Leonardo DiCaprio and Jessie Buckley Steal the Spotlight at Britain’s Big Night

Olivia Bennett, 2/2/2026 London’s Critics’ Circle Film Awards shimmered with vintage glamour and sharp-tongued substance, as stars like DiCaprio and Buckley dazzled and new visions emerged—reminding us that, despite an uncertain media future, true artistry still commands the spotlight in British cinema’s most glittering ballroom.

For anyone keeping score, Paul Thomas Anderson’s “One Battle After Another” waltzed into contention trailed by a wake of certainty. And yet, as anyone who’s watched the nervous shuffle just before an envelope is split open knows, some odds feel designed to be upended. Instead—perhaps disappointingly for the armchair contrarians—Anderson’s political thriller bulldozed away with four trophies, clutching the night’s top honors: Film of the Year, Director, and Screenwriter. Not to mention Leonardo DiCaprio, who smoldered beneath smoky lighting in a midnight blue suit that wove together echoes of Cary Grant and, dare one say, a faint whiff of 2025 street couture. Sean Penn, meanwhile, collected the supporting actor prize, wearing that weathered charisma like an old raincoat; he seemed less a guest than a character summoned straight from a dog-eared Greene novel.

Anderson’s crowning wasn’t just another pile-on for the history books. It doubled as a subtle rebuke to the sausage-factory churn of streaming platforms, whose bland assembly lines have lately threatened to swamp cinema’s shrewder craftsmen. Nick Herm of Sky, addressing the parallel state of television, remarked recently that public service broadcasting and social inclusion “can go hand in hand”—a platitude, maybe, but it bounced off the golden walls that night. This crowd—part jury, part aristocracy, never quite at rest—wasn’t about to let substance give way to surface, not if this room had anything to say about it.

Among the evening’s brighter flashes: Jessie Buckley. She arrived in an emerald gown sharp enough to turn every head, full-skirted as if borrowed straight from a reel of 1950s Technicolor. When her name was called—Actress of the Year, for her heartbreakingly lucid turn in Chloé Zhao’s "Hamnet"—there was a microsecond’s silence before the applause, a pin-drop rare in a roomful of critics and sycophants. One veteran gushed her performance “burned hotter than Vivien Leigh on a tempest.” Hair sponsorships aside, Buckley needed no extras to upstage her own success.

Meanwhile (and with barely a pause for the champagne to resettle), Timothée Chalamet cut a different silhouette—angular, nonchalant, and garbed in tailoring that might have gotten a whistle from the ghosts of Savile Row. His Actor of the Year win for Josh Safdie’s “Marty Supreme,” a kinetic, absurdist ping-pong caper, didn’t just reaffirm his stardom. It reminded the room that Chalamet’s particular alchemy—half old-school heartthrob, half TikTok oracle—remains one of modern cinema’s stranger delights. Say what you will; the kid’s got nerve.

But these awards aren’t just a coronation ceremony for the well-pampered and already-anointed; no, the Critics’ Circle takes pride—sometimes almost to the point of pedantry—in hailing the emerging. Case in point: Harry Lighton’s “Pillion.” That queer biker drama—equal parts reckless and intricate—roared off with British/Irish Film of the Year as well as Breakthrough Filmmaker. It was a moment to give pause; not every double win feels quite so earned. "Pillion" managed to look both backward and forward, right down to the tire tracks.

On the technical front, the room practically shifted in its chair as Coogler’s “Sinners” edged out for the Technical Achievement Award, Ludwig Göransson’s audacious score settling in the air like a phantom melody. After all, when vampires make their way into the evening’s spotlight, you know the old city still has new bites to offer.

The night managed its courtesies, too. Josh O’Connor, that tireless chameleon of British film, received his due as British/Irish Performer for an exhausting 2025 resume—dabbling in everything from the twisty "Mastermind" to another jaunt through the “Knives Out” labyrinth. Guillermo del Toro, meanwhile, picked up the Dilys Powell Award, his reimagining of "Frankenstein" serving as a neat, monstrous bookend to a career enthralled by the beautiful grotesque.

Yet, underneath the glamour and applause, there’s an anxious chord pulsing beneath London’s film heart. With Westminster openly pondering the fate of terrestrial television—possibly unplugging Freeview by the 2030s in favor of pure internet TV—a kind of elegy threaded through the festivities. Conservative MP David Mundell’s warning hung in the wings: scale back Freeview, and you risk slicing cinema’s reach down to a luxury, draining it from rural sitting rooms and city tower blocks alike. In a year already thick with uncertainty—just ask anyone juggling new release windows or funding rounds—it’s a question with claws.

Still, if the Critics’ Circle could teach the industry anything, it’s that resilience dresses up well. The ceremony proved, as ever, adept at this highwire act: bridging glitz with grit; refusing to let spectacle drown substance. There’s a touch of nostalgia about it, sure, but also a bracing sense of new blood—just enough cheek to promise that, come whatever digital shakeups or algorithmic nightmares 2026 brings, this old city will keep rolling out the red carpet.

So as the final applause scattered among the crystal fixtures and cab drivers circled outside—impatient as always—one had to wonder: what strange marvels will next year bring to these well-lit halls? For now, at least, the Circle’s sharpest tongues and finest gowns stand guard at the gate: a necessary reminder that, even in 2025, the heart of cinema beats loudest where neon meets tradition, and nothing—not even perfect Wi-Fi—can outshine a perfect night.

London’s May Fair Hotel rarely shies from a spectacle, but on the night of the 46th Critics’ Circle Film Awards, the ballroom seemed, somehow, sharper—electric, even. Spotlights sliced through clouds of Guerlain, sparking off the gilt like paparazzi bulbs, while critics in elegant black flocked together like a murder of cinephilic crows. A low murmur hung in the air, wrapped in cashmere and the sheen of expectation.For anyone keeping score, Paul Thomas Anderson’s “One Battle After Another” waltzed into contention trailed by a wake of certainty. And yet, as anyone who’s watched the nervous shuffle just before an envelope is split open knows, some odds feel designed to be upended. Instead—perhaps disappointingly for the armchair contrarians—Anderson’s political thriller bulldozed away with four trophies, clutching the night’s top honors: Film of the Year, Director, and Screenwriter. Not to mention Leonardo DiCaprio, who smoldered beneath smoky lighting in a midnight blue suit that wove together echoes of Cary Grant and, dare one say, a faint whiff of 2025 street couture. Sean Penn, meanwhile, collected the supporting actor prize, wearing that weathered charisma like an old raincoat; he seemed less a guest than a character summoned straight from a dog-eared Greene novel.Anderson’s crowning wasn’t just another pile-on for the history books. It doubled as a subtle rebuke to the sausage-factory churn of streaming platforms, whose bland assembly lines have lately threatened to swamp cinema’s shrewder craftsmen. Nick Herm of Sky, addressing the parallel state of television, remarked recently that public service broadcasting and social inclusion “can go hand in hand”—a platitude, maybe, but it bounced off the golden walls that night. This crowd—part jury, part aristocracy, never quite at rest—wasn’t about to let substance give way to surface, not if this room had anything to say about it.Among the evening’s brighter flashes: Jessie Buckley. She arrived in an emerald gown sharp enough to turn every head, full-skirted as if borrowed straight from a reel of 1950s Technicolor. When her name was called—Actress of the Year, for her heartbreakingly lucid turn in Chloé Zhao’s "Hamnet"—there was a microsecond’s silence before the applause, a pin-drop rare in a roomful of critics and sycophants. One veteran gushed her performance “burned hotter than Vivien Leigh on a tempest.” Hair sponsorships aside, Buckley needed no extras to upstage her own success.Meanwhile (and with barely a pause for the champagne to resettle), Timothée Chalamet cut a different silhouette—angular, nonchalant, and garbed in tailoring that might have gotten a whistle from the ghosts of Savile Row. His Actor of the Year win for Josh Safdie’s “Marty Supreme,” a kinetic, absurdist ping-pong caper, didn’t just reaffirm his stardom. It reminded the room that Chalamet’s particular alchemy—half old-school heartthrob, half TikTok oracle—remains one of modern cinema’s stranger delights. Say what you will; the kid’s got nerve.But these awards aren’t just a coronation ceremony for the well-pampered and already-anointed; no, the Critics’ Circle takes pride—sometimes almost to the point of pedantry—in hailing the emerging. Case in point: Harry Lighton’s “Pillion.” That queer biker drama—equal parts reckless and intricate—roared off with British/Irish Film of the Year as well as Breakthrough Filmmaker. It was a moment to give pause; not every double win feels quite so earned. "Pillion" managed to look both backward and forward, right down to the tire tracks.On the technical front, the room practically shifted in its chair as Coogler’s “Sinners” edged out for the Technical Achievement Award, Ludwig Göransson’s audacious score settling in the air like a phantom melody. After all, when vampires make their way into the evening’s spotlight, you know the old city still has new bites to offer.The night managed its courtesies, too. Josh O’Connor, that tireless chameleon of British film, received his due as British/Irish Performer for an exhausting 2025 resume—dabbling in everything from the twisty "Mastermind" to another jaunt through the “Knives Out” labyrinth. Guillermo del Toro, meanwhile, picked up the Dilys Powell Award, his reimagining of "Frankenstein" serving as a neat, monstrous bookend to a career enthralled by the beautiful grotesque.Yet, underneath the glamour and applause, there’s an anxious chord pulsing beneath London’s film heart. With Westminster openly pondering the fate of terrestrial television—possibly unplugging Freeview by the 2030s in favor of pure internet TV—a kind of elegy threaded through the festivities. Conservative MP David Mundell’s warning hung in the wings: scale back Freeview, and you risk slicing cinema’s reach down to a luxury, draining it from rural sitting rooms and city tower blocks alike. In a year already thick with uncertainty—just ask anyone juggling new release windows or funding rounds—it’s a question with claws.Still, if the Critics’ Circle could teach the industry anything, it’s that resilience dresses up well. The ceremony proved, as ever, adept at this highwire act: bridging glitz with grit; refusing to let spectacle drown substance. There’s a touch of nostalgia about it, sure, but also a bracing sense of new blood—just enough cheek to promise that, come whatever digital shakeups or algorithmic nightmares 2026 brings, this old city will keep rolling out the red carpet.So as the final applause scattered among the crystal fixtures and cab drivers circled outside—impatient as always—one had to wonder: what strange marvels will next year bring to these well-lit halls? For now, at least, the Circle’s sharpest tongues and finest gowns stand guard at the gate: a necessary reminder that, even in 2025, the heart of cinema beats loudest where neon meets tradition, and nothing—not even perfect Wi-Fi—can outshine a perfect night.