On Sunset Boulevard, the bass drum hit like a sledgehammer at the abandoned "Stardust" disco club, making the ice cubes in the whiskey glasses rattle. The air was thick and sweet with the smell of tequila mixed with weed—it was the kind of scent that hits you right away.
There were no crystal chandeliers here, and no tuxedos.
Just one enormous disco ball spinning slowly, throwing colored light spots onto everyone's excited faces. B-movie posters covered the walls, and in the corner, a surf rock band was shredding guitars until they were practically smoking.
Bender squeezed through a crowd of people wearing black suits and thin ties, holding his drink, and yelled into Link's ear.
"Link ! Everyone showed up! Every single technical genius from the Academy who's under fifty! Not one is missing!"
Link followed his gaze.
A man in a leather jacket, who was the top contender for Best Sound Editing at this year's Oscars, was having a drink forced on him by Quentin, who had him in a headlock. That was Roger. Next to him, a woman with a ponytail, the art director for Terminator 2, was laughing while describing an explosion scene to Samuel L. Jackson.
These people were VIPs on the film set, but here, they all looked like wild kids skipping class.
Roger staggered over with his drink. His face showed a mix of curiosity and the guardedness of a seasoned veteran.
"Mr. Link ," he burped, "Your party is louder than my ex-wife's funeral. But aren't you worried that Arthur Vance and his old buddies will slam you in the papers tomorrow for being morally bankrupt?"
Quentin, who overheard him, rushed over, carrying half a bottle of beer and spraying alcohol mist as he spoke.
"Who gives a flying f\\\ about them? Art is about keeping the audience glued to their seats for two hours without needing a bathroom break! What the hell do those old fogies know?"
Roger shrugged but didn't argue.
Link laughed. He pushed a shot of tequila over to Roger.
"Roger, Mr. Vance likes to drink red wine in his living room. We prefer to play rock and roll in the basement. No conflict there."
Roger looked at him, the cautiousness in his eyes slowly changing into something else. He picked up the shot and downed it in one go.
"Fair enough!" He wiped his mouth. "Here's to rock and roll!"
The party atmosphere reached its peak at midnight.
The DJ suddenly cut the rock music and switched to Chuck Berry's "You Never Can Tell."
A spotlight hit the center of the dance floor.
John Travolta, having shed his suit jacket and wearing just a white shirt, extended an inviting hand to Uma Thurman.
The crowd went ballistic!
The screams and whistles almost blew the roof off the club.
The two re-created the classic twist dance scene from the movie. Travolta's moves were no longer stiff like they were on set; he was dancing loose and relaxed, wearing a smile that said the world didn't matter.
He wasn't performing; he was enjoying himself.
Roger stared wide-eyed. He grabbed his friend's arm and shouted, "You see that?! That's what you call cinema! It's growing right out of the bone!"
Quentin appeared from nowhere with a random trophy and shoved it into Travolta's hands on the dance floor.
"Twist Dance Champion!"
Travolta took the trophy and raised it high, like he'd just won an Oscar.
Infected by the energy, Roger charged onto the dance floor too, pulling the art director with him and clumsily attempting the twist. More and more people poured in, turning the entire dance floor into a sea of joy.
Bender watched it all, his eyes welling up. He grabbed Link's arm, his voice trembling.
"Link … we… we might have won."
Link looked at the crazy crowd on the dance floor and smiled too.
Just as he was about to speak, a shadow quietly appeared beside him.
It was Uma Thurman.
She had left the dance floor at some point and was leaning against the bar, watching the wild people. She pushed a glass of ice water toward Link. Her voice was soft against the loud music, yet perfectly clear.
"Link , we won tonight."
Link nodded.
Uma took a sip of water, then pulled her gaze from the dance floor and looked at his face.
"But the ones who decide the Oscars are those old guys who are sleeping at home right now."
The smile froze on Link's face. He set his cup on the bar with a light tap.
Just then, the clunky cell phone in his pocket rang, its noise jarring.
It was his assistant, Martha. Her voice was shaking with a mix of nerves and excitement.
"Link …"
"The Golden Globe nominations… they're out."