Walking into the event, the men at the escalators were quick to ask, "Do you want to do the red carpet? Because if you want to do the red carpet, you must go downstairs." Down an escalator and through the hall, the red carpet—a thing one might do—sat in between two sliding glass doors. It looked like red Astroturf and was flanked by cheap lattice covered in faux moss. The rug seemed ashamed. The reporters lining the carpet were largely of the "local news" variety. No one cares about the Writers Guild Awards.