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****
Even the international press was piling on. He unfolded a copy of the British broadsheet, The Guardian. Despite Shakespeare in Love being a deeply British production, the UK critics were completely disillusioned by the blatant commercialism of the victory.
"A Very Hollywood Hijacking," the foreign correspondent wrote.
"It was supposed to be a night of celebrating historic cinema. Instead, it was a masterclass in corporate arm-twisting. The victory of 'Shakespeare in Love' is the victory of the focus group over the auteur. The indignity of watching a fluffy, corset-bound comedy step over the harrowing, masterful direction of 'Saving Private Ryan' has left the international film community baffled. Furthermore, the complete disregard for Marvin's atmospheric mastery in 'The Sixth Sense' shows a voting body terrified of true, modern innovation. The Oscars have effectively declared that they prefer safe, expensive mediocrity over challenging, generational art."
The next lead headline read:
**"Shakespeare in Love* Triumphs in Surprise Oscar Upset."*
The accompanying editorial struck a more measured tone.
*"Whether one agrees with the Academy's decision or not, few predicted that the charming Elizabethan romance would overcome the seemingly unstoppable momentum of Steven Spielberg's *Saving Private Ryan* and Marvin Meyers's *The Sixth Sense* Last night's result serves as another reminder that Oscar voters often reward what they love rather than what history expects them to choose."
Marvin smirked.
That was a polite way of saying the voters had shocked everyone.
The Mom proved less diplomatic.
*"The Academy's Choice Will Be Debated for Years."*
The article spent nearly two pages comparing the achievements of *Saving Private Ryan*, *The Sixth Sense*, and *Shakespeare in Love*.
"Spielberg delivered a monumental war epic. Shyamalan delivered the year's defining cultural phenomenon. Yet it was *Shakespeare in Love* that walked away with Hollywood's highest honor. Whether this decision ages gracefully remains to be seen."
Marvin turned the page.
The debate only intensified.
The Hollywood focused on the broader implications.
*"The New Era of Oscar Campaigning."*
*"Last night may be remembered less for who won and more for how they won. Miramax has rewritten the rules of awards-season politics. The question facing Hollywood today is whether every future contender must now play the same game."*
That one made Marvin laugh.
Harvey won.
Everyone noticed.
And everyone was already planning how to copy him.
He picked up The Hollywood Reporter.
Unlike the newspapers, the trade publication focused on industry gossip.
*"The Biggest Winner Wasn't a Film. It Was Miramax."*
*"Regardless of personal opinion regarding *Shakespeare in Love*, Harvey Weinstein has demonstrated an unprecedented ability to mobilize support across the industry. Rivals spent months underestimating the effectiveness of Miramax's campaign."*
Marvin didn't need to read between the lines there.
The trades were openly acknowledging what half of Hollywood was already whispering.
The campaign itself had become the story.
Next came Hollywood Weekly.
The magazine's cover featured triple split images of *Saving Private Ryan* *The Sixth Sense* and *Shakespeare in Love*.
*"The Oscar Battle That Split Hollywood."*
The article noted that audiences appeared far more emotionally invested in Spielberg's war epic and *The Sixth Sense* than in the eventual Best Picture winner.
*"The Academy has once again reminded viewers that popularity and Oscar success are not always the same thing."*
Finally, Marvin unfolded a copy of Newsweek.
Their headline caught his attention immediately.
*"The Weinstein Formula."*
The article explored the increasingly aggressive nature of modern awards campaigning.
*"Love him or loathe him, Harvey Weinstein has become the most influential awards strategist in Hollywood. Last night's results will only strengthen his reputation."*
Marvin set the magazine down.
That headline probably irritated Harvey.
The man preferred being called a kingmaker.
Not a strategist.
Across many newspapers and magazines, one pattern emerged.
Very few people were reaching for forks.
Very few people were celebrating.
Most were simply arguing.
And that, Marvin suspected, was far more dangerous.
Outrage faded.
Debates lingered.
Years from now, people would forget individual speeches.
They would forget the red carpet.
They would forget who sat where.
But they would remember the question.
Did *Shakespeare in Love* really deserve to beat *Saving Private Ryan* and *The Sixth Sense*?
The industry had already begun arguing.
And judging by the morning's headlines, it wasn't going to stop anytime soon.
Marvin leaned back in his leather chair, letting the stack of newspapers rest on desk. The room was quiet, but to Marvin, the headlines were screaming a symphony of victory.
Marvin set the paper down on the table. His grin widened. The Hollywood ecosystem was behaving exactly as he anticipated. The studio politics might frustrate the veteran filmmakers, but seeing his own vision validated by the resulting backlash was satisfying.
Harvey had won the battle for the Oscars, but he was currently losing the war for public respect.
Marvin picked up his fork and finished his breakfast. The morning sun streamed through the dining room windows. He had a vampire universe to write, and the rest of the world could argue over the trophies.
---
The oak doors of the Miramax President's office remained shut against the bustling noise of the studio floor. Inside, the air hung thick with the pungent smell of imported tobacco.
Bob Weinstein tossed the morning edition of the *Los Angeles Times* onto the center of the desk. The paper slid across the polished wood and stopped near a half-empty crystal ashtray. His expression carried the weight of a man looking at a looming storm front.
"Although *Shakespeare in Love* is a historical film, it is, as its title suggests, primarily a love story," Bob read aloud, a summary of the critical consensus. "A conventional, slow-paced, old-fashioned one. Compared to the other nominees, it pales in almost every respect. Yet, it walked away with both Best Picture and Best Actress. This speaks less of merit and more of Harvey Weinstein's PR skills—and the Academy's diminishing credibility."
Bob tapped the newspaper with his knuckles. "This is one of the milder critiques we received this morning. Harvey, don't you think we pushed too far this time? The industry feels robbed. Spielberg isn't returning our calls."
Harvey Weinstein leaned back in his oversized leather chair. He held a lit cigar between his thick fingers and exhaled a plume of gray smoke toward the ceiling, his smirk unbothered by the growing backlash.
"Too far? Nonsense," Harvey grumbled, and waved a dismissive hand as if swatting away an insect. "The predictable chorus of complaints follows every Oscar season—a week of hand-wringing articles and bruised egos crying about 'integrity.' It's all theater.
Those decrepit old men who vote in the Academy don't give a damn about art. They care about one thing: staying comfortable. As long as the envelopes keep coming with fat checks, as long as ambitious starlets one-quarter their age suck their dicks in exchange for a nod or a whisper in the right ear, and as long as they attend the exclusive after-parties where the real deals happen—they'll rubber-stamp whatever we put in front of them.
Look at what happened a few years back, Bob. *The Shawshank Redemption* and Quentin's *Pulp Fiction* were both superior films, yet they lost Best Picture to *Forrest Gump*. The industry raged for a month. Did those old bastards care? Did they rethink a single vote? No. Because we own the gold. And in the end, that shiny statuette is the only thing anyone remembers."
Bob wanted to retort that *Forrest Gump*'s cultural footprint wasn't in the same league as a fluffy romantic comedy, but the smug look on Harvey's face stopped the words in his throat.
Arguing with Harvey during a victory lap wasted breath.
Harvey flicked an inch of ash into the tray. He leaned forward, and his tone shifted from boastful to sharp. "When is Gwyneth coming in? We need her for the press tour kickoff."
"She called my assistant earlier. Said she was tied up and couldn't make it to the lot today," Bob replied, his eyes fixed on his brother's reaction.
Harvey's expression darkened, his eyes narrowed into cold slits. The cigar paused halfway to his mouth, and a thin trail of smoke curled upward like a warning.
"That ungrateful little whore," he growled, the words thick with venom. He bit back the rest of the insult, and his jaw clenched so tightly the muscle twitched. "Now that she holds the Oscar I fucking bought for her, she thinks she can snub my meetings? Turn her nose up like she's too good for me?"
He let out a bitter laugh and leaned forward.
"You know exactly how she got that shiny statue, Bob. It wasn't the acting. It wasn't the director's genius. It was her on her knees in those private suites after the pre-Oscar parties. Those decrepit old bastards in the Academy don't hand out gold for talent. They hand it out for tight young pussy and a willing mouth.
She spent weeks campaigning. Private dinners turned into hotel rooms. She took one-on-one meetings with the key voters, let them grope those perky tits, spread her legs, and fuck her raw while they whispered promises about influencing the branch. Some of them couldn't even get it up properly anymore—she had to work for it, sucking and riding until the old fucks climaxed. A few wanted her ass. Others liked watching her choke on it while their wives drank downstairs at the party. She smiled, moaned, and told every one of them how honored she was.
I arranged the introductions. I greased the right palms and drained the right cocks. That's how you win Oscars in this town. Not by being the best. By being the best fuck for the right fossils."
"There is no point causing drama with her right now. Spielberg is her godfather, and her family connections run deep in this town. Let her play hard to get. She won't get another leading role from us, though. See how she likes the cold,"
Bob reasoned with his brother.
Harvey ground the cherry of the cigar into the glass ashtray and crushed the tobacco leaves.
He took a short breath and forced his temper down into a manageable box. "Fine." He shook off the irritation and looked toward the office door. "What about Quentin? Is he making any progress on that script?"
Bob chuckled, and the tension in the room eased. "He locked himself in his house to watch imported Hong Kong cinema and Japanese exploitation films nonstop. He told me yesterday he wants to craft an action movie unlike anything Hollywood has seen."
"Bring him in," Harvey said, a predatory grin returning to his face. "The kid is brilliant, but he needs to leave the house and find inspiration. Let's take him to the club tonight."
….
…
..
.
Half an hour later, Quentin Tarantino strolled into Harvey's office. He bypassed the receptionist and walked in wearing his usual faded jeans and a vintage movie t-shirt. He looked entirely out of place in the corporate suite.
"Harvey, Bob, what's up?" Quentin greeted them. He flopped onto the sofa and kicked his sneakers out.
Harvey tossed him an unlit cigar from the humidor. "We hit the club tonight, Quentin. You in?"
"Always," Quentin replied, his face lighting up.
The 'club' Harvey referred to never advertised to the public. It operated in the basement of an unassuming building off Sunset Boulevard, shielded by ironclad non-disclosure agreements and heavy security doors. Inside, the Hollywood elite traded secrets, fed their vices, and watched young actors navigate the dark, exploitative underbelly of the industry for a callback. Men exercised power there, far away from the camera lenses.
"How is the script coming along?" Harvey asked, and poured a glass of sparkling water.
"Haven't written a word on paper yet," Quentin admitted, and waved the cigar in the air to emphasize his points. "But I've got a killer idea fermenting. A zombie revenge film, mixed with samurai aesthetics. The protagonist is a woman, an assassin, who barely survives a hit squad on her wedding day. They leave her for dead in the chapel, and she wakes up wanting blood…"
Harvey and Bob leaned in and listened intently while Quentin animatedly detailed his concept, his hands moving to mimic sword strikes and gunshots. The idea was chaotic, bloody, and possessed the exact kinetic energy that defined Tarantino's style.
When Quentin finally paused to take a breath, Harvey clapped his hands together. "Brilliant. You're onto something big there, Quentin. Write the treatment. I will introduce you to Marvin sometime soon. He has a knack for crazy ideas, too."
Quentin raised an eyebrow and leaned back. "Marvin Meyers? The kid who wrote *The Sixth Sense*? I heard he's working on something new, and Robert De Niro's production company and Jeff already pitched it to Fox."
Harvey's expression soured. The mention of Fox felt like a slap. He hated that Marvin bypassed Miramax to shop his newest thriller around town, but he couldn't afford to alienate Wonder Boy. Marvin had handed him a blockbuster.
****
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