Chapter 312: Award Presenter

Chapter 312: Chapter 312: Award Presenter

Next was the Best Film Editing award. When the presenter read out "Million Dollar Baby, Hill Cook," the smile on Irene’s face widened instantly.

Hill Cook sprang from his seat and rushed to Irene, giving her a fierce hug so tight she could barely breathe.

"Thank you, Irene! Without you, this award wouldn’t exist!" Hill’s voice choked up, his eyes turning red.

Irene patted his back and joked with a smile, "Is there a need to be so excited? Just treat me to a good meal later." But as she watched Hill stride onto the stage and pick up the Oscar statuette, he couldn’t help but cry out. His speech was broken and full of gratitude for Irene, saying it was her trust that had brought him this far step by step.

Irene felt a flicker of pride. After all, Hill was indeed someone she had personally discovered. They had collaborated since Legally Blonde, and now they had finally won their first award, with many more waiting for them in the future.

With the Best Film Editing award announced, Irene began to feel truly tense.

After all, everyone in the industry knew Oscar’s "unspoken rule"—usually, Best Film Editing and Best Picture go to the same film.

Therefore, Hill’s win felt like a vital stepping stone for Million Dollar Baby’s path to Best Picture, causing her previously relaxed mood to vanish completely as sweat began to bead in her palms.

After the applause for Best Film Editing gradually subsided, the atmosphere inside the Kodak Theatre quietly tightened.

Host Steve Martin wiped away an imaginary bead of sweat, using a joking tone to ease the tension: "The next award is the ultimate honor for directors: Best Director! A reminder to the nominees: don’t run too fast when your name is called. The stage floor is a bit slippery."

A wave of light laughter rippled through the audience, but no one could truly relax.

Irene instinctively straightened her back, her fingers no longer resting casually on her knees but gently curling inward.

Her previous composure had been somewhat relaxed, a "do your best and leave the rest to fate" attitude. But with Best Film Editing in the bag, the unspoken rule linking editing to Best Picture acted like an invisible thread, tugging at her anticipation and nerves.

The spotlight shifted to the stage’s side door as presenter Harrison Ford, dressed in a dark suit, walked onto the stage.

He held a gold-embossed envelope, a gentle yet weighty smile on his face: "The profession of directing is like steering a ship without a rudder in a storm. You have to make the crew believe in you while keeping the ship from sinking. This year’s five nominees have all steered their ships steadily and brilliantly."

Once the clips for the Best Director nominees finished playing, Harrison Ford opened the envelope. His gaze lingered on the card for two seconds before he deliberately slowed his speech: "Roman Polanski, The Pianist!"

Irene was stunned for a moment, then smiled with relief. Sitting in her seat, she was the first to stand and applaud.

Her applause was loud and sincere, without a trace of disappointment in her eyes. Instead, they held a touch of admiration.

In her heart, The Pianist was already a masterpiece. Roman Polanski had used a near-cold restraint to capture the faint glimmer of humanity amidst war. That level of skill certainly deserved this Oscar statuette.

On stage, Roman Polanski accepted the Oscar statuette, his rich voice coming through the microphone: "Thank you, Oscar. Thank you to everyone involved in The Pianist, especially Adrien Brody. He gave so much to this role." His speech was concise, without excessive sentimentality.

Irene turned to share her thoughts with Nicolas, only to see her cousin’s brow furrowed, his face etched with worry and his mouth set in a thin line, looking more nervous than she, the losing director.

"Is that necessary?" Irene couldn’t help but laugh. "The Pianist winning is normal. I’m completely convinced."

Nicolas shook his head, his tone grave. "But if you didn’t get Best Director, Best Picture is even more uncertain!"

Irene didn’t respond, but in her heart, she agreed with his concern.

So far, Million Dollar Baby had won three major awards: Best Supporting Actor, Best Lead Actress, and Best Film Editing. Chicago had secured technical awards like Best Adapted Screenplay, and The Pianist held Best Lead Actor and Best Director. With each of the three films having its own victories and none holding an absolute advantage, the winner of Best Picture had become a complete mystery, pushing the atmosphere of the entire ceremony to its climax.

Everyone sat up straight as the cameras panned across the faces of the creators of each nominated film, capturing the expectation and unease in their eyes.

Irene took a deep breath. Although she was at peace, she didn’t want to go home empty-handed either.

Even though Million Dollar Baby was no longer at zero, Irene had essentially controlled everything from the script and investment to filming, producing, and finally editing. While the other participants had already gained something, Irene, the mastermind, was still empty-handed.

Now, she could suddenly understand Leonardo DiCaprio, who had been an Oscar bridesmaid for years in her previous life, and Nicole Kidman, who had worked tirelessly to win Best Actress.

Coming with hope every time, only to leave disappointed—winning an award seemed to have become an obsession, one that forced them to strive for an Oscar step by step.

Irene didn’t want to end up like that.

During a brief break, Irene shifted her body slightly. Finally, it was time for the last award. It really hadn’t been easy to endure the whole night.

Just then, the spotlights on the stage suddenly flared, and a familiar figure slowly walked onto the stage.

When Francis Ford Coppola’s face appeared on the big screen, a low gasp instantly rippled through the Kodak Theatre.

It was Irene’s father!

The legendary director, dressed in a brown suit with his hair meticulously combed, walked slowly to the microphone with a steady smile, holding the gold envelope that would decide the final outcome.

At that moment, the eyes of the entire audience darted back and forth between Francis and Irene.

The camera precisely captured the shock on her face, which then turned into a relieved smile.

She hadn’t expected her father to personally present this most important award, and he hadn’t revealed a thing beforehand.

Countless gazes fell upon her—curious, expectant, envious, and probing—but Irene didn’t panic at all. She simply straightened her back and gave a slight nod to the camera, her gaze open and firm.

Some of the other candidates were panicking inside but tried their best to stay composed, barely managing to reassure themselves that Francis Ford Coppola’s appearance didn’t have any special significance.

Some were cursing internally, thinking the ceremony planners were intentionally stirring up trouble and being unreasonable.

Regardless of what others thought, Irene’s confidence was at an all-time high. After all, since even her father had been invited out, her chances of winning were ninety percent if not a hundred. The remaining ten percent would be if the Oscar production team was truly being unreasonable, in which case there was nothing to be done.