The music at the "Stardust" ballroom was still blaring, the drumbeats thumping hard against their chests.
On the phone, Martha's hand gripped the brick-sized mobile phone, the plastic casing creaking under the pressure.
Out on the dance floor, Roger and the tech crowd were going wild, completely oblivious to the sudden chill that had fallen over the bar area.
"Spit it out!" Bender snatched the phone, his voice ragged from yelling.
"The nominations for... Best... Original Screenplay. 'Pulp Fiction.'"
"Holy hell!" Quentin sprang out of nowhere, throwing his arm around Link's neck and shouting, "We're in the game!"
Bender's face was completely flushed, and he almost jumped onto the bar: "What else? Come on!"
Martha's voice was shaky: "Best Supporting Actor, Samuel L. Jackson. Best Supporting Actress, Uma Thurman."
"YES!" Bender leaped up, spinning Quentin around in a circle. The music on the dance floor cut out, and everyone nearby started laughing and crowding around.
Three nominations. A great start.
Link leaned against the bar, sipping on an iced water. The cold liquid went down his throat, calming the heat inside him a bit.
But he wasn't smiling. He felt like things were going too smoothly.
The line went silent for a moment.
"Why the pause?" Bender was still laughing. "Did Best Picture and Best Director nominations totally freak out the reporters?"
"Best Director—" Martha paused, "Jonathan Demme, The Silence of the Lambs... Oliver Stone, JFK... Barry Levinson, Bugsy."
The ballroom went eerily silent.
The smile instantly dropped off Quentin's face.
"What... what about Best Picture?" Bender's voice was trembling.
"Best Motion Picture – Drama. The Silence of the Lambs, Beauty and the Beast, JFK..." Martha took a deep breath. "...And, The Last Letter."
The air felt sucked out of the room.
"KICK!" Quentin lashed out and booted a nearby speaker, yelling low, "Crap! They'd rather nominate some snooze-fest movie!"
Bender slumped onto his bar stool, muttering, "It's Harvey... it has to be Harvey pulling the strings... he won."
Everyone instinctively looked at Link.
Link set his glass down with a solid thunk. A smile touched his lips, but it was cold.
"Why are you looking at me? It's just three or four nominations. Y'all look like someone just kicked the dog."
Bender took a cautious sip from his glass, mumbling, "But we just got shut out of the major Oscar categories."
Link tilted his head, his voice dropping low: "This is just the start. They're doing this to remind us that there are rules to play by in Hollywood."
"Rules?" Bender sneered. "More like a trap."
Link tapped his finger on the bar counter, a steady, hard rhythm: "They're scared. Scared we're going to turn the golden temple of the Oscars into a nightclub dance floor."
When he said that, his eyes suddenly lit up: "Since they love rules so much, let's break their rules, their way."
"How?" Uma couldn't help but ask.
Link looked around the room: "Starting tomorrow, Pangu Pictures is holding a public lecture series—'Pulp Fiction: Redefining Cinematic Language.' I want them to know that if they don't understand our new art, it's not our fault."
"It's because they're old."
As soon as he finished speaking, his brick phone rang in his pocket.
It was an unknown number, Malibu area code.
Link answered: "Hello?"
On the other end, a low, gravelly voice asked: "Kid, you got time for a chat?"
Link walked outside. The cold air hit him, instantly sobering him up.
"Mr. Eastwood."
"Musso & Frank Grill. Eleven a.m. tomorrow."
Beep—The line went dead.
---
The next day, Musso & Frank Grill.
Red leather booths, an old-school waiter serving black coffee.
Clint Eastwood was cutting his steak, his movements as steady as if he were holding a gun.
Link sat down and ordered the same thing.
"That party of yours made quite a ruckus," the old cowboy stated flatly.
"Someone has to stand up," Link replied.
Eastwood finished chewing, then looked up at him: "And then what? Blasting those old guys with noise is going to win you an award?"
Link didn't answer.
"You've treated the Academy as the enemy." Eastwood picked up his coffee cup. "If you want people who've listened to classical music their whole lives to accept your rock and roll, you have to prove that your rock and roll is what everyone likes more, not just call them out for being old-fashioned."
Link paused while cutting his steak.
"You want to shake things up? You can." Eastwood leaned forward. "But you have to use a language they understand. Make them feel like you're not tearing down their house, but building a better one—and then invite them over to see it."
He set his napkin down, his gaze sharp: "Respect. Even if you have to fake it."
Link was silent. Finally, he cut a piece of the tough steak, chewed it, and swallowed.
"I get it."
---
The next day, Pangu Pictures offices.
Link walked in and immediately erased "PARTY," "ROCK & ROLL," and "DISRUPTION" from the whiteboard.
"Martha," he said without turning around. "Send invitations to USC and NYU. We're hosting a seminar."
"The topic—'Inheritance and Innovation of Non-Linear Narrative in Post-Modern Cinema.'"
Bender stared, dumbfounded: "You're going to hold an academic conference?"
Link looked at him and smiled: "Yep. And we're going to invite those judges, especially the stubborn old geezers over sixty."
He picked up The New York Times and tapped on a critic's name.
"Save the front row for Mr. Vance."
"I'm going to ask him one question, right in front of all of Hollywood."