Chapter 895: The Second Oscar!

On the last weekend of February 2016, the 88th Academy Awards kicked off in grand style, igniting the energy of Hollywood with more buzz than ever before. The Dolby Theater, bathed in golden lights and shimmering red carpets, was at the center of a whirlwind of media attention. This year, however, the air carried a different kind of intensity, one that stretched far beyond just film. The debate over diversity, sparked by the "Oscars So White" controversy, had taken the nation by storm, making the lead-up to this ceremony a cultural moment as much as a celebration of cinema.

Fans, with cameras in hand and dressed to the nines, flocked in larger numbers than in previous years, eager to catch a glimpse of their favorite stars. The media presence was massive, with reporters jostling for the best shots and soundbites.

In the middle of it all stood Martin, a well-known face, yet his presence still managed to turn heads. Alone in the media area, he faced a barrage of questions from eager journalists. Among them was David Grew from ABC, microphone in hand, ready with a question that everyone was dying to ask.

"In the predictions from major outlets, you're the frontrunner for Best Actor," David began, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "Do you feel confident about tonight? Do you think you'll walk away with the Oscar?"

Martin, ever composed, flashed a charming smile. "The Oscars are a fair competition," he said with a shrug, keeping his cool despite the pressure. "Everyone who's nominated has earned their place, and we all have a shot. I just hope the goddess of luck is on my side tonight."

Before long, the next wave of stars pushed into the media area, and Martin made his way into the Dolby Theatre. Just as he crossed the threshold, Mene, one of his close friends and collaborators, approached him from the side.

"Boss!" Mene greeted him with a grin, looking energized despite the long year of grueling work.

Martin gave him a once-over, eyebrows raised. "You've bulked up," he said, genuinely impressed.

Mene chuckled. "Blame Chad, Tiger, and Marcus. Shooting 'The Continental Hotel New York' nearly killed me. Mentally and physically. It was tougher than dealing with Emma and Celine combined!"

Bruce, walking alongside Martin, couldn't resist a jab. "I don't know, Mene. Sounds more like bragging to me than complaining."

Mene feigned innocence, throwing his hands up. "Boasting? Me? Come on, Bruce. Look at my face, these hands," he said, holding up his palms, still scarred from on-set stunts. "The bruises haven't even healed yet! Don't crush my fragile spirit any more than this movie already has."

Just then, Chad, Chen, and Marcus joined the group, having emerged from the lobby, still chatting animatedly. Chad clapped Mene on the back. "Martin, you missed it. That day Emma and Celine both showed up on set at the same time. We thought Mene was finished, completely doomed. But he somehow talked his way out of it."

Marcus, visibly pregnant and glowing with pride, gave a thumbs-up. "Mene is a true inspiration to men everywhere."

Chen Hu nodded, a grin playing on his lips. "If I had half of Mene's charm, I'd have retired by now."

Laughter broke out among the group as they exchanged more stories. Martin embraced each of them in turn. These were not just colleagues but friends who had endured a year of grueling work together, and tonight they had the honor of presenting awards, a subtle promotion for their latest project.

Chad, Mene, Chen Hu, and Marcus would be on stage tonight, shining a spotlight on "The Continental Hotel New York," a spin-off of the popular "John Wick" franchise. The movie had just wrapped in January and was now deep into post-production, set for release that summer.

"So, what's next for the franchise?" Martin asked, always one to look ahead.

Chad, ever the strategist, didn't miss a beat. "If 'The Continental Hotel New York' performs as we hope, we've got two routes we can go. We either dive straight into a sequel or explore a parallel story with Blake Lively's character, Sophia, managing the Casablanca branch of the Continental. Eventually, we could bring everyone together – you, Mene, and Blake – like an ensemble piece. Sort of like what 'The Avengers' did, but with a darker, edgier twist."

Martin nodded, clearly intrigued. "That sounds epic. A whole world of assassins and Continental hotels… feels like something big. Just make sure you bring me a solid plan."

Chad grinned. "Already in the works."

As they bantered, the group entered the grand lobby of the Dolby Theatre, the atmosphere humming with excitement. Soon, they would take their seats in front of the world's most prestigious stage.

Martin found himself seated in the front row, eventually separating from his friends as he made his way to his assigned spot. The ceremony organizers, in what seemed like a deliberate choice, had placed him next to two icons of the industry, Leonardo DiCaprio and Jack Nicholson. Neither had arrived yet, leaving an empty space between the seats that almost hummed with their legendary presence.

He shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Of course, those two bastards are running late."

And with that, he settled into his seat, ready for the night to unfold.

The orchestral music swelled, signaling the start of the next part of the evening, as Chris Rock, the host of the night and renowned for his sharp wit, strolled confidently onto the stage. The audience greeted him with loud applause and laughter, eager to see what the comedian had in store for them this year. Rock, as always, was ready to poke fun at the industry's biggest names and address the controversies swirling around the ceremony. But despite his best efforts to keep things lively, Martin found it hard to stay engaged.

The truth was, most of the films nominated this year weren't on Martin's radar. As an Academy voter, he hadn't even watched half of them, so his interest waned. The "Split" crew only had two nominations, both of which were scheduled for later in the evening, so the awards leading up to it felt like a long, drawn-out waiting game.

Finally, the first award connected to *Split* was announced: Best Adapted Screenplay. Jonathan Nolan, the mind behind the film's complex narrative, was up for the honor. But the win went to *The Big Short*, a project from Louise's production company, instead. Martin nodded in acknowledgment. It was a good screenplay; no hard feelings there.

As the night dragged on, award after award was handed out, including Best Documentary Feature, which went to a Korean production that had gained the Academy's favor. It was a moment of celebration for them, but for Martin, it was simply another delay.

Then, finally, the moment he had been waiting for approached. The Best Actor award was second to last, and the room seemed to buzz with anticipation. Last year's Best Actress, the always-graceful Julianne Moore, took the stage with a large, elegant envelope in hand.

With her usual charm, Julianne cracked a few light-hearted jokes, playing to the audience before turning to the massive screen behind her. "And now, the nominees for Best Actor," she began, her voice carrying a mixture of excitement and gravity. The screen flickered to life, displaying the clips of each nominee's most powerful moments.

"Michael Fassbender, *Steve Jobs*," Julianne announced as the screen showed Fassbender's commanding performance as the tech visionary.

"Tom Hanks, *Bridge of Spies*," followed next, with Hanks delivering a heart-wrenching speech from the film.

And then, "Martin Davis, *Split*."

The audience watched as Martin's clip played, his character rapidly transitioning between multiple personalities in a matter of seconds. His face changed, his mannerisms shifted, and the room felt the full force of his talent. The transformation was flawless, a display of the kind of acting that left audiences in awe.

Leonardo DiCaprio, sitting next to Martin, leaned over and whispered, "For that performance, you've got this in the bag, man. You deserve it."

Martin gave a small smile, though he remained calm. He had done the hard work, and all that was left now was to wait for the verdict. The live cameras panned to his face, catching his composed expression as the world watched in suspense.

Julianne Moore, standing at the podium, carefully opened the envelope, pulling out the card that held the name of the winner. She glanced at it briefly, then smiled. "And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to... Martin Davis!"

The crowd erupted into applause as Martin clenched his fists in victory, a broad smile spreading across his face. He slammed the armrest of his seat lightly in celebration before standing up.

Nicholson, already on his feet, embraced Martin with a grin. "Go up there and rub it in Leo's face as much as you can," he joked.

Before Martin could respond, Leonardo playfully shoved Nicholson aside and gave Martin a solid punch on the shoulder. "You bastard," he said with a grin, "you've beaten me again."

Martin laughed. "Don't worry, I won't make you solve any math problems tonight," he teased, referencing their earlier conversation.

"Thank you," Leo muttered, shaking his head in mock defeat.

Martin hugged Jonathan Nolan next, straightened his suit, and confidently strode toward the stage as the audience continued to applaud, standing in unison. As he walked, he couldn't help but reflect on how far he'd come, this was his third Oscar, yet the excitement of the moment never faded.

Julianne handed him the golden statuette with a warm smile and gestured toward the microphone, stepping aside to give him the stage.

Martin took a deep breath, holding the Oscar high. "Thank you to the Academy and to everyone who voted," he began, his voice steady but filled with emotion. "Standing here tonight is an incredible honor. I want to thank my friends and family, and of course, my incredible team who made this all possible." He glanced out at the audience, his eyes locking with Jonathan Nolan's. "Jonathan, your script was brilliant. Thank you, David Fincher, mentor, friend: you helped shape this role into what it became."

He could feel the pressure of the countdown clock ticking in his head. The time for acceptance speeches had been cut down to a mere 48 seconds, and he knew he had to wrap it up soon.

But before the orchestra could cue his exit music, Martin grinned and leaned back into the microphone. "Wait, wait! Don't kick me off the stage just yet, I've got one last thing to say!" He glanced toward Leonardo. "Earlier, Leo warned me not to ask him any math questions, and I promised I wouldn't." His grin widened. "But I never promised not to make fun of him."

The room exploded with laughter, the audience fully caught up in the moment. Even Leo couldn't help but laugh, though he waved his hand at Martin in mock annoyance.

As the music began to play, signaling that his time was up, Martin raised the Oscar one last time, waving to the audience before turning to exit backstage.

There, waiting in the wings, was Warren Beatty, his face breaking into a grin as he raised a congratulatory fist. "Congrats, Martin, on number three," he said, clapping Martin on the shoulder.

Martin bumped his fist with Beatty's, his smile still wide. "Thanks, Warren. It's been one hell of a ride."

As Martin stood backstage, he spotted Warren Beatty pacing near the entrance, looking calm yet focused. Martin, curious about the final award, approached him.

"Are you the one presenting Best Picture?" Martin asked, raising an eyebrow.

Warren nodded, offering a modest smile. "Yeah, the Academy specifically asked me. It's one of those invites you can't really turn down."

To be asked to present the Best Picture award was a significant honor, reserved for only the most respected and iconic figures in Hollywood. Warren Beatty, a legend in his own right, fit that description perfectly.

Nearby, the director and a few other crew members congratulated Martin on his win. Martin responded with a polite nod and a few handshakes, but his attention soon returned to the bustle around them. The energy backstage was picking up as the biggest award of the night drew closer.

"Where are the PwC guys?" the director suddenly asked, noticing Warren without the final envelope. There was a hint of urgency in his voice. PwC, the firm responsible for tallying the votes and handling the Oscar envelopes, was always meticulous about delivering them at the last possible moment to ensure secrecy.

"They went to get it," someone answered from behind the scenes.

The director glanced anxiously at his watch, his face tightening. "Tell them to hurry up, we're running out of time."

A staff member immediately sprinted off to retrieve the missing envelope, leaving the rest of them in tense anticipation. The final award, Best Picture, was moments away from being announced.

Martin stayed near the backstage entrance, partly out of curiosity but also because of his earlier agreement with Jennifer Aniston. He had a vested interest in seeing how things played out, especially considering *Moonlight* a film heavily backed by Jennifer, was one of the frontrunners for the night's biggest prize.

After a few tense moments, the PwC staff rushed in, envelope in hand, and delivered it to Warren Beatty. The director barely had time to express his frustration before the cue for the final award presentation began. The orchestral music swelled, signaling that it was time.

"Warren, you're up!" the director urged as the music played, trying to keep the pace moving.

Warren, now with the envelope securely in his hand, took a deep breath and confidently made his way to the stage. The spotlight hit him as he began to speak, effortlessly guiding the audience through the usual introductory remarks. The anticipation in the Dolby Theatre was palpable, and even the millions of viewers watching from home could sense that this was the moment everyone had been waiting for.

One by one, the nominees for Best Picture were shown on the big screen, each film introduced with a short clip that encapsulated its essence. As the final clip played, Warren prepared to open the envelope. He lowered his head and carefully tore the seal, revealing the card inside.

As Warren glanced down, he furrowed his brow. Something wasn't quite right. The text was small, and his nearly eighty-year-old eyes struggled to make out the details. He blinked and squinted at the card, seeing a title and a single name listed underneath. He hesitated, knowing that traditionally, two producers' names should be attached to the Best Picture award. Yet, here he was, looking at only one name.

Warren looked out at the audience, a brief moment of doubt flickering across his face. But without a second thought, he composed himself, trusting that the card in his hand was correct.

"The winner for Best Picture is…" He paused, holding the audience in suspense. "*Spotlight*! Congratulations to Thomas McCarthy."

A wave of applause swept through the room as the *Spotlight* team, led by director and producer Thomas McCarthy, made their way to the stage. Martin watched from the wings, momentarily caught off guard by the announcement.

He quickly realized what had just happened. For weeks, the awards circuit had pointed to *Moonlight* as the frontrunner for Best Picture, especially after it had won at both the Directors Guild Awards and Producers Guild Awards. Jennifer Aniston had invested heavily in the film, and the buzz surrounding it had been immense.

Martin turned slightly, his eyes scanning the faces of the director and the PwC staff standing nearby. Something about this didn't feel right.

Could this really be just a coincidence? Martin wondered. He leaned against the doorway, his mind racing through the possibilities.

As *Spotlight*'s team took the stage, smiling and basking in the glow of their victory, Martin couldn't help but feel that the night's final award might have been more complicated than it seemed. While the applause echoed through the Dolby Theatre, Martin stood in silence, trying to make sense of the unexpected turn of events.