As published in CLAUDIA

There is a romantic — and comfortable — idea that the Oscars reward artistic excellence alone. But anyone who follows the history of the awards closely knows this: the Academy is also a mirror of social expectations. It does not decide only who performed best. It determines, silently, who is allowed to be young, who is allowed to age, who is allowed to make mistakes, and who must prove themselves twice.

A few years ago, I wrote about an uncomfortable coincidence: how many actresses who win an Oscar end up separating shortly afterward, not as superstition, but as a symptom of a system that celebrates women while simultaneously reshaping — and often pressuring — their personal lives. Now, a new set of data casts that debate in a different light. The New York Times pointed out something that, when we look at it calmly, is striking: for men, youth is an obstacle at the Oscars; for women, it is not. According to the newspaper, this is the main hurdle facing Timothée Chalamet this year: he is “only” 30.

And then come the numbers, because they are rarely disputed. Over the past twenty years, no man has won Best Actor before turning 30. Not a single one. The youngest was Eddie Redmayne, at 33. The dominant pattern is different: men are awarded in their 40s, 50s, 60s, and even at 83, like Anthony Hopkins. Leonardo DiCaprio is more than a meme in this narrative; he is its proof. He was first nominated at 19, in 1993. He only won at 41, in 2016, after five nominations (he now has seven).

Among women, the story is the opposite. In the Supporting Actress category, Tatum O’Neal won at 10, and Anna Paquin at 11, but those cases are not central to this discussion. The real contrast appears in the Best Actress category. Gwyneth Paltrow won at 26; Reese Witherspoon at 29, as did Natalie Portman. Jennifer Lawrence at 22. Brie Larson at 26. Emma Stone won at 28 and, years later, again at 35. In 2025, Mikey Madison, at 25, beat Demi Moore, 63, and Fernanda Torres, 60. Even with all the subjectivity involved in judging art, numerically, for women, youth is not an obstacle; it is almost a credential.

This contrast is not accidental. It reveals the kind of “merit narrative” the Oscars construct for each gender.

For men, the statuette functions as a rite of passage. First, they are too young, too handsome, too loved. They are “idols,” “heartthrobs,” “romantic leads.” The talent may be there, but it is not enough. Before full recognition arrives, they must age, suffer onscreen, disfigure themselves, and embody the weight of life. Yes, we are talking about DiCaprio as the classic example: he carried the label of Titanic heartthrob and only won after facing ice, isolation, and a bear in The Revenant. The symbolic message was clear: now, at last, he had left behind desirable youth and achieved the “gravitas” the Academy respects.

The New York Times piece goes further: it suggests that part of this resistance has to do with desire. Young men who inspire female adoration carry an invisible stigma. The actor who looks like “the kind of guy your granddaughter would swoon over” is met with suspicion. As if being an object of romantic fascination disqualifies artistic seriousness. Male youth, when associated with attraction, becomes a problem.

With women, the logic is reversed and becomes, perhaps, even more cruel.

The Academy does not hesitate to honor young actresses, which often interrupts a trajectory rather than propels it forward. The Oscars canonize early those they consider representatives of their generation, but these women rarely remain fixed in that place. Gwyneth Paltrow has been vocal about how winning the Oscar “too early” took away her desire to continue in film (a discussion in itself), but no one can deny that Jennifer Lawrence became “the actress of her era” at 22, and today we barely comment on her films. From that group, Reese Witherspoon became a star and producer, and Emma Stone continues to deliver brilliant performances, collecting two statuettes along the way. In this case, the Oscar seems to offer rapid legitimation: you are talented, you matter, you belong in the pantheon. But confirming that bet is harder than it appears.

This early consecration comes with a trap. The award does not guarantee career autonomy. It does not protect against erasure. It does not prevent the system from forcing these women back into narrow roles, into expectations about image, behavior, and personal choices. For them, the Oscar functions as a seal of value, but not as a passport to make mistakes, to age, or to reinvent themselves without cost.

This is where my old “curse” begins to make sense again. When an actress wins an Oscar, something reorganizes around her. Her professional life changes. Public perception changes. And often, her private life changes too. Not because of superstition, but because recognition, in the female case, comes with a silent demand for permanence, coherence, and perfection. You are celebrated, but you are also placed under a microscope.

The contrast with men is revealing. For them, the award arrives after decades of career, after resilience has been proven, after they have distanced themselves from the position of object of desire. For women, the award may arrive early, but staying at the top is always more fragile, more negotiated, more vulnerable to shifts in the industry’s mood.

At its core, the Oscars operate as a symbolic court of gender. They decide when a man is “ready” to be taken seriously and when a woman may already be crowned, but not necessarily preserved. From men, time, wear, and transformation are demanded. To women, recognition is offered quickly, but conditionally.

This does not diminish in any way the achievements of those who won young. On the contrary, it makes them even more impressive. But it forces an uncomfortable question: if talent is talent, why must it acquire wrinkles to be validated in men, and youth to be celebrated in women?

Perhaps the greatest “curse” of the Oscars is not what happens after the statuette. It is what the award reveals about us: our ideas of authority, desire, value, and permanence. Rather than simply honoring performances, the Academy continues to write, year after year, a silent script about who may be young, who may age, who may make mistakes, and who must prove themselves forever.

P.S.: It’s a good thing Wagner Moura turns 50 in 2026. By the Academy’s logic, that gives him a mathematical advantage over Chalamet in 2026’s Oscar race…