The rapscallion that was 2023 is finally coming to an end, a sage reminder that time marches forward no matter what miracle serums we’re currently face-slathering. Before we new year, new me, however, let’s Ebenezer Scrooge and embrace the ghosts of discourse past. As the fin credit rolls on an emotionally girthy year, it’s time to strap on our Big Red Boots as I guide you through the ludicrously capacious caves of pop culture this year.
Despite all the media saturation, the inflight chest-compression episode of Succession was this year’s TV pinnacle. It’s still funny to me that Tom Wambsgans—a “highly interchangeable modular part” who drank his own ejaculate—is the American CEO of Waystar Royco. So many Gregs were broken for that Tomelette. Sarah Lancashire in Happy Valley was also great, but I had a crush on Tommy Lee Royce, which was conflicting.
This year the tech entrepreneur Bryan Johnson convinced us we can live forever. Not sure what the other health trends were, but the Upper East Side got hooked on Ozempic and Phoebe Philo.
Barbie vs. Oppenheimer had a chokehold on the box office this summer, distracting us from our tans, but Saltburn gave us the ultimate autumnal tipple: the bathwater martini. Austin Butler’s voice remained as deep as the missing Titanic-touring submersible, and we’re not getting into Bradley Cooper’s nose in Maestro. Movies were interesting, sure, but valuable time was lost to TikToks of glass bottles rolling down the stairs as we waited for them to smash.
Celebrity jolly-rogering reached a fever pitch: The Jenner-Chalamets played tonsil tennis at Wimbledon. Travis Kelce riffed on his GF’s tour merch. Stormzy and Maya Jama recoupled, as did Carrie and Samantha.
Gwyneth Paltrow was the gift that keeps on giving. After a swift lunch of bone broth, she took to her ski-collision trial with aplomb (well, she lost half a day of skiing), annihilating her opponent with a withering “I wish you well.” More Gwyneth in 2024, please. And speaking of the cold, Prince Harry flashed us his frostbitten todger, while King Charles was coroneted in a ceremony so bloated with pomposity I still can’t believe he didn’t mouth “lol” to his mates.
In sexi news: Paul Mescal and his mullet joined the nighttime rotation in my head, if you know what I mean. Jacob Elordi got even hotter toting his little lady bags through the airport. Sofia Coppola’s power-lunch blow-dry felt full of noble secrets, and makeup-free Pamela Anderson offered the sensual awakening none of us saw coming.
I’m just gonna do a quick hotlist of best looks, because I know you girlies love garments. Hooray for the AI pope’s puffa, Kanye’s wife in a hotel pillow, Troye Sivan’s red knickers, and Selena’s blanket (Snuggly Betty!). Emma Corrin won everything, but I especially loved last’s weeks Diana homage. Backless Bad Bunny at the Met Gala made me emit a blood-curdling scream at my phone, but was still outdressed by the (naked, now that I think of it) cockroach. Thrifting also returned, because a million girls would kill to dress as Chloë Sevigny.
I wish I had more space for Britney’s knife dance, Victoria Beckham’s school-run Rolls-Royce, or Harry Styles’s shaved head. I haven’t covered whether or not I even like Tube Girl or how it feels to post on X instead of tweeting on Twitter. Before I go, though, can I just say, without prejudice, without judgment, in the most sincere and reverent way possible: Angela Bassett did the thing.
