For two whole minutes, the 2025 Golden Globes were glamorous and surprising. Demi Moore wafted on stage to collect her best actress award for the gonzo horror movie The Substance and spoke eloquently and emotionally about her fears, her self-doubt, and the occasional sadness of her Nineties fame. Then the Globes went back to being straitlaced, unexciting, and basically the Oscars.
Wicked, the populist fave, won a single award. The tedious, maddening musical Emilia Pérez swept the biggest categories. Relatively obscure arthouse films beat out Moana 2 and Nicole Kidman. Wins felt considered and often surprising. If this were the Oscars, there’d be little to complain about (well, apart from the eternally confusing Emilia love). But this was the Globes, long established as a Eurotrash panoply of chaos and nonsense. Without either, they hardly need to exist.
