Farewell, 2025 Oscars. Thank you.

For reasons I can’t quite explain, I booked a 6 a.m. flight to Seattle the day after the Oscars—the very event that had served as my deadline, my motivation to write, for the past two months. I don’t drink anymore, so a hangover wasn’t a concern, but an early morning departure certainly undercut any celebration. I started packing shortly after the show to head home to Washington—-—a place where I can rest, reflect, and process the whirlwind of the last two months.

So far, 2025 has been a relentless slog into uncertainty—a gut punch of a year in many ways—but also one of the most significant of my life.

“How can you say that so early in?” some might ask.

Because I measure it not in time, but in action. My goal was simple: watch the films, share my thoughts, and post them. Everything outside of that was noise. And yet, in watching these films, I found something unexpected: courage. I sat through Q&A after Q&A with filmmakers who put themselves out into the world—not for awards, but for the sake of making art. And what struck me most was the realization that these directors, writers, and animators are not some untouchable elite. They are people who could be my colleagues, my neighbors. They are artists not because they were anointed by some higher creative force, but because they decided to make something and see it through.

That, in the end, is what matters. It’s what applies to anything we do—creative or otherwise. I love writing, so I will write. I love filmmaking, so I will find a way to do it. There will always be obstacles, but success is about perseverance—about knowing what we can and cannot control. The greatest lesson I took away from this experience is the simplest one: just do the thing. My biggest achievement in my young writing career isn’t any single review or essay; it’s that I launched this website and followed through. I finished the project. I was afraid, and now I’m not.

Over 58 days, I watched 46 films—every nominee in every major category (with the exception of Alien: Romulus for Editing and Gladiator II for Costuming). I wrote about all of them.

You don’t have to wait for permission. Just do the thing. Finish the project.

Conan O’Brien Was Electric

Let’s address the giant redhead in the room: Conan O’Brien is one of the great comedic voices of our time. A once-in-a-generation writer and performer, he brings an unmatched combination of charisma, self-awareness, and sharp wit. Even when a joke doesn’t land, his sheer presence makes it work. His comedic voice is effortless yet deeply honed, allowing him to dismantle a room while remaining entirely likable.

What sets O’Brien apart is his ability to straddle the line between niche humor and broad appeal. His presence at the Oscars elevated the show without overshadowing it. His jokes about Latvia and Estonia were standouts, and his plea to the Chinese film industry was as incisive as it was hilarious. Rather than roasting the audience in the usual mean-spirited awards show fashion, he turned the humor inward—avoiding the cringeworthy tension that often plagues these ceremonies. He was in control, and that control was refreshing.

Even when he did direct jokes at the crowd, it was never cruel. His approach was warm, self-deprecating, and perfectly calibrated to the occasion. The Oscars are not the venue for a full-scale takedown of celebrity culture, and O’Brien, more than most, seemed to understand that. Instead, he brought levity, energy, and a much-needed comedic precision.

He should host every year.

I Laughed as Much as I Cried

Ben Stiller has a way of making the Oscars his playground, and this year was no exception. His bit—hauling himself onto the stage in a production design-themed gag—was a brilliant piece of physical comedy that landed perfectly. Of course, in a four-hour live broadcast, not every moment can be a hit, but the comedic beats throughout the night were surprisingly sharp.

Whether or not Conan O’Brien had a hand in shaping the show’s humor, his presence seemed to set the tone. The writing hit its stride early, and performers like Nick Offerman and Amy Poehler delivered subtle, well-timed moments that kept the energy up.

I was very emotional and contemplative throughout the whole ceremony, so to have the levity of comedy actually land really elevated my experience. The balance of humor and heartfelt moments made for a show that felt, for once, genuinely entertaining.

A Deeply Personal Relationship With the Shorts

I never expected to feel this way about the short films.

It’s safe to say that most people don’t watch the majority of the films nominated for Oscars. I was one of them—until now. Committing to this project, watching everything, forced me to engage with cinema beyond the usual best picture contenders. And in doing so, I developed a profound appreciation for the form.

Dismissing animation as childish, assuming short films can’t be as powerful as features, or writing off documentaries as dry is all too easy. Watching these smaller categories changed the way I think about film as a whole. The live-action and animated shorts, in particular, made me feel in ways I wasn’t prepared for. Did I love every single one? No. In fact, I really disliked a couple. But the act of watching them all, sitting with them, forming an opinion—that process forged a connection I never saw coming.

Accessibility was a challenge. Some of these films never reached a traditional theater circuit. Porcelain War, nominated for Best Documentary Feature, was practically shadowbanned in the U.S., playing only in niche theaters at scattered times. To see these films, I had to think outside the box, contacting production companies directly. As a writer with no real following, I expected silence. Instead, I was met with joy, optimism, and, more importantly, access. Watching The Man Who Could Not Remain Silent with my name stamped on it as a press pass was a quiet, personal victory. Maybe it’s silly—probably is—but in that moment, it meant everything. It was a small gesture, but it meant everything. Tangible proof that I wasn’t just shouting into the void. That I was here, part of the conversation—fully; undeniably. It was the first time I felt like a real writer, like someone who had broken through the mold of a hobbyist and had something to show for it.

When the animated short category was presented at the ceremony, I was overwhelmed. The films played in their brisk, ten second montages of concentrated beauty—short, to the point, romantic. My eyes welled with hot tears, realizing just how special these films are, how lucky I was to have seen them, and how lucky we all are to have access to them. The spectrum of emotion contained in these shorts was astonishing.

I was rooting for Wander to Wonder to win. When it didn’t, I felt a pang of melancholy—but I was elated to see In the Shadow of Cypress take the prize. Like your sister winning an award over your brother. The Iranian filmmakers’ struggle to even attend the Oscars, navigating visa delays and uncertainties, made their win all the more meaningful. Their film resonated deeply, an ode to trauma and moving forward through hardship—-the recognition felt well-earned.

As I wrote in my review of Wander to Wonder, I can’t wait to see what Nina Gantz does next. Maybe it’s because we’re close in age, and that’s inspiring. Maybe it’s because her film is so uniquely itself, both aesthetically and narratively, and aligns perfectly with my sensibilities. Or maybe it’s because Wander to Wonder represents everything that makes these ceremonies important—the idea that a young filmmaker and her team can create something deeply personal, dark, and strange, and have it recognized on one of the biggest stages in the world.

Films live on through recommendation and recognition, big or small. That’s why awards matter. In an interview with Directors Notes, Nina Gantz reflected on the eight-year process of making her twelve-minute stop-motion short: 

“It took eight years because it’s quite an ambitious idea and we needed a lot of money to make it. Stop-motion is quite costly and you need a big studio for a long time, and people, of course. We needed money from four different countries, so it was a co-production, and that is quite an amazing puzzle. All of that money comes from different places, you have to spend it there [the countries] as well. So, in the end we made the puppets in the Netherlands, shooting it in Belgium, doing the post-production in France, and I live in England so I did the animatic, the modeling all in England… and the voice recording!”

This is only Gantz’s second film. Eight years of labor for a twelve-minute short. That level of dedication is staggering. And it’s why recognition like the Oscars does matter. These accolades don’t just serve egos—they embolden artists to keep going. They open doors to the next project, the next impossible undertaking.

The fact that these films gave me the space to share my thoughts, to be even a small part of this conversation—as a journalist and as a fan—is a joy I never expected to feel. But I feel it now, overwhelmingly. And for that, I am grateful.

These films have given me a voice—a seat at the table, however small. It’s something I never anticipated. To watch, to absorb, to form my own thoughts, and then to send them out into the world as part of a larger conversation is both exhilarating and deeply moving. I feel the weight of that, the privilege of it, and it fills me with a profound sense of gratitude. I never expected to feel so connected—to the art, to the artists, to the very act of discussing film—but I do. Overwhelmingly so. And I will carry that feeling with me for a long time.

Wicked Had One Good Set—The Rest Felt Like CGI Hallways

I liked Wicked. It was good. But the special effects—and, by extension, the set design—left me frustrated leaving the theater. The film relied too heavily on rubbery CGI to construct its world, creating an artificial, weightless aesthetic. The 1939 Wizard of Oz had better set design, and one would assume that eighty-five years of technological advancement would yield a more visually immersive film. Instead, Wicked’s effects and production design felt less like world-building and more like cost-cutting.

This was one of the evening’s major disappointments, especially in a year when Conclave and Nosferatu truly excelled in these categories. But, as they say, you can’t win them all.

I’m sorry, Demi, but I have to side with the Academy on this one.

Ahead of the Oscars, I wrote a short piece about where I expected the Academy to disappoint me—specifically, with the nomination of Demi Moore in The Substance. I feared it would feel more like a lifetime achievement award than a recognition of the performance itself. I truly don’t want to direct any hatred toward Demi Moore. I deeply appreciate her performance—it isn’t what drags the film down, really. I just don’t think the film belongs in this awards race. 

I know I’m walking a fine line here. I don’t want to dismiss the personal and profound feminism The Substance is speaking to—I can get behind that. But I felt the screenplay could have been tighter, and the massive, over-the-top ending took me out of the film completely.

This is a fine line to walk. I don’t want to diminish the film’s message or the deeply personal feminism it champions—I respect that. But the screenplay lacked precision, and its overblown finale pulled me out of the experience entirely.

In the aftermath of the ceremony, I saw one take repeated: that Mikey Madison’s win over Demi Moore mirrored the very themes of The Substance, that it was a tragedy Moore didn’t walk away with the Oscar. I don’t buy it. Anora deserved the praise it’s receiving. Elevating Moore’s loss into some grand injustice—and worse, tearing down Madison in the process—reduces the conversation to a tedious, one-note argument. Both films have value. Both performances were striking. But Anora was simply the stronger film.

Demi Moore is an icon, and her career resurgence is well-earned. That doesn’t change because she didn’t win here. If anything, I hope the industry takes note. She should be getting calls from every major casting director in Hollywood.

The “in-memoriam” was… dark. 

That’s to be expected; this is an inherently painful and dramatic thing to spotlight. I just felt that Mozart’s Lacrymosa was maybe… a bit much? I’m meant to be remembering them, not standing over their casket, about to bury them. Cool it.

The Twin Peaks beat was a nice send-off for David Lynch.

Keep the gum in your mouth, and please keep your speech under a minute. 

Adrien Brody’s speech felt like a satire of a pompous, self-important actor.  Brody is, without question, a defining talent—an actor of immense skill and presence. He also seems like the last person you’d want to be cornered by at a party: inescapable, oblivious, completely enamored with the sound of his own voice. He walked so Silver Lake trust-fund artists could run. His Oscars speech was no exception—an astonishing display of saying absolutely nothing at great length. At one point, he even snapped at the orchestra to hold the cutoff music, as if what he was saying was too profound to be constrained by time. And yet, what followed was a meandering string of hollow, neoliberal platitudes—the kind of thing you might find on an Instagram story posted in the midst of an existential crisis.

The camera cutting to The Brutalist director Brady Corbet mid-speech was a gift, his pained expression silently screaming: Why? You could see it—the recognition that this moment, meant to be about the film, had become a self-indulgent monologue. And yet, Corbet himself is hardly innocent here. Throughout the Brutalist press tour, he, too, has exuded an air of pretension, speaking about the film as though it were a towering work of genius rather than what it actually is: a strong, well-crafted piece of cinema. The irony, of course, is that this behavior—this insistence on inflating a work beyond its natural weight—only serves to taint it.

Which isn’t to say The Brutalist isn’t worth watching. It is magnificent. This feels more like a lesson in allowing yourself to take a step back and let your art speak for itself. 

Sean Baker's Four Speeches: A Spotlight on his importance to the industry. 

In stark contrast to Brady Corbet and The Brutalist, Baker felt like a beam of light. Winning for Best Screenplay, Best Editing, Best Director, and finally, Best Picture, he used his time on stage not to posture or self-mythologize, but to speak earnestly about his love for filmmaking, for the industry, and for the people who keep it alive. There was no air of self-importance, no need to convince you of his greatness. His work does that on its own. Instead, Baker radiated gratitude—for the creative freedom to make Anora, for the audiences who engage with his films, for the strange and wonderful ecosystem that allows stories like his to thrive.

He carried himself like one of the greats because he is one of the greats.

I hadn't expected Anora to take Best Picture, but when it did, I was more than delighted—I was thrilled. It was the right choice. The rare, exhilarating moment when the Academy gets it exactly right.

Farewell, 2025 Oscars. Thank you.

The 2025 Oscars mark an important moment for me. I’m grateful for how the nominations swept me up, giving me a voice to comment and the inspiration to begin self-publishing here on Jack and the Picture Palace. As I continue to watch, reflect, and share my thoughts, slowly building towards next year's awards with fresh films—each stemming from the same artistic essence as the year before—I’ll hold this award season close to my heart. It has helped me find a writing discipline, reminded me of what I love about film, and solidified why I want to keep going.

It’s true, the Oscars don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things, and they only scratch the surface of the film world. And yet, they are so crucial for the masses. Their continued existence will hopefully inspire more people to think about film, and even create because of them. That’s certainly what happened for me, and for that, I am deeply grateful. Because of this project, I was able to watch films that many won’t get the chance to see. In doing so, I developed a deeply personal connection to the work. That’s what I take away from this project—not just the reviews, not just the opinions, but the experience of fully immersing myself in something I love. If there’s any lesson in this, it’s that the work itself is the reward.

As I finish writing this, I’m landing in Seattle. I’ve got a loose schedule of films to see while I’m here, and I look forward to sharing my thoughts on all of them. Here’s to a great 2025 film year, and I have a feeling the Oscars in 2026 will be just as special.