AN: I wanted to fit all of it in a single chapter, but it was kinda impossible. So, this will be a 3-part chapter. And hope it was alright. Like I generally don't watch Oscar or things like that. Still, did my best. [You can skip these 3 chs if you want to and won't miss anything important, since it's kinda repetitive.]
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[Oscar 2006] [Red Carpet]
The red carpet outside the Kodak Theatre shimmered under an unreasonable amount of lighting, as if the sidewalk itself had been cast for Best Supporting Actor. Cameras flashed nonstop, with the constantly yelling the names of the celebrities for poses and pictures.
Evangeline Lilly stepped out of a black car in an emerald gown. The dress flowed effortlessly, elegant without trying too hard. She smiled, waved, and posed. Reporters immediately started whispering about her next project.
A few cars later, Halle Berry arrived to a collective gasp that rippled down the carpet. Her ivory dress was bold, sharp, and unapologetically powerful, with a silhouette that made it very clear she had not come to blend in. She paused halfway out of the limo, turned slightly, and let the cameras have their moment. Halle smiled and posed for the camera.
A few minutes later, Angelina Jolie arrived alone, dressed in classic black with an understated cut that somehow made understatement impossible. Her presence shifted the energy instantly. She posed with practiced ease, chin tilted just enough, eyes calm and confident. She moved down the carpet like she owned the night, stopping for interviews with polite warmth and effortless authority.
Not far behind her, a much more chaotic energy appeared.
Max Black stepped out of her ride in a daring red dress that looked like it had been designed during a dare and finalized during a bet. She grinned at the cameras, threw up a confident wave, and nearly tripped when her heel caught on the carpet. She recovered immediately, laughing and striking a pose like it had all been intentional. Caroline Channing followed her out in a pale pink gown that screamed expensive and dramatic in equal measure. Caroline waved enthusiastically to absolutely everyone, whether they were cameras, fans, or security guards.
"Is this where I look rich and mysterious?" Max called out.
Caroline smiled brightly. "Sweetie, you always look mysterious. Rich is the costume."
"Since when did you start talking like a grandma?" Max whispered with a grin.
"I don't know. I'm trying really hard to keep myself from passing out," Caroline replied with a smile.
They posed for the camera and started mingling with the others... Halle, Angelina and Evangeline to be specific.
On the far side of the carpet, something strange was happening.
Guillermo del Toro stood off to the side, smiling like a benevolent wizard who had discovered a loophole in Oscar protocol. He was holding a small, oddly shaped container that looked like a cross between a perfume bottle and a sci-fi artifact. One by one, unsuspecting celebrities were being offered a sip of tequila from containers shaped like skulls, miniature monsters, and one very unsettling fish.
"It is for courage," Guillermo explained cheerfully to a confused new actor. "And for joy."
Some accepted. Some declined. One very famous producer took a sip, nodded seriously, and immediately took another.
Then the energy shifted again.
A familiar BMW M3 GTR pulled up and the crowd surged forward.
Alex stepped out first, dressed in a navy blue tuxedo that fit him with unfair precision. He looked composed, relaxed, and entirely unbothered by the noise. Scarlett Johansson followed, wearing a deep sapphire gown that shimmered under the lights, her hair styled in soft waves that framed her face perfectly. Together, they paused for a moment, letting the cameras adjust to the fact that this pairing was very real and happening right now.
Whispers turned into murmurs. Murmurs turned into headlines being written in real time. From the dating rumors of Alex and Angelina Jolie, another headline got added... Who is Alex Wilson really dating? Angelina or Scarlett? Or is it just a publicity stunt for their upcoming projects?
They posed side by side, Scarlett slipping her arm naturally through Alex's. He leaned slightly toward her as photographers called their names from every direction. They turned, shifted, smiled, and gave the red carpet exactly what it wanted without ever looking like they were trying.
Scarlett laughed softly at something Alex said. Alex smiled back before they talked to a couple of paparazzi.
A reporter with a mic branded by three different networks leaned forward first, eyes locked on Alex like he was already holding a statue.
"Alex, if you win, that makes six consecutive Oscars. Are you confident this year?"
Alex smiled politely as if the question had not followed him for the last three months.
"Confident is a strong word," he said. "Grateful is probably more accurate. I made something I believe in, worked with people I respect, and whatever happens tonight, I already feel lucky to be here."
The reporter laughed. "That sounded very rehearsed."
Alex shrugged lightly. "That is because I have been asked that question approximately four hundred times."
Scarlett laughed beside him, leaning slightly closer.
Another reporter jumped in immediately. "But realistically, do you think anyone can stop you this year?"
Alex glanced sideways at Scarlett for half a second, then back to the cameras. "I hope so. Competition makes everyone better. Also, I do not want to become the villain of the Academy."
That earned a ripple of laughter from the press line.
A different microphone angled toward Scarlett. "Scarlett, this is your first Oscars. How does it feel walking the red carpet tonight?"
She took a breath, smiling with a mix of excitement and disbelief. "Honestly, it feels surreal. I have dreamed about this since I was a teenager watching it on TV. Now I am here and trying very hard not to trip."
A reporter nodded enthusiastically. "Your films Lost in Translation and Alien are getting praise. How are you feeling about both being recognized tonight?"
Scarlett's smile softened. "I feel incredibly proud. Lost in Translation was such an intimate experience for me, emotionally and creatively. Alien was a completely different challenge. Being part of two projects that are so different and both being acknowledged means a lot."
Another voice cut in. "Do you think you are taking home an Oscar tonight?"
Scarlett laughed, shaking her head gently. "I am not thinking about winning. I am thinking about enjoying the night, celebrating the films, and not fainting under these lights."
Alex added, "She says that now, but I have a very strong feeling she is underestimating herself."
Scarlett shot him a look. "You are biased."
"Extremely," he replied without hesitation.
The cameras loved that.
One last reporter leaned in. "There have been a lot of rumors lately. Between upcoming projects, different co-stars, and public appearances, people are curious. Are we seeing more of you two together in the future?"
Alex smiled, smooth as ever. "You will definitely be seeing us together tonight. Beyond that, I like letting the work speak first."
Scarlett nodded in agreement. "Same here. Tonight is about the movies."
The reporters shouted thanks as security gently guided them forward.
Scarlett exhaled quietly as they moved down the carpet. "You handled that very well."
Alex chuckled. "Years of practice and a very convincing smile."
She glanced up at him, eyes bright. "For what it is worth, I am glad you are standing next to me."
He met her gaze briefly, warm and steady. "So am I."
...
[A few hours later]
The house lights dimmed, and the room settled into that ceremonial hush that only the Oscars can pull off. The orchestra tuned. The giant screen glowed.
The host, Jon Stewart, stepped out to applause, delivered a few jokes about runtime and ego, and then got straight to business.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, smiling like a man about to ruin someone's night, "we begin with Best Supporting Actress."
The nominees appeared on screen.
Michelle Williams, Brokeback Mountain.
Catherine Keener, Capote.
Amy Adams, Junebug.
Frances McDormand, North Country.
Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener.
The camera cut rapidly between the nominees. Michelle Williams looked composed. Amy Adams looked like she might pass out. Frances McDormand looked like she had already decided she would be fine either way. Rachel Weisz sat still, calm, hands folded, eyes focused forward.
"And the Oscar goes to…"
A pause that lasted exactly three years.
"Rachel Weisz, The Constant Gardener."
The theatre erupted.
Rachel's face flickered with shock for half a second before she stood, visibly moved. Applause rolled through the room as she hugged the people beside her and made her way to the stage.
Alex clapped with a genuine smile, leaning toward Scarlett. "Well deserved."
Scarlett nodded. "She was incredible."
Rachel delivered a graceful, emotional speech, thanking the cast, the director, and her family. When she finished, the orchestra gently played her off as she laughed and waved, the statue held close to her chest.
The show rolled on.
Next category.
"Best Supporting Actor."
The nominees appeared.
George Clooney, Syriana.
Matt Dillon, Crash.
Paul Giamatti, Cinderella Man.
Jake Gyllenhaal, Brokeback Mountain.
William Hurt, A History of Violence.
The presenter opened the envelope.
"And the Oscar goes to… George Clooney, Syriana."
Applause again, louder this time.
Clooney stood with his trademark calm, hugged a few people, and walked to the stage like a man who had rehearsed this moment but still respected it. His speech was sharp, humble, and just charming enough to make half the room wish they had his confidence.
The orchestra played him off. Clooney raised his hands in surrender and laughed.
Next up.
"Best Original Score."
Winner: Brokeback Mountain.
The composer rose to a standing ovation, and the camera briefly caught Alex nodding appreciatively.
Then came a stretch of lighter moments. Musical performances. Montage tributes. A joke that landed. Another that absolutely did not. The audience laughed anyway because that is what one does when the cameras are watching.
Then the tone shifted.
The lights dimmed slightly as the orchestra softened.
A new presenter stepped onto the stage, and the room responded immediately.
Helen Mirren.
She wore a silver gown and carried herself like a pro she is. Applause rolled through the theatre as she smiled and waited for it to fade.
"Good evening," she said warmly. "Best Adapted Screenplay is a fascinating category. It is where reverence meets risk."
A few knowing nods appeared in the audience.
"It asks a writer to take something already loved, already understood, and reshape it without breaking its soul. To translate emotion, not just plot. To honor the original while daring to make it new."
She glanced toward the nominees on the screen behind her.
"This year's nominees remind us that adaptation is not imitation. It is an interpretation. And when done well, it can be quietly devastating."
The nominees appeared.
Brokeback Mountain, Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana.
Capote, Dan Futterman.
The Constant Gardener, Jeffrey Caine.
Munich, Tony Kushner and Eric Roth.
Lost in Translation, Alex Wilson.
The camera cut to Alex.
He sat still, hands folded, face composed, though Scarlett could see the tension in his jaw.
Helen opened the envelope slowly, deliberately, letting the room breathe.
"And the Oscar goes to…"
A pause. Long enough to hurt.
"…Alex Wilson, Lost in Translation."
For half a second, Alex did not move.
Then Scarlett inhaled sharply and grabbed his arm. "Alex."
The theatre erupted.
Alex stood with his signature smile and let out a breath that sounded like relief and disbelief combined. He hugged Scarlett before kissing her. Then he shook hands and hugged the cast members beside him, before walking toward the stage under sustained applause.
Helen greeted him with a smile as she handed over the statue. "Beautiful work."
"Thank you," he said quietly, still processing.
He turned to the audience, the lights washing over him.
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[5 advance chs] [All chs available for all tiers] [No double billing.]
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