Chapter 201: Different from the Rest

"Duke, I have high hopes for you and Saving Private Ryan."

Hearing this from the veteran School member, who was unmistakably of Jewish descent, Duke quickly said, "Thank you for your support, Mr. Hoffman."

"There's no need to be so formal. Critics keep badmouthing you to my face, but if we don't even support our own..."

He raised his glass to Duke and, before taking a drink, said, "Then Hollywood wouldn't be Hollywood."

After exchanging a few more words with him, Duke stepped aside and let out a quiet breath. He was hosting this party at his home specifically for the awards season. In this industry, there were some things he couldn't completely refuse no matter how reluctant he felt—and besides, if the film really did take home Best Picture, he stood to benefit directly.

This was the first time Duke had used his estate's grand ballroom. Spanning several thousand square feet, the hall was packed with guests. Among them were people like Nancy Josephson and Penny Kalis, who were working the crowd to drum up support for him, cast members like Tom Hanks and Leonardo DiCaprio, and studio representatives like Jeff Robinov.

Just as Duke had been doing moments ago, they mingled with the specially invited members of the Directors Guild, the Screen Actors Guild, and the Producers Alliance, pitching their roles and the film for all they were worth to win over their support.

It was a familiar sight leading into the awards season. The School didn't ban campaigning; on the contrary, they viewed such outreach as an expression of free competition. Throughout the special window of the awards season, parties like this took place almost daily across the City of Angels.

Beyond the party itself, Duke—like everyone else—had also prepared gifts for his guests, including champagne, souvenirs, and Saving Private Ryan videotapes and VCDs.

Sending voters tasteful but not particularly expensive gifts was an open secret at the Oscars.

Moreover, as with any top-tier Hollywood party, Duke didn't turn away actors or models looking for a break. Plenty of voting School members had an eye for handsome men and beautiful women, or had particular proclivities of their own; as long as both parties hit it off, no one would stand in their way.

"Hi, Duke."

Jeff Robinov stepped out from the crowd nearby. Dropping his formulaic smile, he walked over to the relatively quiet spot where Duke was standing and said in a low voice, "A lot of people have expressed their support for us."

"Don't forget this year's special circumstances."

The way Duke saw it, as long as Warner and Fox delivered on publicity and campaigning, Saving Private Ryan had at least a seventy percent chance of taking Best Picture. As for Best Director, he figured he might have a shot at a nomination, but actually winning was next to impossible. Going by the few fragments he remembered, Mel Gibson had once won Best Director not just because of his film, but also because he hadn't faced any strong competition.

Normally, the School awarded Best Director and Best Picture to the same film. Given this year's unusual landscape, though, there was no telling whether the School might split the two prizes as a balancing act—a tactic they resorted to every now and then.

Duke frowned at the thought of Mel Gibson potentially taking home Best Director. He had never been a magnanimous person, and turning the other cheek simply wasn't in his nature.

Giving a slight shake of his head, Duke put those thoughts aside and asked the man beside him, "Jeff, why did Warner and Fox insist that I host the party at my house?"

"Because you need to show the outside world that you take the Oscars seriously."

Having worked together so many times, Jeff Robinov understood Duke's mindset. "If you don't care about the Oscars yourself and don't show an active effort to campaign for the awards, the School will ignore you," he explained simply. "They're not going to hand a Golden Statuette to someone who doesn't value the award."

Hearing the Warner CEO's words, Duke immediately thought of David Fincher. That famously idiosyncratic director had never given a damn about the Oscars, disliked campaigning, and rarely showed up at pre-ceremony public events—and as a result, despite being highly favored several times, he had walked away empty-handed every single time.

By Jeff Robinov's logic, David Fincher's losses weren't upsets at all; they were the most normal outcome in the world.

Would he end up like David Fincher, walking away empty-handed time and again? Duke figured it was very likely. After all, his youth was a clear disadvantage, and he didn't believe the Oscars meant everything anyway—nor was he some awards-obsessed fanatic.

Weaving deftly through the crowd, exchanging pleasantries and tactfully deflecting a few suggestive overtures with a charming smile fixed on her lovely face, Catherine Zeta-Jones was completely in her element. Plenty of men had fawned over her tonight, yet none of them held her interest; her captivating eyes kept searching for the host of the party.

Though the host had thrown this gathering in a personal capacity, it was easily one of the most exclusive parties in Hollywood. Making barely half a circuit of the room, Zeta-Jones had already spotted countless faces she had once envied and aspired to match. Her ticket into this top-tier Hollywood venue was simply her role as the female lead in Chicago. If she wanted to truly belong to this inner circle, what would be the fastest shortcut?

Her amber eyes drifted once more toward that tall figure.

"With Saving Private Ryan doing such massive business, how much does Duke Rosenberg stand to make this time?"

A murmured conversation drifted over from nearby. Zeta-Jones turned her head and saw the renowned Hollywood producers Katherine Kennedy and Anne Hurd.

The former was saying, "Clearly, Duke signed a tiered box-office share agreement. Once the film's box office passes 600 million dollars, his cut reaches twenty percent."

Anne Hurd agreed, "That's right—it's one of the top director contracts in Hollywood. Plus, while I don't know the exact percentage, he definitely gets a cut of the film's merchandising too."

She had no way of knowing what the merchandising cut was, but a sixty percent box-office share? Zeta-Jones could calculate that easily enough.

He wasn't just a successful director—didn't that make him a billionaire too?

Right as that thought crossed her mind, Zeta-Jones heard Katherine Kennedy add, "It seems Duke walked away with an even bigger share from the Independence Day box office. I have it on good authority that his cut was at least as much as Saving Private Ryan, if not more."

"It shouldn't be less than 150 million dollars!" Anne Hurd chimed in.

150 million dollars?

Zeta-Jones felt a little dizzy. All those so-called successful directors in Hollywood racked their brains just to get a film's total box office past the 100-million-dollar mark, and the ones who pulled it off were usually beside themselves with excitement. Yet this young director, only twenty-five years old, had pocketed 150 million dollars as his personal cut from a single movie?

Most importantly, even after achieving such massive success and amassing an enormous fortune, he was still working so hard...

Having worked on the same set with him, Zeta-Jones knew firsthand how driven he was. He threw himself into the job like an unknown newcomer desperate for a break, barely even paying attention to the hints she had dropped on several occasions.

Were success and a career really that alluring? Zeta-Jones wasn't sure. All she knew was that if she owned a fortune that size, she would be laughing in her sleep.

Seeing the crowd around the host thin out a little, Zeta-Jones moved to walk over and say hello, but she had taken only a few steps when a familiar figure approached from the side.

"Hi, Kate. I didn't expect to see you building a career in Hollywood too."

Since Sophie Marceau had taken the initiative to greet her, Zeta-Jones had no choice but to stop. "Hello, Sophie. You look gorgeous tonight."

Sophie was wearing a short, low-cut black slip dress that made her skin look exceptionally fair, its form-fitting cut accentuating every graceful curve. With her tousled, shoulder-length brown hair and languid makeup, she looked like a young girl in the bloom of youth yearning for love. Even Zeta-Jones, who prided herself on her own ample assets, felt a stab of envy at the sight.

"You look lovely too, Kate." Sophie Marceau was only saying hello in passing. "I have something to take care of, though. Let's get dinner sometime when we're both free."

With that, she turned and walked off at an angle. Zeta-Jones frowned—Sophie was heading straight toward Duke.

Duke wasn't far away, yet countless thoughts raced through Sophie Marceau's mind as she crossed those few dozen feet.

After a great deal of thought and preparation, she had outwardly agreed to the demands made by Mel Gibson and CAA. A little indiscretion like that was nothing to her anyway, and knowing full well her own allure to men, she doubted it would take much effort.

Still, she had her doubts. Over the past month or so, she had learned more about what was going on inside CAA. Two rival factions, led by Martin Bob and Eno Martin, were locked in a fierce power struggle within the agency. If Martin Bob lost that fight, he would inevitably be ousted—and then the promises Mel Gibson had made her would be worth no more than a savage's fart.

If she gave something, she expected a return. That was her bottom line.

Despite her misgivings, Sophie Marceau didn't slow her step in the slightest. She had another plan in mind—one that would leverage CAA's scheming and influence to extract a few benefits of her own from the top-tier director ahead of her.

As the party gradually wound down, Duke shook hands with quite a few departing guests and saw them off. Amid the crisp click of heels against the floor, an exceptionally tall woman from France walked up to him.

"Sophie, when did you get here?"

Duke was certain he hadn't invited her. As he took her outstretched hand, he felt Sophie Marceau's fingers brush lightly, almost teasingly, across his palm, as though she were hinting at something.

"I came with a friend." Sophie Marceau flashed her most captivating smile. "I saw how busy you were the whole time, so I didn't come over to say hello earlier."

"Apologies for neglecting you."

A guest was a guest, so Duke offered a polite pleasantry before asking, "Getting ready to leave? I'll have someone drive you back."

Sophie Marceau gave a gentle shake of her head. Suddenly taking a step forward, she leaned in slightly closer to Duke and murmured, "Actually, there's something I'd like to talk to you about in private."