I remember the good old days when I was a kid without a worry in the world. Well, that’s a lie—I’ve been a bit of a neurotic my whole life, and I don’t think I can recall a single moment where I was truly worry-free. But I do remember simpler times.
For as long as I can remember, my mother and I had a tradition: watching the Oscars together. It’s a warm and happy memory, back when the film industry had yet to take on the deep personal significance it holds for me today. Back then, we watched without much context—me, a kid who had barely seen any of the nominated films, and my mother, engaging in what was more of an empirical exercise in entertainment, trying to catch a glimpse of a world far beyond the apartment where she was raising three kids.
I know, I’m getting off-topic. But what I’m trying to say is that the Oscars meant something to me, even before I truly understood the value of cinema. As I grew older and developed a deeper appreciation for film—the way it speaks its own language, its cultural impact, and how it shapes both my life and the lives of those around me—I began to evaluate the Academy’s choices with a more critical eye. I saw the correlation between these works of art and their relevance to our world, and over time, I found myself questioning the Academy’s assessments more and more.
So, when did I stop watching the Oscars? Honestly, I never completely did—I’ve always kept up with them in one way or another. But I stopped giving them the same weight. For years now, the films they celebrate have felt increasingly disconnected from society’s real needs and concerns. While many of the nominated films are undoubtedly impressive works of art, their messaging, their cultural relevance, and their tendency to align with narratives that feel out of touch with everyday people have weakened my connection to the awards. I think many former viewers feel the same way—it’s easier to just check the winners the next day rather than invest in the spectacle.
For me, the breaking point in this year’s ceremony came when Ana de Armas took the stage. She’s a talented actress and a beautiful woman, but she also represents everything wrong with the film industry today. Just a couple of months ago, she was photographed in a romantic relationship with none other than the son of Miguel Díaz-Canel, the head of the Cuban regime.
If anyone needed a real-life example of that disparity, well, here it is: the son of a dictator, dining in luxury in Spain, on a date with a Hollywood star. Can you think of a more extravagant display of privilege?
That was the moment I stopped watching the Oscars—not physically, but emotionally. When the industry became a shallow, self-congratulatory machine, where all the technical brilliance of filmmaking is poured into stories that are either irrelevant in the grand scheme of things or actively harmful in their messaging. Ana de Armas, at this moment, is the perfect symbol of that disconnect.
But let’s focus on the real problem: values. The film industry today seems to be following a trend of shallow virtue-signaling—doing what makes them look good, rather than what is actually good. It’s not about storytelling anymore; it’s about crafting the right image, playing to the right narratives, and ensuring no feathers are ruffled in the carefully curated ecosystem of Hollywood.
That’s why, when faced with a choice between a film about a drug dealer who dreams of becoming a woman and a film about a nun who built the largest free healthcare system in the world, the “obvious” Hollywood pick is always the first, never the latter. The industry no longer seems interested in genuine heroism, sacrifice, or moral complexity—only in whatever checks the right ideological boxes at the moment.
Thankfully, this kind of imbalance usually happens in waves. Hollywood has had moments like this before—periods where the industry drifts too far in one direction before common sense inevitably rebalances the scales. And I’m hopeful that day will come again. That one day, instead of this endless cycle of self-congratulatory moral posturing, cinema will return to what it does best: telling stories that inspire, challenge, and uplift.
And maybe—just maybe—when that day comes, I’ll find myself sitting on the couch once again, with my wife, my kids, and my mother, watching the Oscars like we used to, not just as a spectacle, but as a celebration of true storytelling.