"Yes, yes, whatever you say is right," Roy laughed, showering his son's cheeks with kisses. "Did you hear that? He said he likes me!"
"Oh, really? Funny, I heard him say he likes me," Laila teased, making a move as if to snatch the boy away.
Roy burst into laughter and sprinted up the stairs.
With his long legs, even while carrying their son, it only took a few steps for him to leave Laila far behind.
Knowing she couldn't catch up, Laila didn't bother to try. Instead, she deliberately stomped her feet loudly, pretending to chase them, then quietly slipped into the kitchen.
It had been a whole week since she'd last seen little Eli. She figured she should make something he liked to eat—something to reforge their mother-son bond.
After all, she was a woman who had been single for 30 years in her previous life; whipping up a few snacks was nothing she couldn't handle.
While their little family was basking in warmth and harmony, the debates outside were growing more intense by the day.
Everyone had an opinion, and even people who normally paid no attention to films had joined the fray. Eventually, Silence had evolved beyond just a movie—it had become a full-blown social phenomenon.
With all this buzz, the film's box office numbers kept soaring. Within just a few weeks, it had smashed past the $300 million mark globally, securing two of Laila's previous records and further cementing her legendary status.
In the end, Silence grossed $580 million worldwide.
Purely in terms of box office, Laila had made more successful films. But in terms of cultural impact and social resonance, many believed this film deserved a spot in the top three of her entire career.
There were just so many layers to it—racial discrimination, the two unanswerable choices at the heart of the film, and more. What looked like a simple adventure-action film had, in fact, risen to the level of a modern classic.
But whether something becomes a classic doesn't rely on public opinion alone. There's another very important benchmark—awards.
This year's awards season coincided with the holiday release window, which meant many smaller awards had already been handed out and would have to wait for next year. But the two biggest ones—the Golden Globes and the Oscars—were still on the table.
The Christmas release window was, in fact, a strategic choice. Not because it's a time when people are off work and free to see movies, but because it lines up perfectly with the submission deadlines for the two major awards.
Think about it—both awards are held in January and February. To be eligible, a film must be released beforehand. A film that comes out in March or April would have to wait until next year's awards cycle.
And with the massive number of films released every year—not just domestic productions but any film that gets a U.S. theatrical release—competition is brutal.
Unless your film leaves a deep and lasting impression, how could you expect the Academy's mostly 50–60-year-old voters to even remember it when the time comes?
Don't expect them to watch every film on the list. If yours isn't memorable, it won't even make the first cut.
This was part of why Laila chose a holiday release. The other reason was to avoid direct competition with The Avengers and give both films breathing room.
In this infamous year of "doomsday predictions"—2012—Laila had presented two powerful works to the awards circuit:
One broke box office records.
The other sparked a global debate that still hadn't died down.
Whichever one you looked at, there was no question that they had left a deep impression on the judges.
Now, all that remained… was to see who would take home the prizes.
Fans across the Eastern world waited with bated breath for the nomination announcements. They had been waiting for this moment for far too long.
They believed deeply in the talent of Eastern actors—believed that what they lacked was never skill, only opportunity.
And now, they finally had it: the chance to stand on the world's most prestigious stage.
In the past, when Eastern actors landed a few seconds of screen time in Hollywood blockbusters, fans could only roll their eyes.
No one had ever hoped such roles could lead to awards—after all, the Oscars didn't hand out trophies for Best Cameo.
But this time was different.
Their beloved actor—Leslie Cheung—was playing the leading role. He was in the running for Best Actor.
His charisma, screen presence, and stunning performance had fans overflowing with hope.
If there was ever a time for an Eastern actor to win a major international award… it was now.
Why not?
Leslie Cheung had already swept all the major acting awards in Asia. He'd had unforgettable performances at top-tier film festivals.
The only thing missing from his resume was this—a chance.
Now that he had it, what fans hoped for most was to see him, as an Eastern actor, walk onto the stage of the world's most prestigious film awards.
Neither the Golden Globes nor the Oscars had ever awarded the Best Actor prize to an Eastern performer.
People were desperate for this moment—not just to support their idol, but to show the rest of the world that the East was no barren land when it came to acting talent.
They had some of the best actors in the world.
And most importantly, this was a Laila Moran film.
If it were any other director, maybe people wouldn't dare get their hopes up. But with Laila, it was different.
She was a miracle worker—someone who had produced multiple Best Actor and Best Actress winners.
If even she couldn't put an Eastern actor on that stage, then… who could?
Silence was an excellent film—this had been widely acknowledged.
The screenplay, the acting, the cinematography—everything was executed at a world-class level.
If there was one thing standing between Leslie Cheung and that golden statue, it was… his co-lead, Roy Seasonstar.
Having a great co-star is a blessing—they can challenge and elevate each other's performance.
But when that co-star becomes your competition, it's a problem.
In the film, Leslie and Roy's characters start wary and distrustful of each other, but eventually form a bond of deep brotherhood forged in extreme adversity.
Many viewers were deeply moved by their relationship, believing the pain of the ending was made all the more heartbreaking because of the emotional weight built up earlier.
Even with such a sorrowful ending, no one could deny the profound friendship portrayed between them—a bond that transcended race and even life itself.
Some viewers were so affected that they started writing fanfiction about the two of them—spinning tales of what-could-have-beens to soothe their aching hearts.
And of course, the fujoshi (BL fans) didn't hold back—turning their bond into a tragic, star-crossed romance that left readers in tears.