So SAG's fucked. Wait—did we say "fucked?" There we go again—needless doomsday prophesying where Obaman cool-headedness is clearly required. What we meant to say is: "SAG's probably fucked." Yesterday brought a confluence of Pop Culture Doomsday events that not even a walrus blowing like Bird could have foretold:
Just days after we learned the kinda-sorta true details of a secret summit called by SAG president Alan Rosenberg and attended by the A-list dons of Hollywood's acting Cosa Nostra, tensions between the union and producers have reached a rolling boil. With 120,000 strike-authorization ballots being readied for mailing—each sealed individually by the scarred, arid tongue of Rosenberg himself—both sides have issued blistering written attacks accusing the other of the kind of selfishness typically associated with junket reporters asking innocuous questions of Philip Seymour Hoffman. First came a Rosenberg-penned missive on Thanksgiving eve, in which the blustery thespians' rights crusader rebuked producers for relying on that old "there's a gigantic recession coming" excuse:
Just when we thought nothing much had changed in the narcoleptic parallel universe of SAG contract negotiations, we're hearing now that the union's saber-rattlers are finally bringing the heavy weaponry to bear on their studio nemeses: A recent dinner hosting Jack Nicholson, Meryl Streep, Warren Beatty and other influential legends reportedly gave the blessing for a crippling actor's strike. (UPDATE: Not at this meeting, anyway — Sharon Waxman has retracted her original story. More after the jump.)A more formal strike authorization will be sought from SAG's 120,000 members in the weeks ahead, but as Sharon Waxman hinted late Monday, when Hollywood royalty gathers secretly to help drop-kick the industry into another winter of chaos, what's really left to vote on?