The world may be falling apart around us, but we have somehow survived into 2025 and — yes — another awards season. First but also least is the Golden Globes, which through sheer determination and persistence has insinuated itself into cultural consciousness as something to set (nearly) next to the Oscars and the Emmys — from which it is, after all, indistinguishable as an overlong television broadcast on a major network, peopled with A-list celebrities in clothes they will wear once and dedicated to Hollywood self-celebration, of which there can never be too little.
That the Golden Globe Awards, whose 82nd edition aired Sunday night on CBS and streamed on Paramount+ from the Beverly Hilton, has a checkered past, and, indeed, a checkered present, does set it apart from other awards. The fact that its current proprietors, who bought the brand after the dissolution of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association, also own major trade magazines and a production company with films up for awards — might suggest to some the old term “conflict of interest.” (“Vertical integration” is the preferred euphemism, I believe.) This will surely not have mattered to anyone who tuned in to watch or, indeed, anyone sent home with an award, or to the wider ecosystem that profits materially from its mere existence. Indeed, the very concept seems to have faded from public discourse and concern.
In reviewing the Globes as television, there are really only two points of interest, especially given that the broadcast eschews production numbers, industry tributes and filmed comedy skits in favor of handing out as many awards as possible in three hours. One is whatever a winner or presenter might say or do that proves particularly moving or amusing or embarrassing. Indeed, embarrassment — or rather, lack of embarrassment over things that might be seen as embarrassing — is practically the theme of the Globes, which still sells itself as a party —though, like anything else that is supposed to be fun, that may be more in theory than practice. Really, to get in the supposed spirit of the thing, I should have gotten drunk to write this.
The other is the host. Nikki Glaser, who made Golden Globes history” as the first woman to host solo (Tina Fey and Amy Pohler having previously co-hosted); it also represents the passing of the torch to a new generation — in awards show hosting if not comedy world terms. Comedian, podcaster, reality TV host and sometime actor, Glaser is widely known; but her fame is not Tina and Amy fame, or Billy Crystal fame, or Jimmy Kimmel fame, hosts greeted with anticipation rather than skepticism. Glitz and glamour and crowd size notwithstanding, it was, in a sense, just another night in a comedy club, facing an unfamiliar audience daring her to make them laugh. At the same time, following last year’s host, Jo Koy, whose last-minute disastrous miscasting — reflecting the temporary toxicity of the Globes — gave Glaser, who workshopped her material at length before the gig, a leg up; things would have had to go very badly to have gone worse.
And they did not go badly at all; in fact, in the term of the trade, she killed. Her jokes were good, her delivery tight, she earned the good time she was clearly having. Glaser’s stand up can be pretty dark — her recent Golden Globe nominated but not winning special is titled “Someday You’ll Die” — and she became known for doing celebrity roasts. But she found a way to be lightly cutting and relatively inoffensive, just far enough above a community of which she is not exactly a part, taking gentle shots at individuals (“You have the most gorgeous eyelashes on your upper lip,” to Timothée Chalamet; a pot joke aimed at Harrison Ford, which seemingly did not impress him; to Zendaya, “You were incredible in ‘Dune,’ oh my God. I woke up for all of your scenes!”) and aiming a little harder at the industry at large, introducing the show as “Ozempic’s biggest night.”
“I’m absolutely thrilled to be your host tonight,” she said. “I gotta say, this feels like I finally made it. I’m in a room full of producers at the Beverly Hilton Hotel and this time all of my clothes are on.” And “I’m not here to roast you tonight — how could I, you’re all so powerful? You could really do anything, except tell the country who to vote for. It’s OK, you’ll do it next time.”
As last year, the production seemed arranged to sell the party idea, in ways more clumsy than effective. Many presenters were shown with the audience —seated as always at tables — behind them, a situation that did not please Seth Rogen (“I want to start by saying this whole angled camera thing is very weird. It’s inelegant, it’s strange, this whole half of the room can see my bald spot; I would have filled that in.”). Announcer Kevin Frazier, who missed no chance to remind you that this was Hollywood’s biggest party — as opposed, by implication, to the Oscars and Emmys, chained to their dull academies — chimed in with factoids about presenters and winners, like a wedding DJ working the crowd.
There were so many dropped cues, dead-air pauses and swallowed jokes among the presenters, it was almost as if they’d been instructed not to try too hard — keep it loose! That didn’t matter much; awards shows are the least interesting, anyway, when they become too reverential. Not every presentation was unserious; producers clearly judged that some categories could take more kidding than others, but it was always a relief when the kidding came back. Especially good in that respect were Rogen and Catherine O’Hara, joking about their fictional Canadian careers and awards (Golden Antlers, Gilded Gretzkes and the adult film award, the Beavers), and Awkwafina and Melissa McCarthy in a pickled introduction of nominated television comedies. Nate Bargatze and Jennifer Connelly were as funny as any Bargatze or Connelly fan would hope.
Of course, there were tears and moving speeches and pleas for the big guys to support the little guys; there was a pleasing mix of languages and accents. Crowd favorite Demi Moore, winner of female actor in a motion picture — musical or comedy, began by saying it was “the first time I’ve ever won anything as an actor,” recounting how the opportunity to star in “The Substance” came to her just as she had begun to think her career was over. “Shogun”‘s Tadanobu Asano, who won male actor in a supporting role on television, was a puppyish joy: “I’m an actor from Japan. My name is Tadanobu Asano. Wow! … This is [a] very big present for me, thank you so much! Thank you, everybody! I’m very happy! Thank you!” But only Kieran Culkin, winner of male supporting actor in a motion picture, carried the flag for old-school Globes behavior: “My wife and I did a shot of tequila with Mario Lopez, definitely feeling that,” he said. “Whole speech is gone.”
There is no way around the fact that three hours (and overtime) is a long while to stay focused on an awards show. There is apparently no way to make these things run any faster, but Glaser, who returned often to the stage, at least gave one the impression, between the duller stretches, that it was clipping along. The congratulatory telegrams should be pouring in.
