Chapter 802: Best Director and Best Picture

"Thank you, thank you Academy!"

On the glittering stage of the Oscars, David Fincher finally grasped the coveted Best Director award. As he stood there, basking in the spotlight, his eyes found Martin, who was standing at the entrance to the backstage, clapping enthusiastically. This moment was a culmination of a decade-long quest, a journey marked by relentless dedication and unwavering passion.

With palpable excitement, Fincher's voice resonated through the hall. "Thank you, Martin, you are the best partner! Thank you to my agent and every member of the crew..."

The applause swelled, a wave of appreciation from the audience. After the heartfelt thanks, Fincher made his way backstage amidst the warm applause. He reached the entrance, arms wide open, and embraced Martin. "We did it!" he exclaimed, his voice filled with joy.

Martin patted his back, a proud smile on his face. "Perfect ending," he said.

Fincher laughed, a pure expression of joy. In this moment, life couldn't be more perfect. He was about to move further in when Martin caught his arm, signaling with a subtle nod. "Wait a moment."

Beside them, the Best Picture award presenter, Nicholson, was preparing to go on stage. Unusually, he held no envelope. Fincher knew their crew was in contention for this highly significant award.

With a nod from the director, Nicholson smiled at Martin and briskly walked onto the stage. The tension in the air was electric as the final award of the night was about to be unveiled.

The presentation took an unexpected turn. After announcing the nominees, the big screen's video feed switched dramatically to the White House. Gasps filled the Dolby Theater as audiences both there and at home watched in astonishment.

Yet, upon reflection, it seemed fitting. Hollywood and politics have long been intertwined, with Hollywood being a staunch supporter of the Donkey Party. "Argo" had been linked to the White House since its preview phase.

On the big screen, the White House press room came into view. First Lady Michelle, accompanied by her daughters, held the classic Oscar envelope. With a smile, she approached the camera and opened it, revealing the highly anticipated result. "The Oscar for Best Picture goes to 'Argo.'"

Backstage, Martin and Fincher exchanged high-fives, the joy of victory undiminished by its predictability. This award was a monumental artistic recognition and promised a surge in commercial success.

In the guest seats, Graham led the creative team of "Argo" to the stage. Martin and Fincher followed from the backstage, joining the celebration. With Louise absent, Nicholson handed the Oscar statuette to Martin and Graham.

Martin, ever the humble star, gestured towards Graham and stepped aside, letting him bask in the well-deserved limelight. The night ended with triumphant smiles, a testament to their hard-earned success.

Graham stepped up to the microphone, representing the entire "Argo" crew. "Tonight is a testament to the incredible teamwork and dedication that went into bringing 'Argo' to life," he began, his voice brimming with pride and gratitude.

"Argo" had indeed triumphed, clinching four prestigious awards: Best Editing, Best Adapted Screenplay, Best Director, and the coveted Best Picture.

Backstage, the winners gathered for a group photo, clutching their Oscar statuettes and standing proudly before the iconic Oscar statue. Amidst the flurry of activity, Martin spotted Spielberg approaching.

Spielberg, ever gracious, smiled warmly. "Tom and I were really hoping you'd join us for 'Bridge of Spies,'" he said, his tone friendly but tinged with regret.

Martin, while appreciative, knew the risks involved in the project. "I understand, Steven," he replied, his voice earnest. "But my agent and the team advised against it. They thought taking on a role that wasn't a lead could set off a chain reaction we couldn't control."

Spielberg nodded, accepting the explanation. "It's a pity. But there's always the next project."

Martin extended his hand, sealing their mutual respect with a firm handshake. "Yes, let's look forward to the next opportunity."

After the photo session, Martin and the "Argo" crew headed to the Hilton Hotel for the "Oscar Night" party. The banquet hall buzzed with celebration. David Fincher, clearly enjoying the festivities, approached Martin with a large glass of wine, egged on by Leonardo DiCaprio and Nicholson.

Laughter echoed through the hall as the winners reveled in their success. At one point, Nicholson pulled Jennifer Lawrence into the fray. "Jennifer, toast to Martin. Without him, you wouldn't be holding that Best Actress award."

Jennifer raised her glass, smiling. Martin chuckled, raising his glass in return. "Don't listen to Jack," he said. "Besides giving you the golden statue, nothing else matters to me."

Nicholson, not missing a beat, added, "I helped Jennifer win this year using your method, Martin."

He leaned in and whispered, "Your strategy for award competition."

Martin had suspected as much when he saw the list of nominees. A new trend was emerging, where competition often hinged on highlighting flaws rather than just merits.

After a while, David Fincher, still holding his Best Director Oscar, sat next to Martin. "I wanted to tell you first. Netflix and I are holding a joint press conference in two days to announce our comprehensive collaboration."

Martin nodded, already aware of the changing tides in Hollywood. "I've been ready for this. In fact, I'm also preparing to sign a deal with Netflix."

David sighed, a mix of excitement and apprehension in his eyes. "The traditionalists look down on Netflix. I might find myself isolated from the Oscars in the future."

Martin smiled reassuringly. "Not necessarily. In a few years, collaborating with platforms like Netflix will be the norm for many top directors and stars. Hollywood is evolving, and so will the Oscars."

"Society is evolving at breakneck speed, and Internet on-demand platforms are emerging as a formidable force. The tide will turn, and perhaps the industry's perception will shift with it."

David Fincher leaned in, curiosity piqued. "How do you think it'll change?"

Martin grinned, a glint of foresight in his eyes. "It's simple, these platforms generate revenue, and that's what ultimately matters."

Fincher chuckled, shaking his head. "Didn't you take my director's notebook? Are you planning to put it into practice?"

Martin considered this. "I don't have your talent. But you, Director Nolan, and Director Scott all believe in this shift, so I'm thinking of trying a small project. Something with low investment, a simple plot, and minimal actor interactions. If it fails, the loss won't be significant."

"That's a sensible approach." Fincher took a sip of his drink and then extended an invitation. "If the timing works out, I'll let you direct an episode. It'll be a good way to get some practice."

Martin raised an eyebrow, intrigued but cautious. "Aren't you worried I'll mess it up?"

Fincher smiled confidently. "Not at all. I'll pair you with an experienced assistant director. Your reputation and influence are strong. With Netflix's approach, there won't be any objections."

Martin nodded, feeling more assured. "I'll start here. I've already lined up some actors."

He recalled a recent conversation with Blake Lively, encouraging her to boost her online presence.

Fincher clinked his glass against Martin's. "If you run into any problems, don't hesitate to call me."

"Thanks, David," Martin said, downing his wine.

Midway through the party, Fincher suggested continuing the celebration at his place. Martin and Charlize Theron joined in but soon decided to head back to Beverly Hills together.

As they drove up North Side of Sunset Boulevard, Charlize turned to Martin. "Go home first," she said.

Martin looked puzzled. "Why not go to your place?"

Charlize smirked. "Don't head straight to mine. Go home first, and then I'll set up a ladder for you to come over."

Martin sighed, "Is all this really necessary?"

Charlize's eyes twinkled with mischief. "Climbing the wall adds a thrill. Trust me, it'll be fun."

Martin couldn't help but smile at her adventurous spirit. "You're getting more elaborate with these plans."

"I learned from the best," she teased, nudging him. "Now hurry up and get home."

Once home, Martin took a quick shower and changed his clothes. When he approached the wall separating their properties, he saw that Charlize had indeed set up a makeshift bridge with an escalator.

The sight made him laugh. He climbed over, feeling an unexpected rush of excitement. The yard was dark, save for the lights glowing from the villa, heightening the sense of adventure.

Moving stealthily through the yard like a thief, Martin reached the villa window and peered inside, the thrill of the clandestine meeting making his heart race.

Charlize, in a dazzling golden one-shoulder dress and high heels, walked gracefully towards the window. Her South African heritage gave her a radiant, exotic beauty that was the envy of Hollywood. Her figure, poise, and looks were unmatched, making her a true queen of the silver screen.

She spotted Martin outside and quickened her steps, her eyes sparkling with mischief. With a swift motion, she adjusted the strap of her dress, pulling it slightly to the side.

Martin, sensing the invitation, pushed the window open with a determined force. He vaulted through, landing with a soft thud before striding purposefully towards her. Without missing a beat, he scooped Charlize up and carried her upstairs.

As they ascended, Martin's eyes caught glimpses of framed photos on the walls, snapshots of Charlize and Stuart Townsend, moments captured in time. They adorned the living room, the staircase, and the corners, adding to the surreal sensation of sneaking into someone else's life.

Martin couldn't help but recall stories from his past life, tales of a powerful figure who would sneak into homes for clandestine conversations with the lady of the house beneath family portraits. Back then, he never understood the allure. But now, with Charlize in his arms, the thrill made perfect sense, intensifying his determination.

That Oscar night, while chaos reigned outside, Martin and Charlize found solace in each other, spending half the night engrossed in their private celebration beneath a massive group photo.

The next morning, their peaceful slumber was rudely interrupted by the persistent ringing of a phone. Charlize groggily hit the hang-up button, only for the phone to ring again immediately.

Martin grumbled, "Who's calling at this hour?"

Charlize checked the caller ID and sighed. "Stuart Townsend."

Remembering their conversation from the previous day, she got up, moved to the bedroom window, and answered, "What do you want, Stuart?"

"Sally, can we talk?" came the pleading voice from the other end.

Charlize's tone was firm. "Say what you need to say."

She placed a hand on the windowsill and motioned for Martin to come over. Understanding her cue, he joined her quickly.

Charlize continued the call, her voice unwavering. After a prolonged conversation, she finally hung up and turned to Martin. "He insists on coming over."

Martin, infected by Charlize's resolve, nodded. "If he's coming to us, we'll handle it just like we discussed."

Charlize smiled, appreciating Martin's solidarity. Together, they were ready to face whatever lay ahead, fortified by the bond they'd forged through the night.