Modern Oscars miss the Grit of Gene Hackman

Sean Baker’s Anora dominated the evening, claiming Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Actress for Mikey Madison’s portrayal of a stripper who wrestles fate into submission. Adrien Brody snagged Best Actor for The Brutalist, while Dune: Part Two and Wicked scooped up technical honors. 

However, amid the celebration, Morgan Freeman and Oprah Winfrey stepped up to salute Gene Hackman and Quincy Jones—Hollywood tipping its hat to a bygone era, even as it races toward something shinier.

Back in Hackman’s day, the Oscars crowned films that thrived on unease. His Popeye Doyle in The French Connection was a snarling mess of a cop, chasing dope peddlers with a ferocity that blurred the line between law and lunacy. The Conversation cast him as a wiretapper whose paranoia ate him alive, while Unforgiven gave him a sheriff beaten down by a West too cruel for fairy tales. These weren’t stories of triumph—they were jagged-edged portraits of men staggering through moral quicksand. Now, Anora struts onto the stage, its heroine clawing her way from the pole to a penthouse, her victory a gleaming arc of empowerment. Where Hackman’s films wrestled with shadows, today’s winners bask in the glow of resolution.

The shift isn’t just in the stories—it’s in the air they breathe. Hackman’s era mirrored the 1960s and 1970s, when faith in authority crumbled and cinema followed suit. His characters didn’t save the day—they barely saved themselves, their worlds too fractured for tidy endings. Anora, though scrappy and indie at heart, lands in an age that hungers for uplift. Its protagonist doesn’t just survive—she conquers, her tale engineered to affirm rather than unsettle. The Academy, ever the cultural barometer, now favors narratives that polish the rough edges, trading existential shrugs for Instagram-ready inspiration.

Stardom’s face has changed too. Hackman was the everyman’s everyman—craggy, gruff, disappearing into roles like a craftsman clocking in. His battles were fought in furrowed brows and clenched fists, not press junkets or hashtags. Mikey Madison, clutching her Oscar, vowed to champion sex workers—a noble nod, but a far cry from Hackman’s silent, brooding types. Today’s stars don’t just act—they advocate, their personas as sculpted as their red-carpet looks. Hackman’s characters smoked their way through doubt; modern winners leverage their wins for likes and retweets.

The cultural drift feels baked in. Hackman’s films leaned hard into a masculinity that chewed scenery and spat it out—flawed, unapologetic, often teetering on collapse. Unforgiven unraveled the cowboy myth with a grimace, while The Conversation turned technology into a lonely abyss. Anora flips the script, wrapping its lead in agency and defiance, less a victim of circumstance than a shaper of it. Hollywood’s old rawness has softened, its lens widened to reflect a mosaic of voices—a noble aim, if one that sometimes sands down the grit Hackman’s time took pride in.

Change isn’t mourned outright. Hackman’s classics still loom large, their unpolished heft a monument to when films could afford to linger in the gray. Anora and its ilk earn their applause, spotlighting stories once sidelined. Yet the contrast stings quietly. The 97th Oscars ended with Baker and Madison basking in their moment, the crowd roaring approval. One imagines Hackman watching from afar—maybe lighting a cigar, maybe muttering about when a movie could close with a scowl instead of a smile. The Academy strides on, its tales bolder, its heroes brighter. The ghosts of a rougher past fade, their echoes drowned out by the clink of champagne flutes.