Royce Hall at UCLA.
The air conditioning was running a bit cold.
There were no spinning disco balls, no rock and roll.
Just rows and rows of older gentlemen in dark suits, sitting ramrod straight, their expressions as somber as if they were attending a funeral. These were the board members of the Directors Guild and Writers Guild, the Academy's lifetime voters.
Bander sat in the front row, his palms sweating, his shirt soaked in the back. He felt like a drunkard who had stumbled into church, completely out of place.
Daniel, the Vice President of Miramax, was there, sitting next to Arthur Vance. The two spoke quietly, and Vance occasionally adjusted his tie, wearing a confident smile.
The symposium began.
The Dean said a few customary words and then ceded the stage to Vance.
Vance began: "Pulp Fiction is a dazzling fireworks display."
His words held praise, but he had an ace up his sleeve: "No matter how beautiful, fireworks only last a moment. They cannot illuminate history. What cinema needs is a beacon like The Last Letter."
The veteran voters in the audience nodded frequently. Daniel smiled.
Then it was Link's turn.
He had no script, just a remote control. He walked onto the stage and first took a deep bow. "Mr. Vance spoke very well. I agree that he represents the aesthetic of the majority of the voters here."
Bander's heart sank. Vance's smile grew wider.
Link pressed the remote. The screen lit up, showing the twist dance scene between Vincent and Mia from Pulp Fiction. Brows furrowed in the audience.
After the clip, he switched to the next scene—the Madison dance from Godard's Bande à part (Band of Outsiders). The black-and-white image was grainy but clearly echoed the scene they had just watched.
Next came Jules reciting the pseudo-Bible verse, followed by a switch to Alain Delon's monologue in Melville's Le Samouraï (The Samurai).
Clip after clip, all echoing each other. Homage, deconstruction, and re-creation.
The auditorium quieted down. The elderly attendees who had been listless moments before all sat up straight. Some even adjusted their glasses, looking back at the screen.
Link turned off the projector and surveyed the room. Finally, he focused on Vance.
"Mr. Vance, you called Pulp Fiction a fireworks display."
He paused, lowering his voice: "Godard once said that a story should have a beginning, a middle, and an end, but not necessarily in that order."
"My question is simple."
"Is Godard's film considered a fireworks display?"
"Or," Link's gaze bore into Vance, "has it been thirty years since you last watched a Godard film all the way through?"
The room exploded. The students cheered first; applause and whistles erupted.
Vance was stunned on stage, his mouth hanging open, unable to utter a complete sentence. His face slowly flushed red.
Just then, a white-haired professor in the front row slowly stood up.
"Young man," his voice was deep, yet it cut through the noise. "What you've shown is indeed clever. But essentially, it's just imitation."
The whole room fell silent.
He continued: "Godard is Godard, and Melville is Melville. They created the language; you simply borrowed it. The Academy values originality, depth, and works that touch universal emotion, not clever collage. Comparing one fireworks display to another, it remains just fireworks."
The older gentlemen nodded, as if they had found a new theoretical anchor. Daniel's lips curled up again.
Bander cursed silently. This was an old fox of the Academy bailing Vance out.
Link listened quietly, then suddenly smiled.
"Imitation?"
He walked to the main curtain, pointing at the still image on the screen.
"Godard used the camera to break linearity, and Melville made the monologue philosophical. I am not imitating; I am taking their language and bringing it to Los Angeles in a way that young people can more easily accept."
He turned around, his gaze sweeping over Sheldon and then the entire audience:
"The Academy misses the Golden Age. Fine. But who gets to define the next Golden Age?"
His voice grew softer:
"We are not setting off a single firework. We are lighting a new spark. Only when someone is willing to carry the torch can it become a beacon."
The hall fell silent again. After a few seconds, the student section burst into applause louder than before, with whistles echoing throughout the room.
He slowly sat down in silence. Vance's face was ashen. Daniel stared at Link, his smile completely frozen.
Link bowed again to the audience and walked off the stage.
Just then, an older man in a gray cashmere sweater walked past him. He was Sheldon, a longtime board member of the Academy's Writers Guild.
Sheldon patted Link on the shoulder, his eyes full of admiration.
"Brilliant presentation, kid. Truly."
Link smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Sheldon."
"Everything you said is right." The old man nodded, walked a couple of steps, and then, as if remembering something, turned back and added one final line.
"But..."
"I'm still voting for The Last Letter."
"It just makes me feel... more comfortable."