When it came to their feud with Dunn, the Hollywood Foreign Press Association had two plans in place.
First, they'd tough it out.
Gossip and rumors were like tabloid scandals—give it time, and they'd fade. Sure, Natalie Portman didn't get a Golden Globes nod because of some internal maneuvering, but who outside the room could prove it?
Art's subjective anyway, right? Different strokes for different folks.
As long as she didn't win Best Actress at the Oscars—no official stamp of approval from the Academy—they'd be fine.
Then there was the backup plan…
In the worst-case scenario, they'd make sure the Golden Globes' 60-year legacy didn't go up in flames.
The association had already agreed: if that one-in-a-million chance happened and Natalie actually became the new Best Actress, the Golden Globes committee would have to act fast.
Six top execs, including President Lorenzo Soria, would resign immediately, taking full blame.
They'd hold a press conference, admit their screw-ups over the past few months, sacrifice a few pawns to save the king, and protect the Golden Globes' reputation.
Then they'd reach out to Dunn, smooth things over, and put this mess to bed as quick as possible.
Even if they owned up to the shady dealings, they could pin it all on a handful of scapegoats and keep the Golden Globes' cred mostly intact.
A few years down the road, it'd be ancient history.
Hollywood needed the Golden Globes. Sure, a few A-list stars might scoff at its clout, but those megastars were rare.
Lorenzo Soria really didn't want to face that second option.
It'd mean throwing him under the bus—using his personal rep to save the Golden Globes' face.
So at the Oscars, he couldn't care less about the other awards. His eyes were glued to one thing: Best Actress.
And the result? Disaster!
The impossible happened!
Natalie Portman—despite Kirk Douglas's pressure, despite the mainstream vibe, despite being under 21—actually won the Oscar for Best Actress!
In an instant, it was like a storm swept through, flipping everything upside down!
Lorenzo's heart sank. He knew right then and there his days as president of the Hollywood Foreign Press Association were numbered.
And it was all because of Kirk Douglas!
"That useless, troublemaking old fossil!"
Lorenzo was furious. He grabbed his phone again, dialed Kirk's number, ready to let loose. This time, he was done—he wanted to tear into him and cut ties for good!
That old geezer had screwed him over big time!
Beep, beep, beep…
The phone kept ringing, but no one picked up.
Lorenzo's anger boiled over. "That old bastard—thinks he can dodge reality? Jerk! That old jerk!"
He dialed over and over, switching between Kirk's cell and his home line, relentless.
He had a fire in his chest, and he was damn well going to unload it on Kirk Douglas.
The guy was incompetent, dishonorable, shameless, and spineless!
On TV, they were handing out Best Actor. Denzel Washington, a Black actor, took it home—no surprise there.
But then came Best Director, and that's where things got spicy.
Going in, the media had pegged two frontrunners: Dunn Walker for A Beautiful Mind and Robert Altman for Gosford Park.
Dunn's downsides? Too young, too much of a troublemaker. The Academy liked steady, seasoned types. Altman's? His European-style cinematography didn't click with American filmmakers, and Gosford Park lacked the global punch to make waves.
The Oscars were live worldwide—they had to think about fans everywhere.
Mel Gibson stepped up to present Best Director. When he saw the name, he chuckled. "James Cameron, The Unsinkable."
Cameron winning was another curveball of the night—nothing huge, but unexpected.
Lorenzo didn't care about the ceremony anymore, though. All he wanted was to get Kirk Douglas on the line, grill him, and curse him out.
He'd been royally screwed!
But it was like Kirk was ghosting him—no answer, no matter how many times he called.
Ten minutes later, Tom Hanks took the stage to present the night's final big prize: Best Picture. That's when the phone finally connected.
Lorenzo was already about to explode. The second he heard the line open, he unleashed. "What the hell are you doing? What is this? What's going on? What the hell happened? You promised me! You swore on your life Natalie Portman wouldn't win! Why? You bastard, tell me—why did this happen?"
On the other end, all he heard was faint breathing.
"Speak, damn it! Are you mute now?"
Lorenzo couldn't hold back—profanity was flying.
He didn't give a damn about Kirk Douglas's status as a Hollywood legend anymore. He just wanted to rip him a new one!
"I… I…"
A voice came through, and Lorenzo froze. It was a woman. "Who are you? I'm looking for Kirk Douglas!"
"Sir… he's in the hospital. I'm the nanny. The phone kept ringing, so I picked up…"
"The hospital?" Lorenzo's brow furrowed, his tone icy. "He told you to say that, huh? The hospital—what a lame excuse!"
The nanny rushed to explain. "No, it's true! Half an hour ago, he had a sudden heart attack and passed out. The ambulance took him away—he's in emergency care now."
"What? A heart attack?" Lorenzo's eyes widened in disbelief.
"Yes," the nanny said. "His son and wife rushed back too."
Lorenzo's face went blank. He hung up.
It was Oscar night.
Tons of big themed parties were happening.
Any star with a shred of fame would be out and about, hopping from event to event.
Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones were still A-listers—big names. They'd likely gotten invites to Vanity Fair's bash or some fancy charity galas, mingling at high-profile stuff.
For them to ditch all that and race to the hospital…
"Guess the old guy's condition is serious," Lorenzo muttered to himself, then shivered. "He didn't… didn't actually stake his life on this and check out with God, did he?"
On TV, Tom Hanks was smiling as he announced the 74th Oscars' grand finale—Best Picture.
"The winner is… A Beautiful Mind."
The screen erupted in wild cheers and chaos.
But in Lorenzo Soria's house, it felt eerily quiet.