Nikki Glaser hit her marks.
From the moment she welcomed guests at the Beverly Hilton and viewers at home to “Ozempic’s biggest night,” the host of the 82nd Golden Globes set the right tone—a lighthearted mix of conviviality, self-deprecation, and snark—to satisfy both of those very different audiences. Glaser is known for, among other things, her scathing insult comedy.
Yet in her tight, referential opening monologue, she assured nominees that “I am not here to roast you tonight.”
Because who was she to mock such a powerful group of A-listers? “You could really do anything—except tell the country who to vote for,” Glaser cracked. Then she took a second, brief step into the ambient political anxiety: “You’ll get ‘em next time. If there is one.”
The Globes have a history of hiring envelope-pushing comedians as hosts, for better (Tina Fey and Amy Poehler skewering gendered double standards in Hollywood) and worse (Ricky Gervais griping about how boring the show he’s emceeing is bound to be). Glaser, who is somehow the Globes’ first solo female host, fits neatly into that tradition. She’s been in the public eye for more than a decade, balancing stand-up with roles in films like Trainwreck and such TV gigs as FBoy Island, the tongue-in-cheek reality dating show she hosts. But 2024 was her biggest year yet. A veteran roast comic, her searing set in Netflix’s widely seen live event The Roast of Tom Brady went viral last May. (On Brady’s delayed retirement: “It’s hard to walk away from something that’s not your pregnant girlfriend.”) Soon after, HBO released her latest special, Someday You’ll Die, which was nominated for a Globe on Sunday. (Ali Wong won.) The devilishly funny set exemplifies Glaser’s delight in touching third rails, from a crack about wishing a pregnant friend would miscarry to a discussion of gangbang porn as a metaphor for life.
When comedians host awards shows, they often err towards one of two extremes, either treating the gig like just another set, with jokes tailored for their fans rather than a broader audience, or delivering wholly anodyne performances, leaving little trace of their own voices.
Glaser succeeded by calibrating her spicy, self-deprecating style for the task at hand. “You were in everything,” she told Glen Powell in the monologue. “Twisters, Hit Man, my head when I was having sex with my boyfriend.” It was a joke you could imagine enjoying in one of Glaser’s riotous specials—just not one of the many provocative enough to make you blush, gasp, and crack up all at once.
