Golden Globes 2026 — Booze, Cringe Jokes, and the First Cull of Awards Season

The 83rd Golden Globes wasn’t an awards show—it was a corporate penance ritual masquerading as a party. The new Hollywood Foreign Press Association (New Era™)—a name that sounds like a Silicon Valley PR firm specializing in reputation laundering—tried to sell us on the idea that, after years of bribes, nepotism, and yacht parties with accused abusers, they’re now the moral compass of the industry. Spoiler: they’re not. Their strategy boiled down to two foolproof pillars: million-dollar donations to progressive causes (so Twitter activists look the other way) and diversity committees (so the media writes puff pieces about how "inclusive" they are while ignoring that the ceremony is still a parade of white billionaires in $20,000 suits). But hey, if you repeat "equity" and "transparency" enough times while serving $500-a-pop Dom Pérignon, even The New York Times will swallow the story.

The night at the Beverly Hilton was, as always, a three-ring circus: the ring of awkward speeches, the ring of forced smiles, and the ring of presenters who looked like they’d been hired from a Fiverr cattle call. The booze flowed, glassy stares appeared by the second hour, and the attendees once again proved that their talent for chugging champagne far outstrips their ability to feign interest in monologues. But what did we expect? This isn’t a ceremony to celebrate cinema—it’s to remind us who runs Hollywood: the same old faces, just now armed with a PowerPoint on "social responsibility."

finalExplicado: "El clímax de la ceremonia llega cuando los presentadores, tras una ristra de chistes anodinos y seguros, intentan un último gag sobre “el fin del mundo” que cae en un silencio sepulcral. La cámara capta el pánico colectivo en los rostros de los ejecutivos y estrellas: nadie se ríe, nadie protesta, solo se aplaude por inercia. Es el momento exacto en que Hollywood se da cuenta de que ha castrado su propio veneno. Simbólicamente, ese silencio final significa la muerte definitiva del espíritu irreverente de la industria: la autocensura ha triunfado. Ricky Gervais, ausente, se convierte en el espectro que prueba que solo la acidez auténtica generaba vida; sin ella, solo queda un cadáver bien iluminado que todavía finge estar vivo."

The Presenters’ Faceplant: When the Jokes Are So Safe They Hurt

The night’s biggest failure—and the clearest symptom of Hollywood’s current cowardice—was its neutered humor. In a desperate bid to avoid another #CancelTheGlobes trending, the organizers opted for a script so white, bland, and sterilized it might as well have been written by a compliance-lawyer committee. Ricky Gervais, with his British acidity and disdain for industry hypocrisy, became the ghost haunting the Golden Globes: his absence was as palpable as the cold sweat on the writers’ brows as they crafted each joke. Because let’s be honest, who in their right mind would hire a presenter with fangs when you can have a Sesame Street muppet reciting PR talking points?

The examples were so painful they almost elicited pity:

• "You know what’s longer than Killers of the Flower Moon? Martin Scorsese’s thank-you list!" (Polite chuckles. Side-eye. Awkward silence.)


• "Leonardo DiCaprio is still single, but don’t worry—his next role is a man who finds love… on Mars." (DiCaprio, grinning like a man who’s known his love life has been the running gag of the Globes since 2000, nodded as if hearing his own death sentence.)


• "Did you notice all the Best Picture nominees are about the end of the world? What a coincidence—just like the film industry!" (The riskiest joke of the night. The room clapped out of habit. No one laughed.)

The problem wasn’t that the jokes were bad—they were—but that they were so generic they could’ve been recycled from any Globes in the last 20 years. Satire at the Golden Globes has always been a tightrope walk: mock the powerful without biting the hand that feeds you. But in 2026, that balance is broken. Now, the fear of offending is so great that even jokes about three-hour movies sound like treason. The result? A ceremony where the most transgressive moment was when a presenter tripped onstage and, for a second, seemed like he might swear. He didn’t. Hollywood doesn’t have the guts for that anymore.

Predictable Winners: The Awards Algorithm Is Set in Stone

If the night proved anything, it’s that awards season isn’t a competition—it’s a choreography. The Golden Globes are the first dress rehearsal before the Oscars’ big show, and this year’s script was written back in October. There were no surprises, just confirmation that certain films and names are untouchable, while the rest settle for being the fancy warm-up act on the road to the golden statuette.

#### The Triumph of Analog: Paul Thomas Anderson and His Purist Cult
Paul Thomas Anderson took home the Golden Globe for Best Drama for The Thread, a film critics hailed as "an homage to ’70s cinema, shot as if digital never existed." Translation: It’s a slow, pretentious movie with editing designed to make academics sigh and say, "Now this is cinema." Anderson, who’s spent years cultivating his tortured-genius image (and, coincidentally, is besties with several members of the new HFPA), proved once again that in Hollywood, prestige is inherited, not earned.

The Thread is the kind of film that splits critics into two camps:
1. Those who praise it as a masterpiece about loneliness, time, and human fragility (and, of course, use phrases like "visual textures" and "contemplative pacing").
2. Those who fall asleep 20 minutes in and leave the theater wondering if they just watched a movie or a high-budget art installation with overpriced actors.

But at the Globes, the first camp won. Because let’s be clear: in an industry obsessed with legacy, Anderson is the teacher’s pet. His film didn’t compete against other films—it competed against the weight of its own legend. And, as always, the legend won.

#### Chloé Zhao and the Neatly Packaged Period Drama
Chloé Zhao, the flavor of the month since her Oscar win for Nomadland, repeated her success with Hamnet, an adaptation of Maggie O’Farrell’s novel about William Shakespeare and his son who died at 11. The film, shot in that postcard-perfect British aesthetic that academics love (golden light, green landscapes, actors whispering poetic dialogue), won two Golden Globes: Best Actress for Jessie Buckley and Best Adapted Screenplay.

Buckley, who already proved in The Lost Daughter that she can steal scenes with a single frown, confirmed she’s the go-to actress for tormented women. Her acceptance speech was one of the few that sounded human: short, emotional, and free of forced shoutouts to "cinema’s power to change the world." In a night of corporate fakery, Buckley was an oasis of authenticity. Or at least, the closest thing to authenticity Hollywood allows.

#### Chris Hemsworth’s "Surprise": When Muscles Save the Show
The only moment the ceremony felt alive was when Chris Hemsworth took the stage to accept his Golden Globe for Best Actor in a Comedy or Musical for Furiosa. His performance as Dementus, the villain in the Mad Max prequel, was so over-the-top, so physical, so ridiculous it almost felt like performance art. Hemsworth, sporting a prosthetic nose that looked like it was lifted from a Simpsons episode, thanked the crowd with a grin that disarmed even the most jaded critic:

"I want to thank the prosthetics department for giving me a nose bigger than my acting range. And my personal trainer—without him, I couldn’t have survived three months eating raw meat and screaming in the desert."

It was the only joke of the night that didn’t sound like a corporate script. Hemsworth, aware his role was more physical than dramatic, laughed at himself and the industry, reminding us that sometimes, movies can be fun without pretending to be profound. For a moment, the Globes stopped being a gala funeral and became what they should always be: a party.

Television: The Kingdom of Algorithms and Streamers

If film at the Globes is a Game of Thrones of egos and prestige, TV is the streamers’ feudal system. HBO, Netflix, and Apple TV+ divvied up the awards with the precision of a recommendation algorithm, proving that in the streaming era, content isn’t rewarded—it’s distributed.

• Best Drama Series: Succession (HBO) — Because of course, what would the Globes be without a trophy for the Roy family?
• Best Comedy Series: The Bear (FX/Hulu) — A deserved win, but one that came with the bitter aftertaste of knowing Disney would’ve canceled it after one season without their backing.
• Best Actor in a Drama Series: Kieran Culkin for Succession — Because let’s be real, Roman Roy is the only TV character who makes capitalism look fun.
• Best Actress in a Comedy Series: Ayo Edebiri for The Bear — The only win of the night that didn’t feel like a formality. Edebiri, with her mix of vulnerability and strength, cemented herself as the new queen of dramedy.

The issue isn’t that these shows won—most deserved it—but that the selection process feels increasingly automated. Streamers spend millions on For Your Consideration campaigns, voters get gifts and VIP experiences (who said "Hamptons weekend with the Succession showrunners"?), and in the end, awards are handed out like market shares. HBO wins drama, Netflix wins comedy, and Apple TV+ takes home the "Best Show No One Watched But Sounds Important" prize.

The best

• Chris Hemsworth’s speech, which proved that in a night of fakery, a little self-deprecation and humor can save the show.
• The Beverly Hilton’s open bar, because without alcohol, celebrities would have to pretend to care about speeches instead of staring at their shoes like, "When does this end?"
• Jessie Buckley, the only actress of the night who didn’t sound like she was reading a UN press release.

The worst

• The opening monologue, so bland that even the teleprompters looked bored.
• The commercial breaks, which turned the ceremony into a marathon where the real prize was making it to the end without changing the channel.
• The hypocrisy of the new Hollywood Foreign Press Association, which keeps selling diversity while rewarding the same old faces.

The Verdict of Claqueta Ácida (5.5/10)