. Julia Louis-Dreyfus is so good at subtext-laden reaction shots that Tina Fey and Amy Poehler enlisted her for a running gag about her seating choices. But the third beat in the riff culminated with a reaction shot of such comedic elegance it deserved a Golden Globe — hell, an Oscar: JLD flashing her megawatt teeth during Amy Poehler’s victory speech for best actress in a comedy series. Total commitment to a bit or genuine envy bottling? Who knows and who cares! Just admire those eyes glimmering with almost maternal satisfaction at the underappreciated Poehler’s win while the tension in her shoulders screams “I could cut you.” Perfectly conveying two contradictory emotions with just the slight cock of a head: Now that’s acting. The new season of Veep can’t come fast enough.

Julia Louis-Dreyfus for Blu E-Cigarettes

Tess Lynch: Julia Louis-Dreyfus’s handling of an e-cigarette was my favorite since Real Housewives of Beverly Hills Allison Dubois’s. I wish it had been a g-pen vaporizer, because that would have added a nice layer to her hot dog snarfing.

GO TO HELL AND DON’T COME BACK

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Alex Pappademas: Because I wish them only the worst, I like to think this moment of screen-frosting marital chilliness represents the immediate aftermath of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin both simultaneously realizing they’re married to a loathsome person.

The Leonardo DiCaprio Supermodel Joke That Broke the Globes

Amos Barshad: Last night, we got our latest opportunity to be thankful that the live-broadcast bleeping machine is not yet operated by infallible artificial-intelligence future-robots. While the censors tried to go after Jacqueline Bisset’s “shit” and went totally overboard wiping out Diane Keaton’s “goddamn,” their paws lay dormant for Tina Fey’s great quip. And so, as our man Leo strolled onstage, she got to let go an unencumbered perfect few words: “And now, like a supermodel’s vagina, let’s all give a warm welcome to Leonardo DiCaprio.” Was it the slow roll that tricked ’em? Or did Tina’s scientifically proper nomenclature get her a free pass? Either way, it was the second part of the proceedings that elevated us to great new heights. In this case, Leo’s first thumbs-up was, relatively, run-of-the-mill: He recognizes his name, he acknowledges the substance of the crack, he realizes that, as a good sport, he must pay homage. But his heretofore unprecedented second thumbs-up? That’s just a guy taking a beat, letting brilliance sink in, then giving it up to a master. Peak Leo. Peak Fey. Staggered Double Thumbs-Up to this whole thing.

Hollywood Gets Rechristened, Courtesy of Amy Poehler

Zach Dionne: On the first day, Amy Poehler created Tam Honks. She then placed upon the earth …

Byron Craisin and Beryl Sweep
Math Damian and Donny Jeep
Barley Cooper and Muggle Douglas
Kale Blanchett and Jokin’ Phonics
Tanning Chatum and Bike Jonze
Alexander T-Payne and Spliff Combs
and, of course, Philomania

Leto, Let Go

Sean Fennessey: In October, I wrote in defense of the actor and musician Jared Leto, with tongue-in-cheek reverence. Leto is a laughingstock, or was, even though he’s been a relatively successful and diverse performer ever since he first arrived as a swoop of hair and puppy-dog eyes on My So-Called Life 20 years ago. His fame has risen and fallen among different audiences over the years — the older you get, the more ridiculous he seems. And yet, Leto — who won the best supporting actor Golden Globe last night, for his performance as Rayon in Dallas Buyers Club — has never been taken more seriously than during this awards season. And of course, he is working it in ways only he can. He wore his exquisite hair in a Yojimbo ponytail bun, like Melrose Avenue’s one true samurai come to save all the flaxseed. During his acceptance speech, he fumbled his way through a gag about bikini waxes, at one point literally purring, “Ladies, you know what I’m talking about,” without acknowledging any of his movie’s complicated themes. Jared Leto can only be Jared Leto.

As Leto chattered on, Colin Farrell — unrecognized for his laborious supporting turn in Saving Mr. Banks — watched with perfectly over it disaffection, like a cat bored by the sunlight.

Here’s the thing, though: This wasn’t purely professional jealousy. Farrell and Leto have some history.

That, of course, is a deftly edited fan-cut of Leto and Farrell’s scenes from Alexander, set to 30 Seconds to Mars’s “Attack.” These two men were lovers before this war. Farrell didn’t beam the way peers sometimes do when their pals are celebrated. This was a complex detachment. He sat blankly, thinking of nothing at all, or maybe secretly the pain he hoped Leto might suffer.

Whether Leto’s flip speech and Jesus Christ pose will have any bearing on his Oscar chances is immaterial. Whether he wins or not, he will still wake up the next morning and continue to live the life of Leto. Either way, he should not expect a call from Colin Farrell.