Handler Unleashed: Hollywood Roasted and Riled at Critics Choice Night

Olivia Bennett, 1/5/2026Chelsea Handler took center stage at the Critics Choice Awards, blending cheeky humor with heartfelt moments. From biting industry jabs to a poignant tribute to Rob Reiner, Handler's performance encapsulated the chaotic spirit of Hollywood, reminding us that amidst the glamour lies a messy humanity.

Chelsea Handler, draped in her signature blend of devil-may-care irreverence and veteran comic poise, assumed the role of ringmaster for a fourth time—evidently undaunted. Handler’s entrance, legendary by now, cut through the haze. She wasted no time, tilting a smile toward the audience as if already letting them in on the secret: tonight, nobody’s safe and everyone’s invited to the roast.

From the jump, Handler’s trademark was all over the opening. “Sinners is the story of brothers who start this really fun place for entertainment and then vampires show up, suck the life out of everybody and burn it all to the ground. Fun fact: The original name of the main vampire was David Zaslav,” she tossed off, pausing just long enough to let the camera hover on Michael B. Jordan’s just-barely-holding composure. Jordan’s look? Equal parts entertained and haunted by memories of prior public drubbings—the kind of micro-performance you won’t find on any nomination list.

Handler’s arrows flew in every direction, sparing neither Oscar hopefuls nor the execs quietly nursing old wounds in the back row. “White Hollywood was so shook after seeing the box office numbers, Variety ran the headline: ‘Do box office numbers really matter?’” The delivery wasn’t just punchline—it was a scalpel, cutting into the age-old panic that gnaws at the studios whenever the market gods refuse to bless a sure thing. Handler’s brand is riff and revelation; she’ll charm the wheels off a Bentley, then ask who paid for the oil change.

The evening wouldn’t have been complete without the requisite DiCaprio joke—Hollywood’s favorite inside sport in 2025. Handler twirled it: “It was just like the Titanic but worse because Jeff Bezos was there.” The collective groan-laugh rang out, as much about the target as the familiarity of the jab. One can’t blame her, really; some celebrities are less people and more myth, at this point.

Yet there was a swiftness to Handler’s pivot—clergy to camp in a breath. “You guys made amazing, original shows that everyone couldn’t stop talking about—until that gay hockey show from Canada came along,” she teased, referencing Heated Rivalry with a wink so knowing it might as well have been signed in Cartier ink. “Gay men love it, women love it, straight men who say they aren’t gay but work out at Equinox love it!” That’s Handler’s superpower: satire for all, and no one gets to feel particularly safe.

Of course, glitter fades and the internet remembers. As Handler’s final punch settled, the social media storm gathered—X (or whatever rebrand we’re stuck with in 2025) blazed with contrasting takes. “Chelsea Handler barely getting through these jokes,” chided one post, staccato and dismissive. Others, more wounded, howled over spoilers—“Kind of wish Chelsea Handler didn’t give away all the nominated movies endings in this monologue? Guess I’ll skip Hamnet and Sinners now?” Perhaps it’s a sign of the times—outrage as reflex, spoilers as cultural trespass.

Handler, for her part, forecast the chaos with a shrug on the carpet. “I try to stay away from children, but it’s not that kind of show... We’re setting the tone for all of awards season, so we’re keeping the vibes high. I want everyone to have a good time.” There’s recognition in her wit that tonight’s risks aren’t for the faint of heart. Like an old-school comic tempting a ‘50s bouncer, she makes mischief knowing full well not all will survive the roast unscathed: “I’m going to go after a couple people... But nothing too hard—for anyone that’s in the room that is.”

If this all sounds a little familiar, well, awards shows have always walked the line between slapstick and sanctimony. Since the Don Rickles era (and who can forget Joan Rivers, whose commentary might still echo in the gold-plated rafters?), roasting has been as traditional as standing ovations. In an age where everything is streamed, clipped, dissected, and debated within seconds, perhaps Handler’s legacy is simply keeping the mess beautiful.

Yet it wasn’t just snark and spoilers—she ended her opener with a real, poignant hush. Handler’s tribute to Rob Reiner, who passed alongside his wife Michele Singer Reiner, steered the room toward a different kind of unity, one earned through decency, attentiveness, and a depth of humor less barbed, more humane. Suddenly, there was space between the jokes, and Hollywood, ever so briefly, wore its heart on the outside.

As the evening strutted on—hemlines rising and tempers occasionally flaring—one almost forgot the ceremony itself is a spectacle powered not by winners, but by human messiness: ego, daring, regret, relief. Handler’s opening, oscillating between affectionate mischief and genuine care, didn’t simply warm up the crowd. It reminded everyone why controversy, in this part of the world, is less poison than perfume.

Here in 2025, where even the after-parties are archived and nothing stays secret for more than a minute, the Critics Choice Awards landed right in the crosshairs of glamour and chaos—and, really, would anyone have it any other way?

Under the gleaming shell of Barker Hangar, where floodlights strain to outshine sashes of sequins and the air tingles with whispered predictions, the Critics Choice Awards managed to conjure yet another Hollywood fever dream. Affairs like these promise spectacle, sure—but if you’ve ever brushed past the edge of a red carpet, you know a little public incineration is part of the deal.Chelsea Handler, draped in her signature blend of devil-may-care irreverence and veteran comic poise, assumed the role of ringmaster for a fourth time—evidently undaunted. Handler’s entrance, legendary by now, cut through the haze. She wasted no time, tilting a smile toward the audience as if already letting them in on the secret: tonight, nobody’s safe and everyone’s invited to the roast.From the jump, Handler’s trademark was all over the opening. “Sinners is the story of brothers who start this really fun place for entertainment and then vampires show up, suck the life out of everybody and burn it all to the ground. Fun fact: The original name of the main vampire was David Zaslav,” she tossed off, pausing just long enough to let the camera hover on Michael B. Jordan’s just-barely-holding composure. Jordan’s look? Equal parts entertained and haunted by memories of prior public drubbings—the kind of micro-performance you won’t find on any nomination list.Handler’s arrows flew in every direction, sparing neither Oscar hopefuls nor the execs quietly nursing old wounds in the back row. “White Hollywood was so shook after seeing the box office numbers, Variety ran the headline: ‘Do box office numbers really matter?’” The delivery wasn’t just punchline—it was a scalpel, cutting into the age-old panic that gnaws at the studios whenever the market gods refuse to bless a sure thing. Handler’s brand is riff and revelation; she’ll charm the wheels off a Bentley, then ask who paid for the oil change.The evening wouldn’t have been complete without the requisite DiCaprio joke—Hollywood’s favorite inside sport in 2025. Handler twirled it: “It was just like the Titanic but worse because Jeff Bezos was there.” The collective groan-laugh rang out, as much about the target as the familiarity of the jab. One can’t blame her, really; some celebrities are less people and more myth, at this point.Yet there was a swiftness to Handler’s pivot—clergy to camp in a breath. “You guys made amazing, original shows that everyone couldn’t stop talking about—until that gay hockey show from Canada came along,” she teased, referencing Heated Rivalry with a wink so knowing it might as well have been signed in Cartier ink. “Gay men love it, women love it, straight men who say they aren’t gay but work out at Equinox love it!” That’s Handler’s superpower: satire for all, and no one gets to feel particularly safe.Of course, glitter fades and the internet remembers. As Handler’s final punch settled, the social media storm gathered—X (or whatever rebrand we’re stuck with in 2025) blazed with contrasting takes. “Chelsea Handler barely getting through these jokes,” chided one post, staccato and dismissive. Others, more wounded, howled over spoilers—“Kind of wish Chelsea Handler didn’t give away all the nominated movies endings in this monologue? Guess I’ll skip Hamnet and Sinners now?” Perhaps it’s a sign of the times—outrage as reflex, spoilers as cultural trespass.Handler, for her part, forecast the chaos with a shrug on the carpet. “I try to stay away from children, but it’s not that kind of show... We’re setting the tone for all of awards season, so we’re keeping the vibes high. I want everyone to have a good time.” There’s recognition in her wit that tonight’s risks aren’t for the faint of heart. Like an old-school comic tempting a ‘50s bouncer, she makes mischief knowing full well not all will survive the roast unscathed: “I’m going to go after a couple people... But nothing too hard—for anyone that’s in the room that is.”If this all sounds a little familiar, well, awards shows have always walked the line between slapstick and sanctimony. Since the Don Rickles era (and who can forget Joan Rivers, whose commentary might still echo in the gold-plated rafters?), roasting has been as traditional as standing ovations. In an age where everything is streamed, clipped, dissected, and debated within seconds, perhaps Handler’s legacy is simply keeping the mess beautiful.Yet it wasn’t just snark and spoilers—she ended her opener with a real, poignant hush. Handler’s tribute to Rob Reiner, who passed alongside his wife Michele Singer Reiner, steered the room toward a different kind of unity, one earned through decency, attentiveness, and a depth of humor less barbed, more humane. Suddenly, there was space between the jokes, and Hollywood, ever so briefly, wore its heart on the outside.As the evening strutted on—hemlines rising and tempers occasionally flaring—one almost forgot the ceremony itself is a spectacle powered not by winners, but by human messiness: ego, daring, regret, relief. Handler’s opening, oscillating between affectionate mischief and genuine care, didn’t simply warm up the crowd. It reminded everyone why controversy, in this part of the world, is less poison than perfume.Here in 2025, where even the after-parties are archived and nothing stays secret for more than a minute, the Critics Choice Awards landed right in the crosshairs of glamour and chaos—and, really, would anyone have it any other way?