Despite being popularly known as the Razzies, the Golden Raspberry Awards began in a modest, almost jokey spirit. Over time, they grew into the world’s most infamous critique of Hollywood. Edited by publisher John J.B. Wilson and editor Maureen Murphy, they have honored the worst movies of the year since 1981.
For its forty-third edition this Saturday, Blonde leads with eight nominations. If the momentum holds, a new record could be set: Sylvester Stallone, already the most decorated figure in Razzie history with 11 awards, might add another trophy for his role in Samaritan.
Birth of a new tradition
While a student at the University of California in the late 1970s, Wilson wrote film reviews for a campus newspaper. Shortly after graduating, he joined Kaleidoscope Film as a trailer producer, where he crossed paths with Murphy. “One thing you learn at a company like this is how to promote a less-than-great feature. From 90 minutes you have to distill 52 seconds that can mislead an audience,” he explained in a 2014 interview with Daily Bruin.
That practical exercise later fed a bigger idea. The true seed of the Razzies was planted in the summer of 1980. After attending a double feature of Xanadu and Don’t Stop the Music!, the pair watched a Village People biopic directed by Nancy Walker. They asked for a refund, but the moment sparked a realization: there were yearly awards that celebrated the most unimpressive productions in theaters, and someone should give those performances a spotlight.
Final consolidation
The inaugural edition was assembled at Wilson’s home on March 31, 1981, coinciding with Oscar night. In his living room, a small circle of about 30 friends and a handful of local media watched as Don’t Stop the Music! earned the coveted Worst Picture prize. Interest in the ceremony grew gradually in subsequent years.
A turning point arrived in 1984 when Wilson moved the ceremony to the evening before the Academy Awards to maximize coverage. The strategy paid off: CNN and international outlets gathered in Los Angeles for the event, drawn by the promise of a counterpoint to Hollywood’s glitz. “There are people in Hollywood who get the joke, but most hate it and wish it would go away. That makes it even more fun,” Wilson told Time magazine.
In a later interview with Daily Bruin, he framed the Razzie mission this way: “Raising the bar for entertainment is part of our job. We claim the motto ‘Take care of the bad,’ acknowledging that everyone makes missteps. That humility helps us regain perspective and move forward to improve the art.”
There are those who take it with humor.
On March 24, 1996, filmmaker Paul Verhoeven became the first winner to attend the ceremony. Despite Showgirls earning seven Razzie awards, he accepted the Worst Director prize with a smile, saying, “The worst thing that happened today is getting seven of these, and I’m glad it was more fun than reading the September reviews.”
Sandra Bullock followed a similar path in 2010, winning Worst Actress for Crazy Obsession. She arrived with a wheelbarrow full of Blu-ray copies and quipped, “See for yourself and decide if I deserve it. If you do, I’ll come back next year to return it.” The next day she earned an Oscar for The Blind Side, a reminder of the industry’s paradoxes.
Bullock is not alone in having both Razzie and Oscar wins on the resume. Names like Kevin Costner, Mel Gibson, Leonardo DiCaprio, Kim Basinger, Al Pacino, and Ben Affleck have tasted both kinds of recognition. Yet the spotlight often shines brightest on Halle Berry, who, on March 24, 2002, became the first African-American woman to win Best Actress for Monster’s Ball. Three years later she collected a Razzie for Catwoman, proudly holding her Oscar and acknowledging the moment with a candid confession about the rollercoaster of a career in Hollywood.
Reflecting on the phenomenon, Berry later explained in Vanity Fair that the Razzie critique reveals something about how seriously people take themselves in the industry. If an award exists that can puncture ego, it also serves as a reminder that art is imperfect and subject to critique—an invitation to keep growing rather than stall in pride.
In this light, the Razzies remain a provocative counterweight to Hollywood’s pedestal, a yearly ritual that pairs laughter with a candid, sometimes painful look at a year in film. It is, in purpose and outcome, a commentary on taste, culture, and the ever-shifting sands of popular cinema.