Illusiveone
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220: Redoing My Life, Oscars 2015 Pt.1
🕑 Added 2025-07-01 17:56:35 +0000 UTC“Are you seriously saying this looks good?” I asked, frowning at the strange piece of cloth attached to the front of my suit.
It was half scarf, half sash—neither clearly defined—just hanging awkwardly off the lapel as if it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be.
“What is this even supposed to be?” I asked Caleb, who was diligently fastening the last few buttons on the jacket.
“It’s a narrative drape,” Caleb said without missing a beat. “Abstract frontier meets modern formalism.”
“The what and the what?”
“It looks good, Daniel,” Caleb insisted, circling around me. He gently tugged at the scarf-sash thing and pulled it around to the back of the suit. “There. Just make sure it stays like that—always at the back.”
“See, this is exactly what I mean,” I muttered. “Now I’ve got to keep this thing on my mind the entire night.”
Caleb grinned. “That’s the price of looking good, Daniel.”
Just then, Julie walked in.
“We have to leave in an hour,” she said. “Also, I’ve got the group photo from the Oscar luncheon.”
“Oh, give me that,” I said, reaching for the iPad. She handed it to me.
The Oscar luncheon was a casual but exclusive event held a few days before the ceremony, where all the nominees mingled and were photographed to make it look as though they were happy, normal people—something like that.
Caleb leaned in beside me. “Where are you?”
“Next to Clint Eastwood,” I said, handing him the iPad.
Clint was an interesting character, to say the least. I had met a lot of new people at that luncheon; overall, it was good for networking.
Caleb squinted at the screen, then shrugged. “Eh. Neil Patrick Harris is hosting, so I don’t have much hope for this year.”
“I thought you loved him,” I said, genuinely surprised.
Caleb turned to me, clearly offended. “Oh, because I’m gay, I’m supposed to like Neil Patrick Harris?”
“Oh—no, that’s not what I meant,” I stammered.
“So all gay men must worship one gay celebrity now?” Caleb huffed, tossing his scarf over his shoulder with theatrical flair.
“Well …” I began.
Caleb broke into a grin. “I’m just kidding.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I’m going to fire you.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, glancing back at the screen. “My boyfriend likes him, though; I don’t see the appeal.”
“I mean, How I Met Your Mother—he was good in that,” I offered. “And Gone Girl recently. He was good in that, too.”
Caleb shrugged. “Meh. Still don’t care for him.”
“Remember, Daniel—the theme of this year’s Oscars is Old World meets New. And you, darling, are the new.”
I nodded, already halfway to the living room as Caleb followed. “Yes, yes. You’ve told me this like a billion times.”
We stepped into the living room of my apartment, where the final flurry of prep was unfolding. Margot was already there, her team surrounding her. Stylists worked last-minute touch-ups on the golden gown she wore, shimmering like molten sunlight beneath the soft lighting.
I’d joked with her about it days ago, when she first mentioned the gown.
“At least I’ll be taking home something gold,” I had told her.
Also in the room were Paul Knight—my right hand at Midas—and a few other Midas employees, gathered near the kitchen island, coordinating timing, calls, and logistics: the usual Oscars-night chaos.
Caleb looked around and wrinkled his nose. “When are you going to move out of this hovel?”
“Hovel?” Margot echoed, her tone playfully offended.
“Yes, hovel,” Caleb insisted. “This place is not fit for someone of your stature, Daniel. Do I need to remind you how much money you have? You’re Daniel Adler. This isn’t artistic minimalism; it’s just sad. And don’t even get me started on the view.”
“Why didn’t you buy the house I suggested? It was perfect,” he added.
Margot shot back without missing a beat. “Because Mel Gibson lives three houses down.”
“It was only three houses down!” Caleb protested.
I raised my hands before the debate could spiral further. “Okay, no more house talk. We agreed—these always end in arguments.”
Which was true. Margot and I had never quite landed on a house that felt right to both of us. We eventually made a pact to stop trying so hard. When the time was right, the universe would just … drop the perfect place in our laps. Until then, we’d stay here.
As soon as Margot was finished, her assistant—and best friend—Sophia suggested we head out a few minutes early, which everyone agreed upon, and we left.
Once inside the black SUV, Julie and Sophia sat across from us, tablets in hand, already locked into full‐on coordination mode.
My schedule was packed—no surprise there. For Margot, things were quieter; she wasn’t nominated this year, but she was presenting, which in Academy terms is its own kind of spotlight. It meant the industry was paying attention. She was seen as a rising star. With Birdman releasing later this year, I was certain her name would be on the ballot next time, and when that time came, I was going to make sure she won.
“Once we arrive, you’ll be taking photos with both The Revenant cast and The Incredibles cast. We’ve got them timed perfectly back-to-back. You’ll get your group shots, some solo coverage, and then go straight to press,” Julie said.
“Margot, you’ll peel off right after Daniel heads to press,” Sophia added.
“Oh no,” I joked, clutching my chest. “How will I survive without you?”
Margot chuckled.
Julie glanced between us and continued, “Daniel, once you’re done with the group photos, head straight to the ABC pre-show interview. When that’s finished, meet back up with Margot for E! News with Ryan Seacrest, then hit Variety, Entertainment Weekly, and The Wrap.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, exhaling. “Got it.”
Julie smiled but didn’t slow down. “You’re seated in the second row, next to DiCaprio.”
I nodded. That made sense. The entire seating plan was a political game I didn’t care to decode—I had people for that.
Julie added, “We’ll sort out the after-party once you’re out of the ceremony.”
Ah yes—the after-party, where the real show was set to begin.
Not the Vanity Fair party or the Governor’s Ball—no. I had a very different meeting planned: a gathering of power players I’d jokingly dubbed the Hollywood Illuminati.
Tonight, we would finally solidify the downfall of the man I’d been quietly targeting for over a year—Harvey Weinstein.
If everything went well, by the end of May the news would be out, and by the end of the year he’d be in prison—or perhaps longer, considering how long the trial and aftermath could drag on.
The car pulled up to the Dolby Theatre, and after passing through the first checkpoint—where a discreet badge clipped to the inside of my jacket lapel was scanned—we were led into the real circus: the red carpet. The badge acted as a digital tracker, letting producers time arrivals for the live broadcast and manage red-carpet flow.
Margot stepped out beside me, glowing in gold and stealing more attention than I ever could—and rightfully so. We walked together, her hand occasionally reaching over to fix the cursed half-scarf draped across my chest. Caleb’s “narrative drape,” as he insisted on calling it, was already testing my patience.
We smiled for photographers and soon posed with the Incredibles cast, then with The Revenant cast.
I left Margot when I was ushered away for my pre-show interview with ABC. Under the soft glow of overhead lights and an aggressively cheerful correspondent, I was asked how it felt to be twenty-three years old with two Oscar nominations tonight and a total of sixteen nominations for projects I’d worked on.
I offered carefully crafted answers, sprinkling in some humor, and once it was done I rejoined Margot. Together we walked straight into interviews with Ryan Seacrest, then Vanity Fair, then Entertainment Weekly—all variations on the same theme: How are you feeling? Are you nervous? Who are you wearing? What’s next?
I was pretty sure DiCaprio was doing a bit with that sidekick from Jimmy Kimmel nearby.
Eventually, we were led inside and guided to the VIP lounge. We began to mingle. I met Julianne Moore, Benedict Cumberbatch, Idris Elba, Jessica Chastain, Cate Blanchett, Matthew McConaughey, and Jennifer Lopez, as well as Reese Witherspoon—who’d voiced a character in Toy Story—and Viola Davis, now playing Amanda Waller in the DCU after her cameo in Wonder Woman.
And that was just scratching the surface: a sea of talent, all clustered into one room.
As we were about to be seated, I was pulled aside by a production assistant who looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
“Mr. Adler?” he whispered. “I’m with the production team—just a quick moment, please.”
I nodded and stepped away from the cluster of stars I’d been talking to. Margot glanced over, but I gave her a subtle wave to show it wasn’t anything serious—at least, I hoped it wasn’t.
The assistant leaned in, lowering his voice.
“So, because you’re nominated in both screenplay categories—and because, well, there’s a small but very real chance you might win both—we’ve had to create a plan for that.”
I raised an eyebrow. “A plan?”
He smiled politely. “Yes. If you win the first one—either Original or Adapted—you’ll go up, give your speech, and then immediately return to your seat. A stage manager will guide you back via the side ramp. No lingering backstage.”
I nodded. “You guys think of everything.”
He gave a weary smile. “We have to. We’re extremely tight on time. The producer made it very clear: if you win both, we need that transition to be absolutely seamless—no delays. The show’s tempo depends on it.”
“Got it,” I said. “Run up, thank everyone, get off, sit down. Rinse and repeat.”
“Exactly,” he said. “It’s a rare case, but we have to prepare for it. We’ll have someone shadowing your row, just in case.”
“Don’t worry—I’ve got it.”
He chuckled politely but didn’t linger. “Thank you for understanding. And … good luck tonight.”
As he disappeared into the sea of suits and gowns, I returned to Margot, who looked at me curiously.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, taking a sip of water. “Apparently I’m such a potential threat they’ve created an entire tactical operation in case I win too much.”
She looked at me in confusion as we were led to our seats—second row, directly in the camera‐sweep zone. I slid into my spot: seat two. To my right sat Leonardo DiCaprio; to my left, Margot. Next to her was Tom Hardy. Alejandro occupied the first seat behind us.
The lights dimmed, and the orchestra struck the first chord. The 87th Academy Awards had officially begun.
Neil Patrick Harris took the stage, launching into his monologue. There was a big opening number—old-school, Broadway-style, complete with dancers in tuxedos. It was all right, I suppose; I wasn’t really paying attention until I heard my name.
“And at just twenty-three, Daniel Adler is nominated twice tonight for screenplay,” Neil said, pausing theatrically. “I don’t know what deal he made with the devil, but judging by that face, it was a good one.”
Scattered laughter followed. I offered the camera a half-smile—the same expression I’d worn at the Golden Globes when Gervais cracked a similar joke.
As the monologue ended, Margot leaned over, whispered she had to go, then rose gracefully. A seat filler in an ill-fitting tuxedo slid into her place. Margot was presenting Best Makeup and Hairstyling, and I watched her disappear backstage.
The first stretch of the show moved briskly:
Best Animated Short Film
Best Live-Action Short Film
Best Documentary
Then the announcer’s voice rang out:
“Please welcome Margot Robbie.”
Polite applause. Margot entered from stage right, bathed in a soft spotlight, and took her place behind the podium.
After a brief introduction she announced, “The nominees for Achievement in Makeup and Hairstyling are …” and read the list with practiced calm.
When the winner was revealed—The Revenant—a little rush went through my chest.
Applause exploded. DiCaprio leaned toward me with a smirk. “That’s one.”
I grinned; it was the first Oscar of the night for The Revenant and the first ever win for Midas—huge. Margot returned soon after, glowing with quiet triumph.
“How was it?” she asked, her hands still cold from backstage.
“Great. I’m sure they’ll call you back,” I said as she took my hand.
A few categories passed—Best Costume Design went to The Grand Budapest Hotel—and then it was time for the award I was directly involved in:
Best Animated Feature Film.
Zoe Saldana glided onto the stage to present.
“And the nominees are,” she read, “Big Hero 6, How to Train Your Dragon 2, Song of the Sea, The Tale of the Princess Kaguya, and The Incredibles.”
I held my breath, though I already suspected we were taking this one.
Zoe opened the envelope and paused.
“And the Oscar goes to … The Incredibles.”
Applause thundered as Chris Henderson and Leo Vance shot to their feet. I stood and hugged them both, but—per the producers’ instructions—only they would go onstage.
They accepted the statuette and began their speech.
“Thank you to the Academy, and to everyone at Stardust Animation who poured their hearts into this film….”
Chris then mentioned me by name, thanking me for “writing such a great story” and for “all the success of the last five years.”
Another round of applause—louder this time.
They exited the stage and the ceremony rolled on:
Best Film Editing — The Revenant: another win.
Best Production Design: a loss.
Best Cinematography — The Revenant: a win.
Best Sound Mixing — The Revenant: another win.
Best Sound Editing: a loss but expected.
Best Visual Effects: as Buddy had warned, Superman fell to the more obvious choice.
Then came the screenplay categories: Adapted and Original. I was nominated for both—The Revenant and The Incredibles. The room suddenly felt warmer.
The lights shifted as Oprah Winfrey walked onstage.
“For as long as cinema has existed,” she began, “there have been stories—fresh, risky, personal. Original screenplays are where new voices enter the world, where bold visions begin their lives.”
She paused, scanning the room.
“The nominees for Best Original Screenplay are…”
The screen behind her lit up, each title accompanied by a stylized montage:
Boyhood — Richard Linklater.
Foxcatcher — E. Max Frye and Dan Futterman.
The Grand Budapest Hotel — Wes Anderson and Hugo Guinness.
Nightcrawler — Dan Gilroy.
The Incredibles — Daniel Adler.
The camera found me instantly. I gave the practiced smile—just enough. I could feel every eye in the room, but my gaze stayed on Oprah.
Margot squeezed my hand.
I was calm. Or at least I thought so—right up until Oprah opened the envelope.
My heart pounded. Hard.
Oprah smiled.
“And the Oscar goes to…”
A pause.
“…Daniel Adler.”
The room erupted into applause. I stood and turned to Margot—her face alight with joy. I leaned in, kissed her, hugged her tight. Behind me, Leo clapped with a broad grin and pulled me in for a quick embrace. Then—of all people—The Rock leaned over the row, shaking my hand with that megawatt smile of his.
I laughed and murmured my thanks, nodding as I moved into the aisle.
“The Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay goes to Daniel Adler,” the announcer repeated. “This is Adler’s second Academy Award win.”
I walked up the stairs to the stage—neither rushing nor dawdling. Oprah waited with a gracious smile, the gold statue in her hands.
“Congratulations,” she whispered, passing it to me.
I turned to the mic. The applause ebbed to a hush.
“Well, this is… surreal.”
Light laughter, supportive.
I thanked Stardust Studios and spoke briefly about our history together—they were the people who gave me my start in the industry. I thanked my mom and family, and finally Margot.
I closed with a sly joke.
“This script,” I said, “was once called—by a critic I won’t name—‘a Fantastic Four rip-off.’”
I raised the statue slightly. “Well…”
A genuine laugh rolled through the hall, followed by a few claps.
I smiled, nodded—keeping it tight—and thanked the Academy once more before heading offstage.
No sooner had I stepped into the wings than a blur of producers, coordinators, and handlers descended. Someone handed me water, someone else did a quick suit check, and before I could catch my breath I was being escorted back to my seat.
Just as I sat down, Eddie Murphy took the stage to present the next award—Best Adapted Screenplay.
I handed the Oscar to Margot. She accepted it with wide eyes and a teasing grin.
“Imagine if you win this one too,” she whispered.
I glanced sideways at her, adjusting my jacket, my heart still racing. I sat up straighter; there was no way, I thought, that The Imitation Game would lose—Elise had been certain it would win.
The screen behind Eddie lit up, displaying the category: Best Adapted Screenplay. He smoothed the envelope with a grin and read the nominees one by one:
The Imitation Game – Graham Moore; based on Alan Turing: The Enigma by Andrew Hodges.
Aha—the winner, I thought, and probably Harvey’s last Oscar.
American Sniper – Jason Hall; based on the book by Chris Kyle with Scott McEwen and Jim DeFelice.
Inherent Vice – Paul Thomas Anderson; based on the novel by Thomas Pynchon.
The Theory of Everything – Anthony McCarten; based on Travelling to Infinity: My Life with Stephen by Jane Hawking.
Whiplash – Damien Chazelle; based on his short film.
The Revenant – Daniel Adler; based on the book by Daniel Adler.
The last nomination drew a small stir—probably because the film was adapted from a book written by its own screenwriter.
Eddie paused, smiled, and pulled the winner’s card from the envelope. He glanced at it, chuckled, then held it up for dramatic effect.
“The Revenant—Daniel Adler.”
The applause was immediate—and even louder than before.
I stood slowly, still half-convinced I’d misheard. Margot wrapped her arms around me in a tight hug.
Behind me Leo laughed—one of those amazed, head-shaking laughs—and patted me firmly on the back. Cast and crew nearby hugged me as I made my way toward the stage again, this time with a stunned smile.
Eddie handed me the statue. “Man,” he whispered, “you’d better buy a lottery ticket tonight.”
I turned to the mic, a current of applause still washing over the room. And for the first time all night I had absolutely no idea what to say; I hadn’t prepared a speech. I took a breath, leaned in, and said:
“Well… nice to see you again.”
A big laugh rolled through the audience. I blinked, glanced at the statue, then looked up once more.
“Umm…”
More warm, encouraging laughter.
“I’m going to take a page from Hitchcock and keep this short.” I paused. “Thank you.”
That was it—just two words. Whether it was the humor, the humility, or the relief that someone had finally kept a speech brief, the room erupted in applause. Smiling, I walked offstage, Oscar in hand, my heart finally catching up to the moment.
Backstage, people applauded as I passed, smiling and clapping me on the back. A few filmed with their phones; others simply stared.
After I returned to my seat, the rest of the night shifted into autopilot.
Tom Hardy lost Best Supporting Actor.
Then came Best Actor and—just as everyone hoped—DiCaprio finally won. Years of near misses crystallized into a single shining moment. Onstage, he thanked me—“to Daniel Adler, the man who gave this story to the world”—and the camera cut to my face. I smiled, doing my best not to look as if I were about to combust.
Next up was Best Director. Alejandro Iñárritu won, and once again he praised me in his speech.
And then—the big one. Best Picture.
Sean Penn stepped up to present.
“These are the films that defined our year—and, in many ways, a new chapter in cinema.”
He read the nominees:
"The Revenant
American Sniper
Boyhood
The Grand Budapest Hotel
The Imitation Game
Selma
The Theory of Everything
Whiplash"
A pause.
“And the Oscar goes to… The Revenant.”
Thunderous applause.
Everyone involved in the film shot to their feet, exchanging hugs. DiCaprio, overflowing with joy, grabbed my face and kissed me—right on the lips. Our whole section erupted in laughter, Margot nearly doubling over. I was certain it would be the talk of the night online.
We all made our way to the stage—cast, producers, anyone remotely involved. As head of the company, the final speech was mine to give.
I paused for a moment, taking in the sight of the audience.
“I wrote the book,” I began, “because when I first came across the story of Hugh Glass, I thought—this is a tale that deserves to be told on the biggest canvas possible.”
I spoke briefly about discovering the story, then turned to praise the cast—DiCaprio, Hardy—and Alejandro for his fearless direction.
“Thank you,” I continued, raising the statue, “to every single member of our crew. For every late night, every miserable location, every moment of doubt—you endured it all to bring this movie to life. This belongs to you.”
I lowered the Oscar and added, “Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.”
The applause swelled. Alejandro stepped forward and offered a few brief, heartfelt words in his signature poetic cadence. With that, the ceremony drew to a close.
Eight Oscars for The Revenant.
Two for The Incredibles.
Two of those ten were mine.
Not bad, I thought, standing amid the ovation as the music swelled. Not bad at all.
.
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Comments
Bluestar_sword
Great chapter
June Soriano
Thank you for the chapter, hope the takedown goes off without a hitch
