Oscar season is when I briefly convince myself that reading Variety over coffee and skimming the New York Times arts section at night qualifies as rigorous film scholarship. For a few weeks each year, I develop confident opinions about categories I forgot existed the previous spring, casually reference “industry buzz,” and begin sentences with “it feels like…” — awards-season shorthand for “I have absolutely no proof, but I am emotionally invested.”
Part of this confidence comes from experience. For roughly the past fifteen years, Oscar Sunday hasn’t meant sitting on the couch with snacks and a ballot. It has meant working — watching red-carpet arrivals in real time, producing coverage as winners are announced, and helping feed the bottomless appetite for Oscars content across ABC7NY.com and the wider ABC Owned Television Stations. After enough ceremonies spent toggling between live feeds, social-media spikes, and last-second headline rewrites, you begin to believe you understand how the night unfolds. Or at least you learn how to project calm while quietly bracing for the unexpected.
Those years also come with memories that make it difficult to treat the Oscars as a purely dignified cultural institution. There was the night the broadcast veered into live-television infamy when Will Smith walked onstage and smacked Chris Rock — a moment that turned a relatively boring ceremony into a breaking-news event heard around the world. There was the unforgettable envelope mix-up in 2017, when La La Land briefly won Best Picture before graciously, and somewhat publicly, returning the trophy to Moonlight. And of course, there was Ellen DeGeneres’s 2014 selfie — perhaps the most efficient demonstration in history of how Hollywood glamour and smartphone logistics can collide.
My cinematic worldview, however, was formed long before I was filing Oscars stories on deadline. I grew up on Disney, which probably explains my enduring faith in orchestral swells and emotional clarity. Pixar later deepened the imprint by making me cry over toys, robots, and, on one memorable occasion, real estate. My favorite film of all time remains Casablanca, a movie so elegantly constructed it makes modern plotting feel like it was completed during a lunch break. Paul Newman is still my favorite actor — effortless, intelligent, impossibly cool — though George Clooney in Michael Clayton came dangerously close to redefining what a perfectly calibrated movie performance looks like. And Katharine Hepburn remains the gold standard, proof that wit and authority never go out of style.
All of which is to say: my Oscar picks arrive with both passion and baggage.
This year I managed to see all but one of the Best Picture nominees, an accomplishment I intend to reference casually for the foreseeable future. I also saw exactly one of the short films — The Singers, which is genuinely worth seeking out and, more importantly, allows me to speak with suspicious confidence about a category where most people are bluffing.
If I’m being completely honest, none of this year’s Best Picture nominees truly floored me. I admired elements, respected the ambition, occasionally enjoyed myself — but I never quite experienced that rare electric jolt that makes you feel you’re watching something you’ll carry around for decades. Personal taste and strategic prediction don’t always align. I didn’t particularly care for Sinners, yet Michael B. Jordan’s performance feels impossible to ignore. Sometimes you simply have to respect the craft even when the movie itself leaves you unmoved. Sean Penn, meanwhile, appears to have delivered the kind of supporting performance that arrives pre-packaged with historical significance — the sort that inspires solemn nodding and decisive ballot marking.
That same film, One Battle After Another, was one of the year’s more satisfying surprises for me: ambitious without being exhausting, confident without being self-important. Watching it steadily accumulate awards-season victories has felt less like suspense and more like observing a well-organized transfer of power.
The best actress race offers a gentler internal conflict. I was genuinely charmed by Kate Hudson in Song Sung Blue, a reminder that movie-star magnetism remains both real and undervalued. But Jessie Buckley’s dominance this season has been so overwhelming that resisting her now would feel less like independent thinking and more like arguing with gravity.
And so, after months of watching, reading, overanalyzing, and filling out prediction grids with the seriousness of a tax return, I arrive at the same conclusion as much of the industry. When the final envelope is opened, the night will likely belong to One Battle After Another — a title that doubles as an apt description of awards season itself: a long, suspenseful march toward an outcome we all pretend to be surprised by.










