Chapter 712: The Biggest Shame in Life!

In the sleek office space of WMA located in Century City, Thomas entered with a stack of newspapers, notably "Variety" and "Entertainment Weekly," and carefully arranged them on the low table in front of Martin. "The buzz on 'The Martian' isn't all roses today, Martin," he began. "There's been quite a stir in the media—newspapers, online videos, TV reviews—all painting a less-than-flattering picture."

Martin nodded, his eyes scanning the headlines. "Seems like we've got some fierce competition," he remarked, lifting a copy of "Variety" to delve into its contents.

Front and center in the entertainment section, a retired astronaut named Walter launched a scathing critique of "The Martian," pointing out its scientific inaccuracies and lack of attention to detail. "Martin Davis's portrayal of Martian exploration is pure fantasy," the article read, highlighting inconsistencies in gravity simulation and atmospheric conditions on Mars.

Martin grimaced as he read further. "Looks like we're taking fire from all angles," he commented, acknowledging the pointed criticism aimed directly at his character portrayal.

As Thomas mentioned, the barrage of criticism continued throughout the paper, debunking everything from Martian storms to radiation hazards with ruthless precision.

Even Martin, the film's leading man, couldn't dispute the validity of these critiques, rooted in current scientific understanding.

Turning the pages, Martin encountered similar critiques in "Entertainment Weekly," this time from a botanist at Caltech, dissecting the film's depiction of botanical science.

"This feels like awards season drama," Martin mused, his tone resigned yet determined. "The Oscar game's changed over the years. It's not just about performance anymore. It's about pulling out all the stops, including dragging your competition down."

It was evident that someone was working overtime to discredit Martin and his film.

Undeterred, Martin continued to sift through the articles, knowing that in Hollywood, every critique was just another challenge to overcome.

"I just watched 'The Martian,' and while everyone's praising Martin Davis's potato plot, his most thrilling performance defies common sense entirely. NASA's Mars Exploration Rover has already confirmed the presence of highly toxic substances in Martian soil. Yet, Martin Davis didn't bother treating the soil when growing his potatoes..."

Martin set the newspaper aside, exchanging it for another, eager to gauge the scope of criticism. It was yet another so-called expert dissecting the flaws in "The Martian" and "Rescue."

As Martin delved into the articles, Thomas flicked on the LCD screen, streaming video news reports from various websites, echoing the sentiments of the print media.

"Seems like the Oscar buzz is heating up," Martin observed. "Any idea where all this criticism is coming from?"

"It's still murky, but the targets are clear: the major competitors—'Moneyball,' 'War Horse,' 'The Tree of Life,' and 'Descendants,'" Thomas replied.

Martin, no stranger to competition, grinned. "Let the games begin."

Thomas nodded in agreement. "Many see this as a lean year for the Oscars and are eager to seize the opportunity. With Harvey's absence last year, things were relatively calm. Looks like all that pent-up awards enthusiasm is bursting out this year."

Martin pondered for a moment. "Are we ready for this? How do we handle it?"

"We don't need to single out anyone behind the scenes; all competitors are adversaries," Thomas suggested. "Drag them all into the mud, let them sabotage each other, level the playing field. Then it won't matter who's leading the pack."

Martin nodded, impressed. "Let's arrange for someone to pose as 'Moneyball's' crew or even Matt Damon, leak some incriminating info to the media, and blackmail the competition. Spielberg's the focal point."

"Spielberg?" Thomas was taken aback initially, then nodded in understanding. "That's doable, but it'll need Bruce's cooperation."

Bruce, who had been silent until now, piped up. "What do you need me to do?"

...

At the Los Angeles office of the "Hollywood Reporter," Bernat emerged from work, heading toward the parking lot.

Suddenly, Ivan, who had concealed himself behind a billboard, stepped forward. "Editor-in-Chief Bernat, mind if we have a word?"

Bernat, a figure of authority in the LA entertainment scene, eyed the stranger cautiously. "I don't know you. What's this about?"

"It's about the Oscars," Ivan stated bluntly. "It's a big deal."

In the bustling heart of Hollywood, where whispers often steer the tides of fortune, "The Hollywood Reporter" stood as an unwavering beacon of influence, its pages a battleground for the reputations of movies and stars alike. As the awards season approached, a clandestine dance of influence played out, with myriad entities vying for a slice of its coveted editorial space, subtly molding public opinion through articles veiled in journalistic prose.

It was against this backdrop that Bernat gestured towards a quaint roadside café, its ambiance a stark contrast to the high-stakes game they were about to delve into. "Let's find solace in conversation," he suggested, leading the way.

Inside, they nestled into a secluded corner, a bubble of quietude in the bustling city. Ivan, wasting no time, unveiled a manuscript from his satchel, laying it bare on the table—a mosaic of words and intentions, each line a deliberate stroke in the grand scheme of his employer's ambitions. "These pieces," he began, with a hint of resolve, "are meant to cascade through the columns of the 'Hollywood Reporter', each article a step towards our goal."

Bernat's eyes scanned the pages with practiced ease, recognizing the subtle play of words—some weaving slanderous tales about cinematic titans like "The Martian," "War Horse," and "The Tree of Life," while another sung praises of Matt Damon in "Moneyball." The juxtaposition was stark, a strategic play in the shadowy game of accolades and acclaim.

Ivan's inquiry was direct, a reflection of the urgency and stakes at play: "Can we ensure these narratives find their echo in the 'Hollywood Reporter'?"

The answer lay partly in the manuscript and partly in the unspoken promise of the check that accompanied it. Bernat, his gaze lingering on the figures, knew the weight of the task. "Consider it done," he affirmed, aware of the delicate dance between integrity and survival in the throes of media's challenges.

The deal was struck with a simple exchange, an unspoken understanding bridging the gap between demand and delivery. As Ivan departed, the threads of their conversation wove into the fabric of Hollywood's narrative, a silent testament to the power of words and the lengths to which some would go to sculpt them in their favor.

The next day, the city awoke to a chorus of critiques and acclaim, a singular voice amidst the cacophony standing tall for "Moneyball" and its star, Matt Damon. As articles spread like wildfire, shaping perceptions and setting the stage for the Oscars, it was clear—the written word, guided by unseen hands, had cast its spell, altering the course of careers and movies in the relentless pursuit of gold and glory.

In the heart of Glendale, within the grand halls of DreamWorks headquarters, the atmosphere crackled with tension. Despite recent films receiving lackluster responses and media claims of outdated concepts and dwindling talent, the indomitable spirit of 65-year-old Steven Spielberg burned bright with ambition, his sights set firmly on another coveted Oscar.

As the morning sun cast its golden glow over the studio lot, Spielberg, clad in his trademark cap, strode purposefully into his office. His loyal assistant approached, bearing the weight of unsettling news. "Boss, the media's tearing into 'War Horse'," she began, concern etched into her voice.

"Newspapers," Spielberg quipped, his tone laced with resignation. With a nod, his assistant presented a stack of critical reviews. Spielberg scanned them hastily, each word a dagger to his aspirations. "'War Horse' smeared as sensationalistic, lacking artistic merit," he muttered, his jaw tightening with frustration.

The echoes of past battles reverberated in his mind, reminiscent of the onslaught against "Saving Private Ryan" years ago—a wound still raw with the memory of a lost Oscar, the darkest stain on Spielberg's illustrious career.

With resolve hardening his features, Spielberg turned to his assistant. "Identify the source," he commanded, determination gleaming in his eyes.

Swiftly, his assistant sprang into action, reaching out to trusted contacts in the industry. Minutes later, she returned with vital intelligence. "The culprit remains elusive, but clues point to Warner Pictures or perhaps Matt Damon," she relayed, her voice tinged with suspicion.

Spielberg's thoughts raced, recalling past collaborations with Damon and the bitter taste of betrayal in Oscar battles lost. "Matt Damon," he muttered, a flicker of resentment dancing in his eyes.

Aware of Damon's ties to Harvey Weinstein, Spielberg clenched his fists in quiet fury. Weinstein's shadow loomed large over Hollywood, his manipulative tactics well-known. "Activate our connections," Spielberg commanded, his voice a steely edge of determination.

Across town, similar scenes unfolded in rival studios, a symphony of intrigue and ambition. In the cutthroat world of filmmaking, alliances shifted like desert sands, and enemies lurked in the shadows, waiting to strike at right time.

With a sense of grim resolve, Spielberg uttered his decree: "Identify the foe, and strike back with all we have. Let justice prevail, and may the true victor claim the prize."