MANY OF my friends weren’t surprised when I admitted I wasn’t glued to the Miss Universe finals last November 21. Partly, I was busy with our school’s recertification with the Private Education Assistance Committee. But the bigger truth? I just felt the annual spectacle simply no longer feels spectacular. Each year, it struggles harder for relevance, overshadowed by controversies that chip away at what used to be a proud, global tradition.
From its 1952 debut in Long Beach to its electric 1990s peak under the iconic hosting of Bob Barker, and then later Bob Goen and Ali Landry, with former winners as anchors showing the tabulated scores after each round, Miss Universe was once the Olympics of beauty and culture. It was a global celebration of national pride, storytelling, and the kind of glamour that young girls around the world dreamed about. The opening Parade of Nations alone felt like a celebration of global identity. True, costumes back then were simpler and less elaborate, but their simplicity and authenticity reflected heritage and history.
Who could forget the era of real transparency in the selection process? As my friends and I waited for the preliminary scores flashed on the screen, we were ready with our pens, paper and calculators to see if the Philippine bet and our personal faves would make the cut. Then composite scores were revealed as each semi-finalist was called. Viewers at home actually understood how contestants fared. Even the host country’s “little sisters” who accompanied finalists in the evening gown competition added charm and warmth; a small ritual that made the show human, memorable, and magical.
But this year’s edition in Thailand made it painfully clear how far the pageant has drifted. One of the most jarring moments came when Miss Mexico, Fátima Bosch, was publicly berated by Thai director Nawat Itsaragrisil during a sashing ceremony. He accused her of refusing to join a promotional video, reportedly called her “dumb,” and had security escort her out. Bosch walked away and was followed by dozens of contestants in a rare show of unity and indignation.
Days later, composer-judge Omar Harfouch resigned, claiming that a “secret committee” had preselected the Top 30 finalists. Although denied by the organization, this allegation had casted doubt on the integrity of the competition. Fellow judge Claude Makélélé left under similarly murky circumstances. And as if that weren’t enough, Thai authorities opened an investigation over claims that some candidates were asked to promote an illegal online casino.
This is no longer the Miss Universe many of us grew up with. Survival mode has turned a global celebration into a corporate strategy. It has turned into a show that is heavy on branding, sponsorships, and revenue targets, but light on dignity and authenticity.
Inclusivity and diversity are noble goals, but when they’re packaged hastily and marketed aggressively, the message feels hollow. When sponsorship noise drowns out contestants’ voices, the platform weakens. And when scandals overshadow stories of women who trained for years, something vital is lost.
Like many fans, I couldn’t help but ask: Is Miss Universe still a symbol of women empowerment, or just a business cloaked in sequins?
The death of an era doesn’t happen with a single scandal. It happens quietly, when a tradition stops inspiring. Unless the organization chooses transparency, respects its contestants, and honors the legacy that once made it truly universal, this may indeed be the beginning of the end of an era.
