Oscar Snubbed, Pudding Pot Won: Michael Keaton’s Dazzling Harvard Roast

Olivia Bennett, 2/7/2026Michael Keaton took the stage at Harvard's Hasty Pudding Theatricals, embracing both humor and sincerity. Celebrated for his range from Batman to Birdman, he humorously accepted the Pudding Pot, championing the brilliance of today's youth amidst absurd campus festivities. A night blending satire with heartfelt optimism.

And then, center stage: Michael Keaton. Of course, he didn’t arrive with the restraint of your average honoree—he went full Batman, cape and all, storming the spotlight as if Gotham were just across the river. There was something impossibly apt about the gesture—Keaton isn’t just Hollywood royalty, after all. He’s the shape-shifter who’s been everything from shadowy vigilante and ghoul-for-hire to the neurotic, Oscar-brushing star of Birdman. That Oscar, by the way, has played harder to get than a seasoned awards consultant’s contact list, which only emboldened Keaton to take a literal stab at an onstage Oscar statuette for a bit of Pudding-sanctioned absurdity. The crowd—rowdy, crimson-clad, delighting in each oddball swerve—ate it up.

There’s history to all this razzle-dazzle. The Hasty Pudding Theatricals’ peculiar alchemy, about as old as the lightbulb (1844, to be precise), has long been mixing up the recipe for campus satire and cross-generational lampooning. If Cambridge sometimes likes to pretend it’s Paris, Hasty Pudding is its Moulin Rouge—rouge, indeed, and defiantly out of step with solemn tradition. Only select figures pass the invisible test required for a Pudding Pot: you have to have painted the town—the whole entertainment canvas—in colors nobody else has dared. Keaton, with credits spanning Batcaves to bleak newsrooms, ticked every box.

And the roasting? Pure mayhem, really. Hamburgers were charred, puns suffered tragic fates, and Keaton found himself goaded, cheered, and at last, handed a golden Pudding Pot—a trophy arguably more surreal than any little gold man from across town. Pudding producer Eloise Tunnell, in a moment that surely felt both historic and totally off-the-cuff, summed it up with casual mischief: “He was Batman, then Birdman, and now, most importantly, he’s a Pudding man!” Not many can claim that trifecta, especially not under such Monty Python-meets-Ivy League circumstances.

Curiously, under the squalls of satire, something rare snuck through. Keaton’s acceptance—stripped of zingers just for a beat—turned surprisingly earnest. “I’m ridiculously encouraged about this country,” he admitted, eyes sweeping the room full of dazzling, over-caffeinated Harvard undergrads. “The older generation, not so much. Man, these people I’ve met are extraordinarily impressive. It’s been a ball. Based on these people, we are in good shape folks.” If only all award speeches found their way to such improbable optimism—maybe that’s the real sleight of hand lurking beneath all the drag and the drama.

But the night didn’t stall there. Pudding’s legacy barrelled onward, rolling straight into its 177th spectacle, “Salooney Tunes”—a name that probably raised a few eyebrows in the admissions office while ensuring each seat was packed. These hijinks are more than simple collegiate rebellion; they’re a sort of relay between the icons of Hollywood’s present and the disruptors of tomorrow—a rotating cast handing off the scepter of irreverence.

And the party isn’t over. Rose Byrne—striking, unflappable, and freshly minted as 2025’s Woman of the Year—will soon waltz through these ivy-lined portals, further threading together Hollywood gloss and Harvard’s unpredictable theatrical spirit. Keaton’s Pudding crowning, in the end, proved what’s always been true: the Oscar might play coy, but there’s more than one kind of gold standard, and it occasionally arrives giftwrapped in satire and scarlet capes, impossible to predict and even harder to forget.

Anyone familiar with the orderly traditions of Harvard’s campus might be caught off guard after sunset, when those timeworn bricks and slices of ivy take on a mischievous sheen. The feel is more stage set than study hall, especially once Hasty Pudding Theatricals gets rolling. On this particular frostbitten evening, the hallowed air was thick with a sense of harmless rebellion, the sort that only comes from mixing Ivy League legacy with a double shot of showbiz subversion.And then, center stage: Michael Keaton. Of course, he didn’t arrive with the restraint of your average honoree—he went full Batman, cape and all, storming the spotlight as if Gotham were just across the river. There was something impossibly apt about the gesture—Keaton isn’t just Hollywood royalty, after all. He’s the shape-shifter who’s been everything from shadowy vigilante and ghoul-for-hire to the neurotic, Oscar-brushing star of Birdman. That Oscar, by the way, has played harder to get than a seasoned awards consultant’s contact list, which only emboldened Keaton to take a literal stab at an onstage Oscar statuette for a bit of Pudding-sanctioned absurdity. The crowd—rowdy, crimson-clad, delighting in each oddball swerve—ate it up.There’s history to all this razzle-dazzle. The Hasty Pudding Theatricals’ peculiar alchemy, about as old as the lightbulb (1844, to be precise), has long been mixing up the recipe for campus satire and cross-generational lampooning. If Cambridge sometimes likes to pretend it’s Paris, Hasty Pudding is its Moulin Rouge—rouge, indeed, and defiantly out of step with solemn tradition. Only select figures pass the invisible test required for a Pudding Pot: you have to have painted the town—the whole entertainment canvas—in colors nobody else has dared. Keaton, with credits spanning Batcaves to bleak newsrooms, ticked every box.And the roasting? Pure mayhem, really. Hamburgers were charred, puns suffered tragic fates, and Keaton found himself goaded, cheered, and at last, handed a golden Pudding Pot—a trophy arguably more surreal than any little gold man from across town. Pudding producer Eloise Tunnell, in a moment that surely felt both historic and totally off-the-cuff, summed it up with casual mischief: “He was Batman, then Birdman, and now, most importantly, he’s a Pudding man!” Not many can claim that trifecta, especially not under such Monty Python-meets-Ivy League circumstances.Curiously, under the squalls of satire, something rare snuck through. Keaton’s acceptance—stripped of zingers just for a beat—turned surprisingly earnest. “I’m ridiculously encouraged about this country,” he admitted, eyes sweeping the room full of dazzling, over-caffeinated Harvard undergrads. “The older generation, not so much. Man, these people I’ve met are extraordinarily impressive. It’s been a ball. Based on these people, we are in good shape folks.” If only all award speeches found their way to such improbable optimism—maybe that’s the real sleight of hand lurking beneath all the drag and the drama.But the night didn’t stall there. Pudding’s legacy barrelled onward, rolling straight into its 177th spectacle, “Salooney Tunes”—a name that probably raised a few eyebrows in the admissions office while ensuring each seat was packed. These hijinks are more than simple collegiate rebellion; they’re a sort of relay between the icons of Hollywood’s present and the disruptors of tomorrow—a rotating cast handing off the scepter of irreverence.And the party isn’t over. Rose Byrne—striking, unflappable, and freshly minted as 2025’s Woman of the Year—will soon waltz through these ivy-lined portals, further threading together Hollywood gloss and Harvard’s unpredictable theatrical spirit. Keaton’s Pudding crowning, in the end, proved what’s always been true: the Oscar might play coy, but there’s more than one kind of gold standard, and it occasionally arrives giftwrapped in satire and scarlet capes, impossible to predict and even harder to forget.