Chapter 650: Chapter 650: Three Bastards, Five Oscars!
As February draws to a close, the buzz surrounding the Oscar Awards electrifies Hollywood. All eyes are on Leonardo, the darling of the moment, as the media feverishly speculate whether he'll clinch the coveted statuette.
Once the heartthrob Jack, now a dedicated artist, has weathered the storms of fame to morph into a rugged, middle-aged recluse, haunted by failed romances. The sacrifices for his craft have been immense.
"If Leo clinches it, he's got my heartfelt blessings!" Martin's voice echoes with genuine admiration as he strides into the bustling media zone, catching Maria's interview with the suave Nicholson. The veteran, clad in his signature sunglasses and sharp suit, exudes an air of coolness.
Nicholson's tone takes a serious turn: "Should Leo miss out, consider it boot camp time, hell-style."
Maria seizes the chance to snag Martin for a question: "How will the three of you celebrate if Leo takes the prize?"
Martin, ever the pragmatist, doesn't indulge premature celebrations: "Results aren't in yet. Let's talk victory in five hours."
Both Martin and Nicholson opt for understated support, quietly bolstering their friend's chances.
Suddenly, Bruce inserts himself into the scene, prompting Martin's reflexive protection of Nicholson.
Across the carpet, Christian Bale, haunted by post-"Dark Knight" trauma, sees Martin through a distorted lens of his own struggles.
In Bale's eyes, Martin transforms into a sinister figure, his features masked in white, lips curved in a blood-red grin.
Bale's voice deepens, echoing Batman's gravelly tones: "Justice..."
Martin, unfazed, meets Bale's gaze with calm resolve.
Bale strides closer, cryptically invoking the duality of his craft: "It can lift me or burn me."
All attention converges on Bale, his words hanging in the charged air.
Martin remains composed, poised for whatever Bale may unleash.
Caine intervenes, urging Bale to sanity, while Winslet steers Martin away, sensing the tension.
Nicholson, too, urges retreat, mindful of the Academy's image.
As they enter the Kodak Theater, Kate cautions Martin, sensing Bale's instability.
Innocently, Martin shrugs off the confrontation, but Kate senses the underlying tension.
As they settle in, the question lingers: How much do their artistic passions justify the turmoil they endure?
Martin chuckled at Kate's comment, reassured by her understanding. "Absolutely, Kate. I'm as laid-back as they come. Everyone in the biz knows that."
Nicholson chimed in with a smirk, "Our trio's got a reputation that precedes us. Hollywood's darlings, through and through."
Leonardo, a solitary figure amidst the glitz, awaited their company. As they assembled, they sauntered through the guest entrance, anticipation electrifying the air.
In the grand hall, where tradition meets glamour, Nicholson snagged a prime spot in the front row, flanked by the crew of "Shutter Island" on the left and Martin's film cohorts on the right.
Dispersing to their designated seats, Martin exchanged pleasantries with fellow directors Nolan and Fincher, though they shared a silent acknowledgment of their slim chances in tonight's directorial race.
The Best Director accolade had eluded them, with David Russell's triumph at the Directors Guild Awards serving as a sobering reminder of the uphill battle they faced.
As Martin settled into his seat, he was greeted by a familiar face leaning casually on the adjacent chair's backrest.
"Saoirse, long time no see," Martin greeted warmly, eyeing her with amusement.
The young actress pouted, her cheeks puffed up. "I've hit another growth spurt. It's a real pain."
Martin chuckled, observing her growth. "You've shot up quite a bit."
Saoirse's expression darkened as she recounted a recent humiliation. "Emma Watson mocked me at the BAFTAs, calling me a 'defective product.'"
Martin's lips quirked into a smirk. "Child stars have a tough lot. Don't let it get to you."
Saoirse's eyes welled with emotion, touched by his support.
Martin, ever mischievous, offered a suggestion. "Next time, hit her with a good comeback. Mock her shoehorned face."
Perplexed, Saoirse sought clarification.
Martin gestured, "Her uneven smile."
Understanding dawned on Saoirse's face. "Got it. Thanks, teacher. I'll find my chance tonight."
She leaned in conspiratorially. "Got any firecrackers?"
Martin raised an eyebrow. "What's your plan?"
Saoirse grinned, inspired by Martin's mischief. "I'll wait till she heads to the restroom, then slip some firecrackers under her stall."
"A bit extreme, isn't it?" Martin quipped.
Undeterred, Saoirse proposed a diabolical twist. "What about using pet feces instead? Wrap it with firecrackers for an explosive surprise!"
Their laughter echoed in the hall, sealing Emma Watson's fate as Saoirse's nemesis for the evening.
Martin gently rebuffed Saoirse's mischievous request. "No firecrackers tonight. Save it for another time."
Charlize Theron approached, claiming the seat next to Martin, prompting Saoirse to make a swift exit.
Glancing at Saoirse, Charlize remarked, "You're quite the versatile one, unlike our dear Leonardo."
Martin shook his head with a smirk. "I'm not that particular, actually. I only appreciate beauty."
Charlize shifted the conversation, sensing Martin's recent setbacks. "You've been passed over for projects lately. Feeling down? Elizabeth's away on business. Swing by tonight. I'll cheer you up."
Martin's response was measured. "Depends on how things go. If Leo doesn't clinch it, I'll take you up on that."
As the Kodak Theater swelled with anticipation, the awards ceremony commenced, ushering in a wave of nostalgia amidst the glitz and glamour.
Despite the Academy's purported reforms, the ceremony retained its familiar rhythms, eliciting yawns even from seasoned actors like Martin, born in the '80s, who found himself disinterested in the proceedings.
James Franco's erratic hosting, paired with Anne Hathaway's distracted demeanor, failed to ignite the stage, leaving the audience underwhelmed.
Charlize leaned in, her voice hushed. "Franco seems... off."
Martin nodded in agreement, equally perplexed.
A prompt reminded Martin of his backstage duty to present the Best Actor award.
As Martin made his way backstage, Nicholson joined him, their camaraderie evident as they prepared for their onstage roles.
Anne, spotting Martin amidst the hustle, approached with a request for a private chat later that evening.
Nicholson, ever the provocateur, quipped to Martin, "Your ex is on the prowl."
Anne's directness caught Martin off guard. "Can we talk tonight?"
Martin hesitated briefly. "I'll be at the Oscar night bash."
As the Best Actor award announcement loomed, Martin and Nicholson took their places on stage.
Nicholson, in his irreverent charm, dubbed them the "Iron Triangle of Hollywood," eliciting chuckles from the audience.
Martin teased, "People often ask, how many Oscars have we won collectively?"
Nicholson, ever the showman, proclaimed, "Four, of course!"
Martin continued, "But they ask me, individually, how many have each of us won? I draw a blank."
Nicholson quipped, "We have to spare a thought for the poor soul without an Oscar."
Laughter rippled through the crowd, punctuating their banter.
The camera panned to Leonardo, anticipation written on his face.
Nicholson handed the envelope to Martin, who announced with a grin, "The winner for Best Actor is Leonardo DiCaprio!"
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