Awards season has arrived once again, with the 2025 Grammys kicking off the festivities in style; an estimated 25 million viewers tuned in for a night full of zingers from Trevor Noah, and live performances that served as reminders of why we still revere music’s brightest stars. The night was a stark contrast to the lull in entertainment that followed the Golden Globes, where the ferocious Los Angeles wildfires cast a literal and figurative shadow over the industry. Cities consumed by flames, whole communities displaced, and the film industry’s beloved hills charred; no one was in the mood to celebrate. But as the embers cooled and heroes in uniform fought to contain the devastation, it was clear that a return to normalcy was inevitable. And what better way to usher in that sense of rejuvenation than with the 30th Annual Critics Choice Awards.
Post-fire, this was the first major movie-centric show to take the stage, and its significance could not be overstated. The Critics Choice Awards had its work cut out for it; not only had it been postponed three times due to external calamities, but it was also scheduled for a less-than-optimal Friday evening slot, competing against the relentless dominance of NBA basketball and WWE Smackdown. Would it strike the right balance between acknowledging the previous month’s devastation and giving the entertainment world the much-needed jolt of levity it craved?
As the evening unfolded, the show seemed to lean heavily into both realms, yet never fully embraced either. Host Chelsea Handler, in her third turn at the helm, appeared as if she were performing a required duty rather than doing so with any genuine enthusiasm. Her monologue, which began with tributes to first responders before transitioning into what should’ve been a night of irreverent humor, largely faltered. One or two jokes landed; her riff on Cheryl Hines’ husband RFK Jr. or her questionable attraction to Ralph Fiennes in every role, including as a Nazi officer in Schindler’s List, made a few heads turn and laughs pour out; but the overall energy was flat. Handler’s fatigue was palpable, her once signature sharpness replaced with a sense of weariness.
The atmosphere didn’t help. The banter between presenters, mostly devoid of fire, felt more like a box to check than a moment to shine. Only Jimmy O. Yang, the self-deprecating comedian known for his turn as Jian-Yang on Silicon Valley, truly made the room feel alive, when he took to the mic with a genuinely funny, self-aware quip about being the only Asian in the room not nominated for Shogun. At last, someone seemed to remember that laughter is supposed to be the point.
But even Yang’s bright spot couldn’t erase the many missteps that followed. The night’s final presenter, Sacha Baron Cohen; disguised as himself rather than his infamous alter ego Borat; delivered one of the few genuine moments of levity, lampooning Adrian Brody and his latest film The Brutalist. The banter was sharp, fun, and it was no surprise that Brody, who appeared to be the only nominee truly enjoying himself, laughed along while tossing back tequila shots. We need more moments like this, please.
Perhaps the most significant issue with the Critics Choice Awards, aside from Handler’s evident detachment, is its underwhelming handling of the very awards it purports to celebrate. Unlike the Oscars, where actors, directors, and producers vote for their peers, the Critics Choice Association is composed of film scholars and journalists, often critics whose decades of study have earned them a distinctive place in the cinematic ecosystem. Yet this year, it was shocking to see how many critical awards were announced off-air, including major categories like Best Visual Effects for Dune 2 and Best Editing for Challengers. The omission felt like a slap in the face to those winners, who were left to quietly accept their honors behind closed doors, a disservice to both the films and their creators.
The evening’s surprises weren’t limited to missed moments. In a classic twist, Anora, a film that had previously left the night’s ceremony empty-handed, took home the night’s most coveted prize; Best Picture. The move was a moment straight out of an M. Night Shyamalan film, nobody saw it coming. The show’s attempts to mix humor and drama may have faltered, but at least the evening offered its share of unpredictable delight.
There were, however, flashes of brilliance amidst the misfires. Kathy Bates’s award for Best Actress in a TV Series was punctuated by a genuine and hilariously uncensored reaction; her exclamation of “Fuck!” as she rushed to the stage became the unintentional highlight of the night. But despite Bates’s shining moment, one has to wonder how much of her win was genuinely about her performance in Matlock, a series few seem to watch, and how much was a legacy award.
Among the evening’s more subdued victories, Nosferatu managed to win Best Cinematography; though that too was marred by a lack of any acknowledgment on stage, due to the time crunch that crippled the broadcast. The film’s absence from the televised portion spoke volumes about the Critics Choice Awards’ prioritization of time over celebration.
And then, of course, there was Wicked, which saw Jon M. Chu take home Best Director honors. It’s hard to reconcile this win with the film’s visual and directorial shortcomings. Wicked, for all its glitz, has been lambasted for its lack of cohesion and over-reliance on spectacle. In a year where over 300 new critics were added to the voting pool, one can’t help but wonder whether Wicked’s win was a product of social media buzz rather than genuine cinematic achievement.
Despite the occasional surprise or joyful moment, this year’s Critics Choice Awards felt like a tired echo of its former self. It was a night that couldn’t decide whether to solemnly reflect on the aftermath of disaster or joyously celebrate the industry it serves. Instead, it delivered a largely forgettable show, lacking the sharpness, fun, and urgency that made the Critics Choice Awards stand out in the past. A change is needed; this awards show needs fresh energy, new talent, and a sense of vitality that mirrors the very art form it’s meant to celebrate. Until that happens, the Critics Choice Association will remain stuck in the doldrums of business as usual, much like the industry it honors.
