'No'minate (2)
Six in the morning. Beep, beep, beep, beep.
The alarm rang, and a man rose from his bed.
"..."
He was tall and lean, with a fierce, sharp impression. But as he slipped on the rimless glasses resting on his nightstand, that harsh edge softened slightly.
"Whew."
A luxury high-rise penthouse in Manhattan, New York. Outside, the view looked as if Spider-Man might come swinging along the walls at any moment. In the far distance, the waterways connecting to the ocean were visible. The man brewed a cup of coffee, enjoying both the flavor and the scenery as he mapped out his schedule for the day.
Meetings, meetings, and more meetings.
When introducing himself to others, he always claimed to be a "simple financial consultant," but the reality was slightly different. Rather than a financial consultant...
I'm closer to a connector.
A man who connected people and provided them with whatever they desired.
Albert H. Payne.
A financial consultant in his early forties, he was often treated as "a bit eccentric" by those around him. However, the select few "clients" who knew his true competence trusted Albert implicitly.
After finishing his coffee and showering, he selected one of his dozens of custom-tailored suits—one he had pre-selected for today—dressed, and left his home. He caught a bus at the stop right outside to head to his office.
Some might say, "A financial consultant needs a flashy car!" But Albert thought differently.
If I ever need to show off, I can just rent a decent one.
Unless it was a moment where he absolutely had to project status, Albert was thoroughly indifferent to such trivialities. Because of this disciplined focus, his private office was located in one of the most expensive buildings in Manhattan.
An ultra-luxurious office that cost over fifty thousand dollars a year just to lease. Upon entering, he was greeted by a beautiful secretary, hired as much for her intellect as her looks.
"Good morning, Mr. Payne."
"Brief me on today's meetings."
"This morning, Chairman Harvey Weinstein is scheduled to visit. For lunch, you have a dining appointment with attorney Arthur Bell, and this evening..."
"The party?"
"Yes. Would you like me to read the guest list?"
"I'll check it later."
Answering curtly, he walked into his private office, sat down, and immediately placed a cigarette between his lips. Lighting it and letting the smoke drift upward, he began reviewing the guest list for tonight's party alongside several financial documents.
Before long, a knock sounded, followed by his secretary's voice over the intercom.
"Chairman Harvey Weinstein has arrived."
Rising from his seat, Albert walked toward the door with a broad, welcoming smile to greet the heavily built man.
"Harvey! Good morning!"
"Hello, Mr. Payne. Jesus, New York is freezing."
The man was the producer and co-chairman of Miramax Films, currently under Disney. With his unique political maneuvering and sharp eye for talent, he was a figure wielding immense power in recent Hollywood.
Beaming warmly at his entrance, Albert guided Weinstein to the sofa with an affectionate demeanor that made his previous coldness vanish entirely. After all, this man was one of his most important clients.
"Hollywood is always warm, isn't it? Honestly, I'm jealous."
"Jealous of what? The women in New York are the best. Women living in cold places are always gorgeous. Pale and skinny. That's how a woman should be. In Cali, they're all tanned to a crisp... I prefer pale women."
"I happen to know a few from Russia and Northern Europe. I'll quietly arrange something later. In exchange, you know how it is, right?"
"Hahaha! I'm always down for that 'fun experiment'!"
The conversation flowed with vague, euphemistic language, leaving the true meanings hanging in the air. Speaking in this manner was second nature to the people in "this circle."
Indeed, shortly after Harvey Weinstein joined the network through Albert, he had made a certain proposal.
"There's a kid who wants to make it big as an actor in Hollywood. What do you think?"
With several members agreeing, they threw a party. That night, under the influence of drugs, they all gathered and had a rather "entertaining" time. It was, in essence, a ritual of sharing weaknesses to forge unbreakable bonds.
"We were planning to turn that kid into a major star, but..."
The kid had taken too many drugs, ended up a complete addict, and the experiment ultimately failed.
"A pity, but everyone had their fun."
When people acquired wealth far beyond their needs, they inevitably drifted toward dangerous pleasures. Especially for them, things ordinary people spent their entire lives pursuing—sex, money, cars, houses—were never special to begin with. They were things they had possessed since birth.
Naturally, their hands reached toward more hazardous directions. Just as one might mindlessly keep eating a cake, slice after slice.
"Everyone is expecting even greater thrills from you in the future, Chairman."
"Of course. Tell them that if anyone prefers men, I'm more than willing to introduce them to some anytime."
Weinstein pulled out a cigarette, lit it, and continued.
"Anyway, is everyone doing well?"
"Of course. They are enjoying themselves thoroughly. I, Albert, am constantly ensuring their entertainment."
"Hahaha, your skills are undeniable. I'm always amazed by your resourcefulness."
"I'm the one learning so much from watching you, Mr. Weinstein."
"Like what? Playing around with beautiful Hollywood starlets?"
"But you don't actually do that, do you?"
"Yeah, for some reason, I tend to keep my hands off them."
Harvey narrowed his eyes, reflecting for a moment before offering an excuse.
"After all, people wouldn't appreciate it if I started messing with the 'merchandise.'"
"An admirable mindset. I should learn from that."
Having exchanged the usual pleasantries to gauge the mood, Albert finally brought up the main topic.
"How do you think the Academy Awards will go this time?"
"Well, we're just in the stage of greasing the wheels. Tightening where we need to, loosening where we can."
Harvey Weinstein was currently the shadow king who orchestrated and manipulated the Academy Awards. He was not a mere producer; he operated like a seasoned politician, and at the same time, a predator. He played with people by weaponizing his volatile, explosive temper, ensuring that the films he was associated with were always nominated.
"Why? Is there something on your mind?"
Because Harvey was that kind of man, Albert felt comfortable speaking frankly.
"Some of my clients feel the need to 'press down' on a certain actor."
"Which actor?"
"Sion Lee."
"...Oh."
Harvey Weinstein's eyes widened.
"That kid is a very strong contender for the Academy Awards this year. Echos of a Family really struck a chord. His acting was flawless, and his chemistry with Jack Nicholson was incredibly striking."
Though he spoke softly, he soon grinned like a beast that had spotted the hunter who had once taken its eye.
"He's good. Pretty, too. I'm sure there are people who want to have their way with him. Ah, is that why?"
"You know how it is."
To the high and mighty of the political and financial worlds, Hollywood was, in essence, a "megaphone." A tool to push their own opinions into the mainstream, manipulate public sentiment, and occasionally cloud the masses' judgment. While they didn't interfere with every single project, they quietly stretched their hands everywhere using capital and connections, pulling the strings whenever necessary.
And now, those lurking behind the silver screen had taken an interest in the young man poised to become the new king of Hollywood.
"A kid like that is hard to control."
He was, so to speak, an icon of rebellion and youth. Cocky, possessing immense star power... currently the hottest next-generation star in America. Furthermore, given the public image he had built, he was entirely capable of making dangerous, unfiltered statements at any moment.
In that sense, the "clients" believed it would be wise to break his spirit once and then slowly tame him.
In truth, Sion Lee had been one of their targets for some time. He was exceptionally handsome, and his unstable psychological state in the past made him look like the perfect puppet to control. But whether by pure coincidence or latent genius, the situation had begun to shift.
Back when the film Fragments of You was being produced, they had quietly interfered through Longday Studios to diminish Jack Nicholson's standing and influence in Hollywood. But the actor named Sion Lee had thrown himself into the mix and completely flipped the script.
Even then, they had merely watched, dismissing it as a passing episode in a young actor's growth. But before they knew it, he had joined massive blockbusters, crowned himself a prince, and eventually became the lead of his own franchise.
He was walking the royal road of the Hollywood system to become king. On top of that, having already secured a Best Supporting Actor nomination for Titanic, he was now aiming for Best Actor at the Academy through this Oscar race.
Like a protruding nail begging for a hammer, they decided this was the perfect opportunity to teach him a lesson.
"Hmm... So you want to crush his spirit completely this time, and then gently coax him?"
"If you are the one to do it, yes. We are always open to it."
Since he had no intention of getting his own hands dirty, Albert simply smiled.
"...So that's what they want."
Weinstein pondered for a moment, imagining the future that awaited Sion Lee. An Oscar-contending film failing for no apparent reason, followed by various pressures applied behind the scenes...
Imagining that handsome face painted with despair as he fell to his knees, Weinstein grinned wickedly.
"Not a bad picture. A bird stepping into a trap without even realizing it's been tricked."
Harvey Weinstein flicked his cigarette ash and continued.
"By the way, do you know what an ortolan is?"
"Isn't that a French delicacy? A fattened songbird eaten with a white cloth draped over one's head..."
"Exactly. That dish is precisely what this is."
Caging a small bird, fattening it with choice feed, drowning it in brandy, and finally devouring it whole.
"Hollywood actors are, in the end, ortolans."
"Oho."
"Slowly, beautifully, and deliciously fattened, only to be devoured in the end."
Trapped inside the cage of the screen, fed on the public's attention and love... once they were plump and delicious, they would slowly destroy themselves with the alcohol and drugs endlessly supplied around them. And finally, those at the top would feast on them.
"Tell them to prepare a white cloth."
Weinstein laughed malevolently, and Albert praised his poetic analogy. Their plan, as always, began to quietly unfold, starting with the media.
At least a third of the American population likely knew who Sion Lee was. And the remaining two-thirds undoubtedly knew Jack Nicholson.
But no matter how famous the cast, a film still required an astronomical marketing budget to truly succeed at the box office. The reason was simple: movies were not an essential commodity.
"If people run out of toilet paper while wiping their backsides, they'll go buy some, right?"
Tom Cruise wore a deadpan, serious expression, but his analogy was incredibly crude.
"Well, toilet paper is a serious matter for Americans... but could you at least use toothpaste as an analogy?" Sion replied, feeling a bit drained.
"But movies aren't like that. They rely on word of mouth. We deliberately kept the marketing for this film to a minimum to make it appeal to the tastes of the Golden Globes and Academy judges, but..."
"An Academy contender needs that hipster vibe, after all."
"Even so, the media being this quiet is a bit strange."
When the film was first released, the reception had been spectacular. Critics everywhere had showered it with praise, publishing articles urging people to watch it, claiming "you'll have no choice but to pick up the phone instead of crying." Some were already calling it a "strong contender for Best Picture."
The synergy between Sion Lee and Jack Nicholson was powerful enough to generate that level of buzz even without heavy marketing.
Yet, by the second week of its release—heading into late December and the Christmas holiday season—two problems arose.
"No articles are coming out, and consequently, the box office performance is stalling."
Since it wasn't a blockbuster, a modest box office run was expected. However, Tom Cruise and his production company had assumed that follow-up articles would at least maintain the film's relevance. The sudden silence was baffling.
But Tom, who had spent nearly twenty years in Hollywood, quickly understood what was happening.
"Someone is pulling strings."
"Hmm, I wonder who. Surely not a kind and gentle soul like Harvey Weinstein."
"Oh, Sion. That man is a demon. Nothing good comes from getting involved with him."
"...I was being sarcastic, Tom."
"Ah! Hahaha! Sarcasm! Right!"
"..."
"Anyway, I think it's him too. But it's still baffling. To pull something like this so suddenly?"
Tom frowned in frustration. Sion, on the other hand, curled his lips slightly as he pictured the man's face in his mind.
You've grown quite a bit, our dear Harvey.
Harvey Weinstein. Back when Sion was filming Swing in Chicago, Harvey was merely running a small, indie-focused distribution company. But he had grown exactly as history dictated, reaching his current position.
The chairman of a Disney subsidiary, wielding immense influence over the Academy.
And he's probably still committing his trashy deeds.
Sion hadn't completely ignored him, but since he had put Harvey in his place once before and didn't expect their paths to cross again, he had left him alone.
In any case, this isn't 100% a personal grudge against me.
Harvey was ultimately a man driven by money. Rather than attacking Sion—who could easily make him money as an ally—he would normally try to win him over. This meant there had to be something else behind this move.
"This kind of stuff is so exhausting," Tom said with an awkward smile, and Sion agreed.
"Exactly. You can't even tail someone to find out. Follow the source, and it'll just cut off at some random point. There's no way other than going straight to Harvey and asking, 'Do you want to die?'"
"Hmm, what should we do? Should I arrange a skydiving session with him later?"
"Why would you do that?"
"Because accidents happen."
"Oho..."
Sion found the suggestion surprisingly attractive—a method he wouldn't have normally thought of. The sheer decisiveness of the statement made it clear that Tom Cruise was genuinely angry.
"Anyway, I'll look into it in my own way."
Though he always wore a bright smile, Tom was thoroughly dedicated to his duties as a producer. Having worked in Hollywood for so long, Tom, like Sion, had realized that to wield real power in this industry, one needed their own organization. That realization was what had led to the creation of Cruise/Wagner Productions.
Someone threw ashes on a project he spent years planning, so of course he's furious.
And Sion felt exactly the same way.
How dare they attack my movie...?
And it didn't end there.
...Harvey, has this bastard lost his mind?
A few days later, Sion actually received an invitation to a party from him. It was as if an old enemy had fattened up and was now coming to pick a fight.
Well. When a man is begging for death, there's nothing he won't do.
Sion dismissed the thought casually, with the calm of someone who had literally returned from the grave.
"I should prepare a white cloth to cover the corpse."
Perhaps he would knock over a champagne tower and disguise it as a tragic accident.