Chapter 893: Oscar; Best Picture!

In the vast, frozen wilderness of Alberta, Canada, four orange-red snowmobiles cut across the seemingly endless white expanse, their engines growling in the otherwise quiet landscape. They approached a secluded holiday camp, where the lead rider spoke briefly to a camp worker before fueling up with a special kind of kerosene. Without lingering, the group sped off again, heading deeper into the nearby forest.

After more than half an hour of navigating through the snow-covered terrain, the snowmobiles finally came to a stop in a narrow valley, enclosed by towering trees and jagged hills.

Nicholson, sitting in one of the snowmobiles, rummaged through his gear and handed a pair of sunglasses to Martin. "Put these on. It'll help with the glare."

Martin, already feeling the cold creeping through his thick winter suit, zipped it all the way up before taking the sunglasses. He slipped them on and, with a grunt, climbed out of the snowmobile. His boots crunched into the thick snow as he turned and extended a hand to Nicholson.

"Careful," Martin warned as he helped the older man down. "The ground's slick. I don't know why you didn't just stay warm in Los Angeles. What made you come all the way out here to freeze?"

Nicholson, with a trademark smirk, brushed snow off his coat and looked around. "Someone's got to keep Leo from losing his damn mind out here. Look at this place, if we don't come to show some support, he's liable to go crazy."

The two men trudged through the snow, each step accompanied by the crisp crunch of snow underfoot, as they made their way toward the film set for *The Revenant*. The forest loomed nearby, its dark outline a stark contrast to the brilliant white snowfield. The distant hum of activity from the crew grew louder as they approached, and soon, a production manager greeted them, leading them to the edge of the set where a few trailers were parked.

"Come on up," the manager said, gesturing to a ladder leaning against one of the trailers. "Best view's from up here."

Martin and Nicholson climbed up to the roof of the trailer, giving them a perfect vantage point to observe the shoot. The set, nestled at the edge of the forest, was buzzing with activity. Snow fell steadily from the overcast sky, adding an extra layer of difficulty to an already tough environment.

Below them, Leonardo DiCaprio stood near an enormous maple tree, barely recognizable in his costume. He was cloaked in a thick fur coat, matted with fake blood, and his hair, tangled and dirty, hung in frozen clumps around his face. His features were hidden beneath layers of grime and makeup, transforming him into the tormented character of Hugh Glass.

Even from a distance, Martin could tell how miserable Leo looked. "That outfit alone is enough to make me feel cold just watching him," Martin muttered, shaking his head.

As the director called for action, the scene began to unfold. Leonardo, his breath visible in the icy air, crouched down and drew a large knife from his belt. In a brutal, almost primal fashion, he hacked into a steaming hunk of raw beef, slicing off strips and shoving them into his mouth. The scene was visceral, and despite the discomfort, Leonardo stayed committed to the performance. But after only a couple of bites, the director called for a cut.

"Again!" came the shout.

Leonardo nodded, wiped the blood from his mouth, and reset the scene. It was grueling work. Over the next several takes, he consumed strip after strip of raw beef, his face twisted in concentration as he fought to embody every bit of suffering required by the role.

From the trailer roof, Martin leaned back in his chair and pulled a thermos out of his bag. He handed it to Nicholson. "Here, warm up a bit."

Nicholson took the thermos gratefully, sipping the hot tea as steam rose into the cold air. "I've never seen Leo fight so hard for a role before," Martin observed, watching as the scene reset for the fifth time.

Nicholson chuckled, his breath fogging in the cold. "Well, he's already got one Oscar. Didn't think he'd push himself this much again. But he's got something to prove. Taking on a role like this, suffering through all of this, he's trying to beat you, you know. You set the bar high, and now he's trying to top it."

Martin shrugged, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Maybe he'll snag another Oscar for this. Who knows? But one thing's for sure, he's really leaning into the misery. Seems like the Academy eats that up."

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their tea and watching Leonardo repeat the same brutal scene again and again, each time more convincing than the last. Martin couldn't help but remember how, in another time, Leonardo had won the Oscar for this very role. But with the film's release delayed this time around, he wondered if fate had shifted.

Eventually, the director called a wrap for the day, the snowfall thickening as the light began to fade. The crew packed up quickly, eager to escape the freezing temperatures. Leonardo, after some prompting from his assistant, waved up to Martin and Nicholson before disappearing into the makeup trailer.

A few minutes later, they joined him inside his personal trailer, where the heat blasted, a welcome contrast to the bitter cold outside. Leonardo appeared shortly after, freshly changed and his face scrubbed clean of makeup.

"I must've lost my mind picking this film," Leonardo groaned, collapsing onto a couch. "I'm seriously thinking about killing myself over that raw beef. Who does this?"

Nicholson, never one to miss a beat, raised his thermos in a mock toast. "Hey, it's not too late to back out. But I think you're too far gone for that."

Leonardo groaned again, a half-smile on his face. Despite the discomfort, Martin knew the three of them shared a bond, the kind forged through years of creative suffering and triumph.

Martin gave Leonardo a quick once-over, a smirk forming on his lips. "You look like you're holding up well," he remarked.

Leonardo shot him a look of pure exasperation as he grabbed a bottle of water from the nearby table. "In good condition? Really, Martin? Do you even have a conscience?" He took a long swig, then rinsed his mouth, spitting several times as if trying to erase a terrible memory. "Do you even know what I just ate? Raw beef! Real, bloody raw beef!"

Nicholson, always quick with a jab, leaned back and casually exposed Leo's decision. "With all the magic Hollywood props can whip up these days, it's not hard to fake a piece of meat. But no, you had to go full method and actually eat the real thing. Why?"

Before Leonardo could answer, Martin chimed in, "Because it's perfect for the PR campaign. Just imagine the headlines: *Leo eats raw meat for his art!* When the film drops, that'll be the behind-the-scenes story everyone talks about. Come awards season, you'll have the perfect line to impress the judges: 'I sacrificed so much for this role!'"

Leonardo, now rinsing his mouth again, glared at them. "Oh sure, great for publicity, but what about me? You two know I'm an environmentalist! I'm a vegetarian, for God's sake! You think I enjoy eating raw beef?"

Both Martin and Nicholson glanced down at Leo's slightly protruding belly, their eyes gleaming with barely-contained amusement. They didn't have to say a word; their expressions did all the talking.

Leo caught their glance and, undeterred, patted his belly defensively. "Hey! Don't give me that look. I'm an *openly* lacto-ovo vegetarian! But for the sake of the role? I'm eating beef! Raw beef, at that! You think that's easy for me? I've paid my dues. I deserve some credit here!"

Martin let out a laugh, shaking his head. "Oh, you're right. You eat the meat, you suffer for the role, you're a martyr."

Leonardo, not to be outdone, dramatically waved his hands in front of their faces, then slapped his own cheek. "Look at this!" He pointed to the frostbite and small cracks on his wind-beaten face. "I don't even need to *act* miserable, I already am!"

Nicholson, always the quick wit, leaned in with a deadpan delivery: "Poor billionaire. What a tragic life."

The teasing wasn't enough for Martin, who piled on with a wicked grin. "A billionaire abandoned by his one true love, Gisele! Now that's real tragedy."

Leonardo groaned in frustration, throwing his hands up in the air. "Alright, alright. Enough! You guys are insufferable."

The three of them bantered for a while longer, trading jabs and insults, but soon followed the rest of the crew back to a nearby resort, leaving the biting cold behind.

The resort was bustling with tourists. It was the height of ski season, but Nicholson, being the elder statesman of the group, had no interest in hitting the slopes. Martin, not wanting to be responsible for his friend's broken bones, decided to stay with him while the rest of the crew scattered. The filming conditions were harsh enough; no need to tempt fate with an accident on the ice.

The filming environment really was brutal. Leonardo didn't need to sell it to anyone, it was clear to anyone with eyes. Day after day, he slogged through the freezing wind and snow, his face nearly frozen, his hair a tangled mess like some wild creature lost in the wilderness. It was a far cry from the glamorous roles of his past, but he was in it for the art, or so he kept telling himself.

At dinner that evening, Martin offered Leonardo some advice. "You should have someone filming all of this, the behind-the-scenes stuff. It'll make for great promo material, and it'll show just how much you're suffering for the role."

Leonardo, glancing at the steaks on the plates in front of Martin and Nicholson, grimaced. "I've already got people filming it. But for the love of God, can you two please not eat that in front of me? The smell of beef is making me sick."

Nicholson, unfazed, speared a piece of juicy steak with his fork. "I love a good steak, Leo. Especially when it's cooked just right. You can't ask an old man to give that up."

Leo knew better than to expect mercy from these two. Changing the subject seemed the best course of action. "Martin," he said, shifting his focus, "you're pushing hard for that second Best Actor Oscar with *Split*. I've been hearing that this year's awards season is already heating up. People are stirring the pot, aren't they?"

Martin leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as he scanned the room. "It's not just people. It's the usual suspects, African Americans in the industry, other minority groups, and some folks with their own agendas. They're causing a bit of noise."

Leonardo raised an eyebrow, clearly out of the loop from spending so much time on set. "What kind of trouble are we talking about?"

Martin sighed. "Leftovers from last year's Oscars, really. There were no major nominations for Black actors or directors. Now you've got people like Spike Lee and the Smiths leading the charge, announcing their boycott for the next ceremony. They want the Academy to reform, to diversify its membership, make sure there's more representation."

Leo nodded slowly. "So it's all about diversity again."

Martin shrugged. "Yeah, it's become a full movement. It's not just a phase anymore. The Academy's going to have to make some real changes, or the noise is going to get louder. This season's just the beginning."

Leonardo shook his head, half in frustration, half in understanding. "Well, here's hoping I don't have to eat any more raw beef for *that* cause. I've done my suffering for the year."

They all laughed, but as the evening wound down, the realities of the shifting industry and the challenges ahead loomed just as large as the snow-covered mountains surrounding their little resort.

Nicholson, ever the blunt one, didn't mince words. "These stinking bastards don't care about the craft. They just make noise first, then figure out how to deal with it after."

Leonardo, curious, leaned forward. "But does it work?"

Before Nicholson could respond, Martin answered smoothly, "The Academy's all in on diversity reform. They're making moves."

Leonardo suddenly burst out laughing, pointing at Martin with mock accusation. "You, my friend, are in for it now!"

Martin shook his head, a sly grin on his face. "You're overthinking it. I've been prepared for this. You really think I'm in this just for the awards? There's a bigger picture; it's about positioning. I've got a few irons in the fire."

Nicholson raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Wait a second. I knew you were in talks with the Academy's executive committee earlier this year, but there's more to this, isn't there? What haven't you told me?"

Leonardo leaned back, joining in. "Sounds like something's been cooking for a while now."

Martin nodded. "You're not wrong. To be precise, this all started when I first laid eyes on the *Split* project. Let's see, that would've been about three years ago. I was in Boston shooting *The Town*, and I stumbled across the story of Billy Milligan by chance. That's when I knew, this could be my Oscar play. I started pulling strings, reaching out to people who could help. That's when I got in touch with Jennifer Aniston. Her production company, Plan B, had a project that piqued my interest."

Nicholson snapped his fingers, recalling the details. "Plan B... Ah, right! The African-American film. *Moonlight*, wasn't it?"

"Exactly," Martin confirmed. "But it's not just about race. The film dives deep into themes of sexuality, identity, even transgender experiences. It's hitting all the right notes for what the Academy's looking for now."

He added, "By the way, *Moonlight* has already started screening in Los Angeles and New York. Critics are raving. The media's eating it up."

Leonardo, always in tune with the industry's shifting winds, took a deep breath of the cold Canadian air, eyes wide. "Damn. The Academy's pushing diversity reforms, and Plan B drops a movie like this? With reviews that good, how's anyone supposed to compete with that?"

Nicholson, leaning forward, asked the critical question. "Aren't you worried *Moonlight* might sweep the Best Actor category?"

Martin flashed a confident smile. "The Academy's under pressure to appease the African American community after the backlash from past awards. They also need to prove they're serious about reforming their image. What better way to do that than by giving *Moonlight* Best Picture? It's the perfect compromise."

Nicholson, a veteran of the awards circuit, nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense. Best Picture would be a big statement."

Leonardo grinned. "That team's playing for keeps."

"Jennifer Aniston's the one pulling the strings on *Moonlight*," Martin added. "I'm heading back to L.A. tomorrow to have a chat with her. I'll convince her to push her resources into the Best Picture race. It's all about steering the focus."

Nicholson chuckled. "You're a master at playing both sides. You've done it before."

Martin grinned. "It's like driving two cars at the same time. Nothing I can't handle."

By the time they left Alberta and arrived back in the sunny warmth of Los Angeles, Martin wasted no time. He arranged to meet with Jennifer Aniston in a quiet, upscale hotel. As predicted, Angelina Jolie tagged along, things always got interesting when those two were in the same room.

Martin leaned back in his chair, soaking in the California sun that filtered through the windows. He cut straight to the chase. "Jen, you've got a real shot at winning Best Picture this year with *Moonlight*."

Aniston, always sharp, was quick to pick up on the changing tides in Hollywood. As a leading voice in the #MeToo movement, she had a keen sense of where the winds were blowing. "Yeah, *Moonlight* fits perfectly with the current climate. The Oscars are looking for films that challenge the status quo."

Just then, Jolie, sitting quietly nearby, gave Aniston a gentle nudge, reminding her to stay focused.

Aniston narrowed her eyes at Martin. "Wait a second. You're not trying to muscle in on Best Picture, are you?"

Martin smiled, always one step ahead. "My film *Split* is definitely in the running. But I'm playing a different game."

Aniston stood up, tossing her coat aside with a confident smirk. "Alright, let's settle this. Same rules as always: whoever wins, calls the shots."

She shot a glance at Jolie. "Stop sitting there like a spectator, you little troublemaker. Get over here and help me out!"

Jolie raised an eyebrow, clearly amused but compliant. "Fine, but don't expect me to take it easy on you."

And so it went, an informal showdown, as old rivals clashed with playful tension. Behind the scenes, Martin had already set the pieces in motion, manipulating the game with a master's touch. Everyone had a role to play in this high-stakes dance.

But Martin? He was already thinking several moves ahead, ensuring that no matter the outcome, he'd come out on top, with both *Split* and *Moonlight* working to his advantage. The Oscar race was heating up, and he was right at the center of it.

Julie flashed Martin a playful smile. "Oh, I'm more than happy to help you with this, Martin! Jane, let's show him the fruits of our hard work at the gym."

Aniston, already knowing this "battle" was inevitable, had been preparing for it for months. She'd been focusing on her fitness, especially perfecting her squats. The goal? To overcome her rival and gain the upper hand in the upcoming Oscar race.

In Hollywood, the strategies for winning an Oscar are many, and Martin and Aniston both embraced every aspect of the competition, showing how much "art" went into the whole affair.

Unfortunately for Aniston, despite all her preparation, the unpredictable nature of the industry had other plans. When the dust of their playful rivalry settled, Aniston found herself defeated once again. Martin had, yet again, managed to retain the upper hand.

As Jolie helped Aniston rehydrate, her hazy mind gradually cleared, and she began to regain her composure. She blinked a few times, then glanced at Martin, a mixture of frustration and resignation washing over her.

"I lost again," Aniston said, her voice carrying a hint of defeat. "I'll accept the loss. You can make the call on the winner, however you see fit."

Martin, ever the charmer, gently stroked her cheek in a comforting gesture. "You've come a long way this time, Jen. Honestly, I almost didn't make it. But I think I'll just focus on winning Best Actor."

Aniston's eyes lit up slightly, and she stood, a bit surprised. "Wait, you're not gunning for Best Picture?"

Martin smiled warmly. "I can't always ask you to step aside for me."

For a moment, Aniston's face softened. "Thank you, darling," she said, feeling both relieved and grateful. But then she paused, giving Martin a suspicious look. "Wait a second... Something doesn't seem quite right here, does it?"

At that, Jolie burst out laughing, doubling over. "Jen, are you losing it?"

Aniston shot a glare at Jolie but chose to ignore her. She turned back to Martin, crossing her arms. "Your plan was to go after Best Actor all along, wasn't it?"

Martin didn't miss a beat, admitting with a casual shrug, "It's the only category I'm targeting this year."

Aniston raised an eyebrow, unfazed by his honesty. "Alright, fine. You win. I'll follow your lead. Plan B won't push for the Best Actor category."

She added, with a bit of candidness, "Honestly, our actor's performance isn't groundbreaking. He's not bad, but he wouldn't stand much of a chance against real contenders. His only edge is that the role aligns with the Academy's current diversity focus."

Jolie, still smiling, turned to Martin. "So, I'm guessing you've done your homework on this year's competition?"

Martin grabbed the remote and hit play on the projector. A list of movies and actors flashed across the screen. "Let's break it down. This year doesn't have many heavyweight contenders. For Best Actor, excluding *Moonlight*, these three are the frontrunners."

He clicked the laser pointer, highlighting three films on the screen: *Bridge of Spies*, *The Danish Girl*, and *Steve Jobs*.

Jolie, never one to sugarcoat, jumped in. "Tom Hanks? For a third Best Actor win? Unless he's reinventing the wheel with this role, I don't see it happening. Eddie Redmayne? He just took home the Oscar last year, no way he gets it again so soon. And Fassbender? A German actor winning Best Actor in this climate? That's a long shot."

Aniston nodded in agreement and glanced at Martin. "So, what about Best Picture? Which film do you think is the biggest threat?"

Martin didn't hesitate. He pointed his laser at a title on the screen. "*Spotlight*. That's your competition. The Oscars love a good story about justice, and *Spotlight* fits that narrative perfectly. It's all about righteousness and exposing wrongdoing, classic Oscar bait."

He paused, thinking for a moment before adding, "If you want *Moonlight* to win, you need to amplify the voices of the Black and LGBTQ+ communities. Push those narratives, make them louder. That's what will sway the Academy. The more attention those issues get, the more momentum *Moonlight* will have going into awards season."

Aniston listened carefully, her mind already shifting gears. She knew Martin was right. The Oscars weren't just about performances; they were about the stories behind the films, the social issues they touched on, and how well they aligned with the cultural conversation. And with *Moonlight* being so relevant to the Academy's push for diversity, the path to victory was becoming clear.

Martin leaned back, his work done for the moment. He had set things in motion, guiding his allies and preparing his own moves in the complex chess game that was the Oscars. Now it was just a matter of watching it all unfold.