Julia Roberts, Snoop Dogg, and the Glittering Chaos of the New Golden Globes

Olivia Bennett, 1/11/2026The Golden Globes 2025 dazzled with glamour and spectacle, highlighting a pivotal moment for documentaries as they gained recognition. As Hollywood celebrated its stars and innovations, key figures like Julia Roberts and Snoop Dogg added to the night's allure. Explore the blend of tradition and change in this year's festivities.

Some awards shows posture as institutions; the Globes, on the other hand, lean in to spectacle. While CBS broadcast the main event to living rooms thick with anticipation (and, doubtless, more than a few pizza boxes camouflaged among luxury throws), E! handled its red carpet like a veteran trapeze artist—glamour strung tight, an occasional face plant ignored, and applause always at the ready. Anyone watching Nikki Glaser—armed with giggles and just enough edge for the front row to squirm—could tell: this is Hollywood set loose on itself.

Now, a curious little subplot unfolded this year. Tucked away from the ballroom applause and network glare, a new chapter was written for documentaries. There was no orchestra to play off the winners, no after-party stampede; instead, in a West Coast salon dotted with hopefuls and heavyweights from the Artemis Rising Foundation, the documentary field received its first proper Globes recognition. Eugene Jarecki (“The Six Billion Dollar Man”) and Ross McElwee (“Remake”) raised carefully crafted statuettes—its significance quietly seismic, even if Variety’s live feed snubbed the moment.

Regina K. Scully practically whispered what people in that room have known for decades: non-fiction stories can change the world, given half the chance. Golden Globes President Helen Hoehne called it a “landmark collaboration,” though the real landmark may well arrive the first time documentaries snag more than an off-air, off-site nod. Rumor has it the main stage might finally make room, if only the old guard stands aside for a beat or two.

Under the chandeliers, the Globes’ DNA held true—equal parts high fashion runway, unscripted reunion, and gladiator match where sequins serve as armor. The presenter roll call? More fever dream than staid awards show. Ayo Edebiri, crystalline in her getup, shared air time with Joe Keery of “Stranger Things,” while Julia Roberts and George Clooney floated through like Hollywood’s own lunar eclipse. And nobody blinked twice when Amanda Seyfried crossed paths with Snoop Dogg behind the curtains, unless you’re counting the stylists doing a double take.

Film categories belonged to Paul Thomas Anderson’s “One Battle After Another,” its nine nominations a kind of gravitational pull for head-turning talent—DiCaprio with his practiced world-weariness, Chase Infiniti beaming with something like defiance, Teyana Taylor and Benicio del Toro reminding everyone that charisma can, in fact, outshine even the best PR team. On television, HBO’s perennial provocateur “The White Lotus” dominated predictions, no surprise to anyone still rehashing past plot machinations over morning coffee.

There’s a punchline coming, though, and it belongs to the American Film Institute. AFI’s annual celebration remains the strange, restorative tonic to red carpet excess, a midday sphere where rivalry can hibernate and hierarchy seems less urgent—if only for an hour or two. Instead of forced speeches, a sequence of tributes and gentle back-slapping, with Spielberg trading philosophies with Ryan Coogler in one corner, and DiCaprio conspiring with streaming moguls in another—a sight that, in 2025, no longer feels like the crossing of universes.

Those in attendance know that at AFI, everyone’s guard slips just enough to matter. Carol Burnett, a matriarch with wit as sharp as her tailoring, addressed the crowd in that thoughtful, wry cadence only the legends possess. For a fleeting moment, ambitions receded and talk drifted—set design, script rewrites, streaming’s habit of breaking everything and remaking it anew.

Still, not all innovation was relegated to the edges. The Globes dropped breadcrumbs for what’s ahead—hinting at a podcast award (because, clearly, there’s no actual cultural currency without one) and a future where documentaries claim their own primetime spotlight. The industry loves an overdue victory.

On the subject of overdue, Helen Mirren picking up the Cecil B. DeMille Award was all stately authority, with just enough slyness to remind everyone why she still commands a room. Harrison Ford, ever the rakish hand, escorted her to the applause. Later, Sarah Jessica Parker claimed the Carol Burnett Award, an echo of the past as Burnett herself closed out the AFI warmth—some narrative poetry in the passing of accolades.

All of this fanfare still boils down to Hollywood’s old contradiction: the city that worships innovation only after a hundred unremarkable attempts, where risk and nostalgia are served side by side like caviar and saltines. By the time the ballroom emptied and Uber drivers whisked stilettos and headlines away, the residue that remained was as intoxicating as ever. The Globes—still, somehow—balance shameless spectacle and shrewd introspection, with equal reverence for both.

That’s the secret everyone understands, whether they say it or not. For every newcomer chasing a glimmer, for every overlooked story that just might catch fire, the carousel spins on. The short attention spans, the endless reinventions—perhaps that’s why no one can quite look away. After all, where else does the artistry of chaos look so dazzling under a spotlight? This season, the answer lingers in the glow.

A January night in Beverly Hills possesses its own peculiar brightness—something in the air, perhaps, or maybe just the launch sequence of flashbulbs ricocheting off every metallic dress from Wilshire to Santa Monica. With the Golden Globes rolling out its signature carpet—call it gold, call it vanity’s runway, but certainly flashier than red this time—the industry’s perennial masquerade kicked off another award season, 2025-style.Some awards shows posture as institutions; the Globes, on the other hand, lean in to spectacle. While CBS broadcast the main event to living rooms thick with anticipation (and, doubtless, more than a few pizza boxes camouflaged among luxury throws), E! handled its red carpet like a veteran trapeze artist—glamour strung tight, an occasional face plant ignored, and applause always at the ready. Anyone watching Nikki Glaser—armed with giggles and just enough edge for the front row to squirm—could tell: this is Hollywood set loose on itself.Now, a curious little subplot unfolded this year. Tucked away from the ballroom applause and network glare, a new chapter was written for documentaries. There was no orchestra to play off the winners, no after-party stampede; instead, in a West Coast salon dotted with hopefuls and heavyweights from the Artemis Rising Foundation, the documentary field received its first proper Globes recognition. Eugene Jarecki (“The Six Billion Dollar Man”) and Ross McElwee (“Remake”) raised carefully crafted statuettes—its significance quietly seismic, even if Variety’s live feed snubbed the moment.Regina K. Scully practically whispered what people in that room have known for decades: non-fiction stories can change the world, given half the chance. Golden Globes President Helen Hoehne called it a “landmark collaboration,” though the real landmark may well arrive the first time documentaries snag more than an off-air, off-site nod. Rumor has it the main stage might finally make room, if only the old guard stands aside for a beat or two.Under the chandeliers, the Globes’ DNA held true—equal parts high fashion runway, unscripted reunion, and gladiator match where sequins serve as armor. The presenter roll call? More fever dream than staid awards show. Ayo Edebiri, crystalline in her getup, shared air time with Joe Keery of “Stranger Things,” while Julia Roberts and George Clooney floated through like Hollywood’s own lunar eclipse. And nobody blinked twice when Amanda Seyfried crossed paths with Snoop Dogg behind the curtains, unless you’re counting the stylists doing a double take.Film categories belonged to Paul Thomas Anderson’s “One Battle After Another,” its nine nominations a kind of gravitational pull for head-turning talent—DiCaprio with his practiced world-weariness, Chase Infiniti beaming with something like defiance, Teyana Taylor and Benicio del Toro reminding everyone that charisma can, in fact, outshine even the best PR team. On television, HBO’s perennial provocateur “The White Lotus” dominated predictions, no surprise to anyone still rehashing past plot machinations over morning coffee.There’s a punchline coming, though, and it belongs to the American Film Institute. AFI’s annual celebration remains the strange, restorative tonic to red carpet excess, a midday sphere where rivalry can hibernate and hierarchy seems less urgent—if only for an hour or two. Instead of forced speeches, a sequence of tributes and gentle back-slapping, with Spielberg trading philosophies with Ryan Coogler in one corner, and DiCaprio conspiring with streaming moguls in another—a sight that, in 2025, no longer feels like the crossing of universes.Those in attendance know that at AFI, everyone’s guard slips just enough to matter. Carol Burnett, a matriarch with wit as sharp as her tailoring, addressed the crowd in that thoughtful, wry cadence only the legends possess. For a fleeting moment, ambitions receded and talk drifted—set design, script rewrites, streaming’s habit of breaking everything and remaking it anew.Still, not all innovation was relegated to the edges. The Globes dropped breadcrumbs for what’s ahead—hinting at a podcast award (because, clearly, there’s no actual cultural currency without one) and a future where documentaries claim their own primetime spotlight. The industry loves an overdue victory.On the subject of overdue, Helen Mirren picking up the Cecil B. DeMille Award was all stately authority, with just enough slyness to remind everyone why she still commands a room. Harrison Ford, ever the rakish hand, escorted her to the applause. Later, Sarah Jessica Parker claimed the Carol Burnett Award, an echo of the past as Burnett herself closed out the AFI warmth—some narrative poetry in the passing of accolades.All of this fanfare still boils down to Hollywood’s old contradiction: the city that worships innovation only after a hundred unremarkable attempts, where risk and nostalgia are served side by side like caviar and saltines. By the time the ballroom emptied and Uber drivers whisked stilettos and headlines away, the residue that remained was as intoxicating as ever. The Globes—still, somehow—balance shameless spectacle and shrewd introspection, with equal reverence for both.That’s the secret everyone understands, whether they say it or not. For every newcomer chasing a glimmer, for every overlooked story that just might catch fire, the carousel spins on. The short attention spans, the endless reinventions—perhaps that’s why no one can quite look away. After all, where else does the artistry of chaos look so dazzling under a spotlight? This season, the answer lingers in the glow.