When I first read that Judi Dench and Maggie Smith were in a movie about pensioners going to India I started to worry. Then a couple of discerning friends saw The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel and came home raving.

Still, I needed to know how the film portrayed older people. You know, people like us? Would we want to be them? What I meant was, would you call the characters adorable (ick) or attractive (yay). Were they getting a little daft?

Were they airbrushed and stretched to the max?  Or had they stopped obsessing about their necks?

Hollywood is not known for being respectful, let alone real, about older people. It’s like movie makers want to disassociate themselves with getting old. Like, they couldn’t possibly relate.  So every time movie characters are said to be of a certain age, I expect to squirm.

I want them to be romantically inclined but not desperately randy. I don’t want them to all be Senior Olympians but I don’t want them to all  need a hand to cross the street.  And please don’t let them be timid. Or terribly cranky.

I don’t want them to wear rubber shoes and granny panties.  I want them to be hip and wise, not petted and pathetic.  I want to laugh with them, not at them.

It’s all about PR. You don’t want people in your same time zone making aging look bad.

Shortly into Marigold my friend whispered, “I like that they have their own faces.”  The actors, in their 60s and 70s, have been around for a long time. As have their faces and bodies.   You can hope that younger people might look at those creases and gray hair on the big screen and get the idea that this is what naturally happens in the normal life cycle. Not just to their grandparents but to fine and famous actors. And that’s okay.

Then you have the Marigold characters, people who’ve been disappointed in life and facing some scary unknown, but are trying to cope. Or as Judi Dench’s Evelyn says, to not just cope, but thrive.

Another good line: “If everything works out in the end and things haven’t worked out, it must not be the end.”  At least it trumps, “Life is short and then you die.”

Some call it The Big Chill for Geezers but what’s wrong with that? I’d love to have those people over for a house party.

After I turned off my ageist radar I relaxed with the story. I was particularly struck by how kind some of the characters were. Wouldn’t it be nice if you became more compassionate the longer you lived on the planet?

The big challenge in getting older, of course, is not to panic, which isn’t easy because there are a lot of things that can go wrong. But a lot that can go right, too, even without proper planning.

If the retirement savings go to hell and the pension goes bust and they kill  Social Security maybe we could move to a run-down palace in Jaipur where the locals  seem to like Americans.  And, I might add, where the fashion is far from fuddy-duddy. Those long scarves and dresses over pants are rather flattering on the mature body. And seem just made for hopping on a motorcycle.

There’s a new trend in women’s faces and it’s called real. Hollywood no longer wants faces that look unnatural, according to a story in the New York Times. Talent agents are advising their clients to avoid cosmetic surgery. Some directors are even saying no to obviously augmented breasts. Having a hard time finding believable faces in LA some casting directors are going to England and Australia. And get this – they especially appreciate older faces that look honestly mature.

Be still my pacemaker. This is good news, although I wouldn’t want to be a Hollywood hopeful swathed in bandages coming out of anesthesia and read that I could have saved a bundle and retained the family nose.

Yet it is encouraging when Hollywood, which sets an impossible beauty standard for actors as well as ordinary people, suddenly declares a newfound love for character lines.

They toy with us, these image makers. They say old is ugly and young is beautiful and skinny is even more beautiful. And foreheads shouldn’t move and necks should be long and chins firm. And then one day they yawn and say perfection is so boring.

And why should we non-movie stars care what someone in LA decrees is good box office? I guess it’s because as a culture we sometimes lapse into being vain and insecure and turn our attention from important things to wonder if life would be more fun if we looked like Julia Roberts.

This new Hollywood trend is akin to the fashion industry changing its mind every season, proclaiming that bell bottoms are back just as you’ve invested in new skinny jeans.

But this whimsical yearning by Hollywood for the new natural is more diabolical, it being a lot easier to alter hemlines than a profile.

Any trend toward natural obviously hasn’t been heard by those standing in line for the latest anti-aging cream, including one hotly advertised beauty product said to make eyelashes as lush as a cocker spaniel’s but which, in some cases, can cause permanently discolored eyelids and change blue eyes to brown.

When I was in my 20s I went to an eyelash salon in New York where someone applied individual long lashes over my own skimpy ones. I felt fabulous for about a week. And then my eyes started to itch and the new lashes all fell out, taking the old ones with them. Fortunately my lashes grew back, teaching me to be grateful for short stubbies and good mascara.

Lynn Redgrave didn’t look like a movie star and still did all right. An obituary for the British actress included an early description of her by critic Rex Reed. He wrote that she was “Treetop tall, all kneecaps, with hair that never seems to have met a stylist, a little round mouth invented for devouring hot fudge sundaes and a chubby figure that changes weight according to her mood.”

You can imagine Redgrave and her agent wincing when they read that, but considering her long, varied career I bet she came to enjoy her distinctive non-star looks.

There’s a lot to be said about a person who is more than another pretty face which is a good thing to remember when the image-makers change their mind again. And they probably will, declaring real was interesting but Barbie’s better.

Hollywood award shows are my guilty pleasure, a dip into the world of gossip and glitz, like reading People magazine at the hair salon.

I know much of the real world is suffering while we sit there celebrating people who have no worry keeping their homes (plural) and likely have good health care. And I know that those gorgeous dresses and stunning baubles are likely borrowed for the evening. And a lot of these perfect bodies include fake parts and are enhanced by hair extensions and spray-on tans plus a Botox booster for the night. But I still like looking at them.

The man in my house avoids Hollywood award shows. He likes movies, fine, and pays some attention to who is nominated for what. And it’s not like he didn’t notice when Al Pacino started dying his hair.

But he really can’t stand the hoopla. He calls them cringers – garish and embarrassing. He’d rather watch a ball game or “The Pianist” on DVD for the fifth time. I point out that the Oscars are a healthy diversion from the news shows we watch every night and I’d rather hear Alec Baldwin tell dumb jokes than some of those actors in Washington who keep mouthing the same rehearsed rant. I bet even Rachel Maddow sneaks a peek at the Oscars.

But you don’t want to sit alone and feel guilty about indulging in three hours of Hollywood jabber, which is why someone invented Oscar parties. Restaurants and bars throw Academy Award events, encouraging participants to dress like their favorite star. I prefer the at-home parties at a friend’s house which is kind of a combination Super Bowl party and book club meeting. Food, drink, people talking over each other and yelling back at the television.

You can count on someone to have done her research and to intelligently debate, with references, the artistic relevance of “Avatar” versus “The Hurt Locker.” I’m not as intellectual. To me, the choice is simple. I’d much rather mingle with blue people than watch soldiers explode.

And can we talk about which guy over 50 in a hit film – Alec or Jeff -showed the bigger bare beer belly?

Movie award shows bring America together. Liberals and conservatives. Old and young. We all have different tastes, but we all watch movies. For one night MSNBC and Fox News types tune into the same channel. We might never agree on off-shore oil drilling but we might find common ground in Meryl Streep.

Another reason I like film award shows is because I know the players. I feel like I’m part of the culture. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t happen with music award shows which make me ask “who are these people?”

Plus you never know when actors are going to depart from the teleprompter and say something political or roll their eyes over the competition or forget to thank their mothers. And act like, you know, real folk.

The guy who doesn’t like the Oscars objects to the crude jokes, the silly talk about fashion, the extravagant display of wealth and celebrity.

I could remind him that George Clooney helps raise money for Darfur.