CHAPTER 304: CHAPTER 303: INDUSTRY SECRETS AND DUMBFOUNDED EMPLOYEES

Steven, riding high on Rex’s faintest smile, decided to go all in. He waved them out of the post-production wing and into a quieter corridor where the walls were lined with glass offices. Executives in expensive suits sat inside, talking and ordering fast into headsets.

"This," Steven said, lowering his voice, "is where the real battles happen. Forget cameras, forget actors... this is the heart of Hollywood. Contracts. Deals. Agents and lawyers."

He tapped on the glass of one office where a man in a tailored suit was flipping through a stack of papers.

"That’s a talent agent. Biggest sharks in the business. You see, actors think they’re stars, but their careers are bought and sold like cattle. Ten percent to the agent, five percent to the manager, a cut to the lawyer, publicist, even stylists get their share. By the time the actor cashes the check, half of it’s gone. But if they don’t play along? They’re blacklisted, quietly. Never work again."

The girls glanced at each other, uneasy, as if they’d just been shown the underside of a glamorous dress... threadbare and stained.

Steven pressed on, his voice picking up speed like he couldn’t stop himself.

"Studios control awards too. Oscars, Golden Globes... those aren’t recognition, they’re campaigns. Millions are spent on private screenings, catered dinners, gift baskets that cost more than a car. You don’t pay, you don’t win. Simple as that. Winning an Oscar can double a film’s revenue overnight. That little gold statue," he tapped an invisible shape in the air, "is the most expensive marketing tool on Earth."

The girls widened their eyes, one whispering under her breath, "So it’s all... bought?"

Steven gave a sharp laugh. "Of course it is. And the funniest part? People in other countries still treat it like divine approval, the final word in art, like the Academy is some council of gods. In reality, it’s all money games. You can barely act, but if you have the budget, you can buy prestige. Just pick a dark, dirty, controversial topic... drugs, poverty, racism, abuse... make yourself miserable, shave your head or eyebrows, smear yourself in mud, and boom, you’re suddenly giving an ’Oscar-worthy performance.’"

He shook his head in mock disbelief. "It’s an open secret here. Physical transformation is more powerful than talent. Play a superhero? Fun. Play someone suffering, dying, or ugly? That’s the ticket to the podium."

The group walked past a row of glass offices, a few staff inside pretending not to eavesdrop, though their chats were buzzing. He’s really saying this out loud? To outsiders?

Steven leaned closer now, his voice almost a whisper. "And don’t think the judges even watch half these films. Many don’t. There’s a joke in the industry that Academy voters cast their ballots with their feet. They shuffle into one or two private screenings, nod along at the fancy dinner, and then tick the box for whichever studio gave them the better ’experience.’ Half of them don’t even remember the title of the film they voted for."

"And here’s the global scam no one talks about. When a foreign film gets nominated, it’s never because Hollywood suddenly ’respects’ them. It’s because that film can be used. Maybe to show how ’open-minded’ we are, maybe to push some political narrative, maybe to sell more tickets in Europe or Asia. The film itself? Just a prop in the bigger machine."

He sneered. "Foreign actors? Same story. If they want to win, they need a Hollywood sponsor. A studio willing to bankroll their campaign, handle their image, make sure they play the game. Otherwise, they’re just token nominations... thrown in to make the list look diverse before losing to the real candidate the studios already paid for."

He gave a bitter chuckle, but there was no humor in it. "That’s the truth. That golden statue is less about art, more about politics. For studios, it’s business. For actors, it’s leverage. For the world, it’s theater. A very expensive, very convincing theater."

He gave a bitter laugh.

"I’ve hosted dinners for voters, flown critics to luxury resorts just so they’d write glowing reviews. Hell, I’ve shelved better movies than I’ve promoted... because they weren’t worth the campaign money."

The girls’ faces fell, disappointment mixing with fascination. To them, Hollywood awards had always been untouchable, pure symbols of excellence. Hearing Steven strip the paint away made it feel cheap, manufactured, almost like pro-wrestling with golden statues.

"And that," Steven finished, with a smug grin, "is why the world keeps chasing Hollywood. They think it’s art. We know it’s business. And business always wins."

Steven noticed Rex’s silence and, desperate to keep him satisfied, leaned closer.

"You know those blockbusters shot in Canada or Georgia? It’s not because they look better. It’s tax credits. Shoot in Georgia, they’ll give you thirty percent of your budget back. Canada? Even higher. Some European countries practically beg for productions, handing out subsidies, free locations, and visa fast-tracks. A hundred-million-dollar film can save thirty, forty million just by moving across a border. That’s the game. Art is just a cover. It’s money laundering in daylight."

They moved past another office, where a young assistant was nervously typing. Steven pointed.

"Every script that comes through here gets rewritten... sometimes ten, twenty times. Writers fight over credits because one line, one word, can mean a lifetime of royalties. That’s why the Writers Guild strikes. And trust me, the studios always try to squeeze them out. Always."

By now, the employees watching from corners were pale. They couldn’t believe their boss was spilling so much. The internal chats were exploding: Is Steven losing his mind? Why is he saying all this? Who IS this guy?

The girls, trailing behind Rex, were wide-eyed, almost dizzy from the flood of revelations. One of them muttered, "It’s like... the whole thing is rotten," and another whispered back, "But look how they all smile on camera. Like nothing’s wrong."

Steven ushered them down another hallway, still talking fast, as if afraid silence would give Rex time to judge him.

(End of Chapter)