Golden Raspberry (1)
For the next few days, Sion practically lived at the Miramax offices. Every time he showed up, he brought donuts or other snacks, casually munching on one himself as he strolled into the editing room where work was underway. Once inside, he aggressively inserted himself into the editing process, snapping at Harvey.
"Dammit, Harvey! I told you! My left side looks way better! Cut this shot!"
"...But Mr. Lee, if we cut that, we won't have anything to put there."
"What do you mean we won't have anything? What about the original scene you cut? Just put that back in."
"That part is a bit tedious. I don't think anyone will like it..."
"Everyone loved it at Sundance. Didn't you feel the room?"
Whenever Harvey tried to tweak even the slightest detail of the director's cut submitted to Sundance, Sion would throw a fit. Daniel watched him like a damsel in distress looking at a prince who had come to rescue him. Yes! That's exactly what I wanted to say!
It wasn't that Harvey Weinstein's editorial critiques were entirely baseless. Since Swing in Chicago was an indie film shot with a skeleton crew on a tight schedule, there were indeed a few minor continuity errors scattered about, and some of the sound effects and ADR mastering felt a bit awkward. The real problem was that Daniel couldn't agree with any of Harvey's directing-related critiques.
"The audience will find this boring," or "Americans yawn through scenes like this"—how many cuts had been made under those pretexts? Even counting by scenes rather than individual film frames, the number easily exceeded what he could count on both hands. In the midst of this, an unbridled Sion had charged in and restored everything to its original state. As a rookie director, Daniel couldn't help but be deeply moved.
On the other hand, Harvey Weinstein looked like he was dying inside. His face resembled that of a constipated dog desperately trying to relieve itself. Ultimately, Sion represented almost the entirety of the film's commercial value. Because of Sion's relentless tantrums, Harvey couldn't push back as aggressively as he usually did with other staff. If he pushed too hard, things could blow up in his face. He was outmatched in leverage, justification, and sheer bastardry.
"N-Now, look here, Mr. Lee. We have a contract, don't we? We agreed to edit this film with mutual respect and consult each other. I do have my own area of expertise..."
Harvey made one last desperate attempt to assert himself, dragging up logic like a man trying to squeeze out a final, stubborn stool.
"Are you passive-aggressively accusing me of not respecting you? Did you respect us? Wow, this is getting on my nerves. Shall we lay it all out? Everything you've done from the very beginning?"
"...We'll restore it."
"Fuck! If you make me drop the F-bomb again, you're going to turn a good man into a mobster! You hear me?!"
With just a few harsh words, Sion kept Harvey in a tight chokehold, preventing him from pulling any sneaky tricks. The Miramax employees, who had been eavesdropping on their exchanges from outside, eventually began treating it like a pro-wrestling match, casually sharing their thoughts.
"He's finally met his match, Harvey has."
"Well, the kid's got a hell of a temper, but he doesn't treat us like that, so I'm fine with it."
"Seeing how he brings snacks for everyone every time he comes, he might actually be a decent guy."
"His acting in this movie is absolutely incredible, though. What kind of person is he?"
"I don't think we're in any position to judge an actor of his caliber. He's so young, his potential is limitless."
"He's definitely hard to pin down, unlike the rumors."
"Are all Hollywood stars such eccentrics?"
"Still, it feels incredibly satisfying to watch, doesn't it?"
"Satisfying? It's like drinking a cold lager straight from the keg every time Sion Lee walks in."
Snickering at Harvey's expense while munching on the donuts Sion had brought that day, the employees soon dispersed with heavy sighs. A prolonged editing process meant their schedules were about to get incredibly tight.
Sion's stay in New York stretched out longer than expected. Although Harvey had initially asked him to stay for only a few days, he stopped complaining about the delays altogether. It was as if he was terrified of giving Sion any excuse to snap at him again.
He's finally tucked his tail, Sion thought, a smirk playing on his lips. He had seen right through Harvey's petty psychology from the start. I knew this would happen.
During this era, Harvey Weinstein was notorious for summoning directors to his office, grinding their mental state to dust, and essentially hijacking their editing rights. It was how he earned the nickname "Harvey Scissorhands." He would chop up and reassemble films at will, and if the resulting movie succeeded, he would boast that it was entirely due to his editing genius—even though the film was simply good to begin with.
If I hadn't been here, Daniel would have been subjected to all kinds of psychological warfare until he surrendered his editing rights completely. Then Harvey would have taken all the credit, claiming the movie only succeeded because of his brilliant touch.
Sion wanted to utilize Miramax's distribution network, but he had no intention of letting Harvey run roughshod over them. The reason was simple: he couldn't stand the thought of someone else piggybacking on the hard work he and the crew had poured into the film. In his past life, after his face was ruined, he had experienced his desperate efforts to overcome his physical limitations being belittled and stolen by others more times than he cared to count.
Back then, people didn't praise my acting. They praised the director who had the 'boldness' to cast a ruined man like me.
Sion had no desire to steal anyone else's spotlight, nor did he intend to let anyone steal his. Of course, the easiest path would have been to avoid working with Miramax altogether. However, he believed that running away from the best business option currently available was a poor strategy. Ultimately, he chose to confront Harvey head-on in what felt like an inevitable clash—half by calculation, half by instinct.
Well, it doesn't feel half bad. There was a certain thrill in acting so recklessly in front of Harvey Weinstein, a man who would reign as a tyrannical mogul of the film industry until his eventual downfall. All of this was only possible because of Sion's current commercial appeal and future value. And above all, his reputation as a loose cannon worked to his advantage.
If a kid like Elena Asimov had pulled this instead of me, it would have turned into a massive scandal.
Sensing that Harvey had completely backed down after his final warning, Sion stopped visiting the Miramax offices for a few days. Instead, he spent his time relaxing at a quiet, private cafe near his hotel. Just as he was finishing his coffee and contemplating whether he should drop by the office for the first time in a while, he sensed someone approaching.
"...Sion Lee?"
Sion blinked in surprise at the voice calling his name. Standing before him was the last person he expected to see: Elena Asimov.
"...Elena?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
What were the odds? I thought she went back to California after her play ended. Sion masked his surprise and looked at her. She still possessed that cold, striking beauty—an elegant aura that made her look like the last princess of the Russian Empire. But given their history, her presence felt slightly awkward. Regardless of how Sion felt, Elena casually approached and kept talking.
"This cafe is pretty famous among celebrities. It's private, so you don't have to worry about rude fans or paparazzi."
"Ah, that explains why it's so quiet."
"You were in Chicago last time. Why are you suddenly in New York?"
Sion composed his expression as Elena naturally took a seat across from him.
"For the movie's editing."
"Editing? You're doing that? Why?"
"It's not standard practice, sure. But our director is a rookie. I couldn't shake the feeling that if I let him go alone, he'd get eaten alive."
"...Ah, Miramax, right?"
"Yeah, that Miramax."
It seemed even Elena, who was still relatively naive to the darker corners of the industry, was well aware of their reputation. Although Miramax was only just beginning to make a name for itself as a major distributor, Harvey Weinstein's "tendencies" were already infamous. He treated his subordinates like machines and aggressively interfered with film editing to get his way, earning him the nickname "Scissorhands" early on. However, because his distribution power and eye for films were unparalleled, people only whispered about it behind closed doors. After all, America was the ultimate capitalist society.
"It must be exhausting dealing with them. Especially since Swing in Chicago deviates slightly from what you'd call a mainstream film. Though, I personally think that's what makes it so great."
"..."
"W-Why are you looking at me like that?"
"Nothing. It's just that hearing you readily praise my movie makes me wonder if you're a shapeshifting reptilian."
"Reptilian? What is that?"
"...Never mind. Just some neighbors of mine."
Knowing all too well that explaining a joke only makes it sadder, Sion averted his gaze to his coffee cup. Although she didn't fully understand, Elena realized she was being treated like a child and flushed.
"Y-You and I might have a bad history... but that doesn't affect my judgment of your acting or the quality of your work."
"Hmm, I don't recall you being this nice during Deadly Summer Camp."
"Because your acting and your attitude on set back then were absolutely atrocious."
Elena stated flatly.
"But your performance in this movie was truly astonishing."
Her blue eyes shone as clear and deep as a winter lake. It was this side of Elena that made Sion feel uneasy. It was the same in my past life.
Elena Asimov. A third-generation actress from a prestigious acting dynasty. Having received formal training from a young age, she had steadily built her career. She was the polar opposite of Sion, who had coasted on his looks alone. In the eyes of their peers, she was born with a silver spoon, and her perspective on acting was entirely different from Sion's, who had started from nothing. To Sion Lee, acting had been survival. He acted to put food on the table. Even now, a part of that habit remained. He had no other escape in life—no money, no future—other than acting, and he had accepted that reality.
Elena, however, viewed acting as a dream. She strove to perfect her craft, pursued artistic honor, and aimed to leave a lasting mark on the industry. Her earnest dedication was palpable after working with her just once. In my past life, having a conversation like this would have been an impossible dream. Elena Asimov was a creature born in a vast, pristine lake, destined to soar into the heavens. Sion Lee was a creature who thought his face would pull him out of a muddy swamp, only to plunge headfirst into the fires of hell, thrashing in agony. Naturally, a certain question slipped out.
"Hey, how have you been since then?"
"Huh? Since when?"
"After you said you hated me in that film festival interview. I figured your agency gave you a hard time."
"Ah... the agency let it slide, but my parents... My dad called and lectured me, asking why I was associating with a brat like you and ruining my own image. To be honest, I'm still a little scared to go home."
"..." Sion felt a slight sting. It hurt more because she spoke without a shred of malice.
"...Is that why you haven't gone back yet?"
"Well, it is what it is. It's something I have to face if I want to live as an actress."
"Slipping up and taking responsibility for it?"
"Yes, exactly. And for the record, I meant it when I said I disliked you. I still do."
"Then get lost. I'm trying to enjoy my coffee and kill time until the next cut is ready."
Sion offered a smirk as he playfully dismissed her. But Elena only smiled back confidently.
"I hope your movie does well. It's a good film."
"Of course it will, so don't worry."
"And I'll be praying you win another wonderful award at the Razzies this year."
Elena stuck her tongue out at him before standing up to leave.
"..." While thinking that her gesture was incredibly typical of a 1991 teenager, a sudden bolt of inspiration struck Sion's mind.
Come to think of it, this year was my last win. For Worst Actor. The Golden Raspberry Awards, established to honor the "worst" in film each year. In his past life, Sion Lee was a proud three-time Razzie winner, taking home Worst Actor, Worst Supporting Actor, and even Worst Picture. He had been invited to all three ceremonies, but of course, he had never attended. Instead, he had thrown furious tantrums during interviews, which the media eagerly printed to mock him further.
That probably happened right after last year's announcements, didn't it? At this point in time, the Golden Raspberry Awards carried absolutely no influence or authority. Reacting with rage to such a silly award only made him look foolish. In my past life, no one actually attended the ceremony in person until director Paul Verhoeven accepted his trophy in 1996. What if he moved that timeline up by five years? What if Sion Lee became the very first person to attend the Razzies in person? That actually sounds brilliant.
He had planned to minimize public appearances until the movie's release in April, but according to his memory, this year's Razzies were scheduled for late March. The timing was perfect. Why not turn this into a massive PR opportunity? Just as the media was beginning to praise his acting, he would accept an award for the worst acting. The sheer irony of the situation was bound to make waves. If I play my cards right, this will generate massive buzz. After a moment of contemplation, Sion made his decision.
The Golden Raspberry Awards were deeply rooted in satire and parody. Traditionally held the day before the Oscars, this year's ceremony was scheduled for March 24th. After announcing the nominees in early February, the foundation's members voted by mail or phone. Once the winners were finalized, invitations were sent to their respective agencies about a week before the event. Of course, not a single industry professional had ever accepted the invitation.
Thanks to the American love for humor and satire, a fair number of people were aware of the Razzies, but the mainstream film industry, which clung to conservative and traditional values, largely ignored them. Consequently, the Golden Raspberry Awards functioned more like a mischievous offline gathering of cinephiles. The event wasn't televised, and its reach was limited to announcements published in a few local film magazines and newspapers.
The first sign of an impending "nuclear strike" on this low-key event came three days after the invitations were sent out. Just a few days before the ceremony, Will Johnson, the head of the foundation who sought to wake up a complacent Hollywood, received a phone call. It was from Mo Murphy, the co-founder of the foundation.
"Johnson! We have a massive situation!"
"Murphy? What's going on?"
"The guy winning Worst Actor this year just contacted us. He's actually coming!"
"...What?" Will Johnson stood frozen, wondering if he had misheard, before finally squeezing out a response. But Murphy's reply was clear and concise.
"Sion Lee! He said he's attending!"
"W-Why on earth?"
"I have no idea! Hahaha! Finally, someone in Hollywood who appreciates our sense of humor!"
Murphy roared with laughter, thoroughly amused. But as Will Johnson listened to his partner's cheerful chuckles with the receiver pressed to his ear, his mind went completely blank. If we're not careful, this could turn into a disaster of epic proportions. Slowly, sheer terror began to creep into his empty mind. Did we go too far by mocking him three times in a row? The world seemed to spin. He was absolutely terrified that a furious Sion Lee was coming to raise hell.