Ah, the 2025 BAFTAs, the British version of the Oscars where everyone pretends they're not as self-important while simultaneously proving they are. It's a curious British institution, one that manages to be both self-deprecating and self-congratulatory in equal measure, much like a vicar who accidentally swears during his Sunday sermon - you know it's wrong, but it's also delightfully British.
The BAFTAs have this charming little habit of trying to convince us they're not just another awards show; they're a celebration of British cinema with a nod to the world. But let's be frank, it's an awards show, and like all awards shows, it's a parade of the same old faces, the same old speeches, and the same old "I never expected this" surprise faces. If acting classes included "How to Look Shocked While Accepting an Award," every BAFTA winner would be an A-lister.
There's a quaintness to the BAFTAs, with its setting in the Royal Festival Hall, which gives it the air of a posh garden party where everyone just happens to be wearing designer clothes instead of tweed. But beneath this veneer of British decorum, you'll find the same Hollywood machine at work, just with a slightly different accent and an insistence on tea rather than champagne... though let's be honest, there's plenty of the latter too.
First off, let's applaud David Tennant, who returned as host, proving once again that if the Time Lord gig doesn't work out, he can always fall back on charming an audience into thinking they're not at an award show but rather at a particularly engaging episode of "Doctor Who." Tennant managed to navigate the evening with the kind of wit that makes you forget you're watching people win awards for films you've probably never heard of unless you're deeply entrenched in the film festival circuit or have an unnatural obsession with reading every film blog on the internet.
The big winner of the night, "Conclave," with its four BAFTAs, including Best Film, reminded us all that nothing says "cinematic excellence" quite like a papal conclave. It's like "The Godfather" but with less violence and more theological debate. Edward Berger, the director, took home the award with all the humility of a man who knew he'd just outmanoeuvred every other director in the room with his papal plot twists.
Then there's "The Brutalist," another four-time winner, which managed to make architecture look not just interesting but downright sexy. Brady Corbet, the director, and Adrien Brody, the leading man, turned what could have been a snore-fest into something that had everyone in the audience thinking, "Perhaps I should take up bricklaying as a hobby."
The supporting categories were where the real drama unfolded. Zoe Saldaña, winning for "Emilia Pérez," proved she could excel in a language other than Klingon, even if the film's star, Karla Sofía Gascón, was absent due to some Twitter faux pas from the dark ages of the internet. And let's not forget Kieran Culkin, who continued his awards season tour de force with "A Real Pain." One can only hope he's saving space on his mantelpiece for more awards.
The night was peppered with performances that ranged from the sublime to the "why on earth did we actually need that?" The remaining 60% of Take That took to the stage to remind us all that nostalgia sells, especially when associated with a film's soundtrack. And Jeff Goldblum on the piano? Well, that was either a delightful nod to his eclectic career, or a reminder that even in the world of cinema, there's always room for a bit of progressive jazz.
And let's not overlook the fashion parade, which is less about celebrating film and more about who can wear the most avant-garde outfit without tripping on stage. It's like watching a high-stakes game of musical chairs where the music is provided by a string quartet, and the chairs are replaced by a red carpet. The red carpet itself was, as always, a spectacle of fashion where the participants seemed to be in a silent competition to out-do each other with their sartorial choices. From Timothée Chalamet's matching all-black ensemble making him look as if he was preparing for to star in the remake of the Cadbury's Milk Tray adverts, to the dazzling array of gowns, it was clear that even if you weren't winning on stage, you could certainly win in the fashion stakes.
There was one gown that looked like someone had accidentally spilled a bucket of glitter over an inflatable mattress, and they just went with it. And let's not overlook the pièce de résistance: a dress that seemed to have been inspired by a particularly ambitious origami project gone wrong. It was as if the designer thought, "What would happen if we took all the world's napkins and just... draped them over the poor sod wearing it?" But the real highlight? The sheer audacity of a gown that appeared to be made from repurposed car seat covers, complete with airbag motifs. Because nothing says "I'm ready for my close-up" like the threat of sudden deployment.
In conclusion, the 2025 BAFTAs were a charming evening of cinema appreciation, British-style, with just enough pomp to remind us of the Oscars, but with a dash of humour and humility that makes one think, "Well, at least they didn't take themselves too seriously." They're Britain's way of saying, "We do awards shows too, but with less Hollywood gloss and more British cheek." It's a night where the film industry pats itself on the back with one hand while the other hand is busy tweeting about how down-to-earth everyone is.
Here's to the BAFTAs, then - a charmingly British spectacle of cinema, ego, and sartorial risks, all wrapped up in the comforting blanket of tradition, with a side order of irony from the local Five Guys.