January 18, 1998.
Once again, he stood before the public, competing for the Golden Globes for a third time. He carried out what he called a true stance—a deep rejection in which he wanted nothing more than to bring everything to an end before what was still available. Titanic was presented on stage by Michelle Pfeiffer, wearing a black dress adorned with silver flowers. She looked beautiful as she announced the nominees. It was the ambient murmur of those watching the blonde step forward, her layered elegance guiding her as she named three of the films he had taken part in that year. First, Fight Club, L.A. Confidential, and Titanic, each marking one of the most prolific years of the gala. Seated at the front, directly across from him, was Daniel Day-Lewis with his wife. Two tables away sat two young men who would later be recognized by the industry in years to come; their talent seemed to rise above any other scene.
Billy took a sip from his water glass. Monica accompanied him in a black corset that hugged her figure, glitter dusted across her dark skin, blooming with a milky sheen. Her loose hair fell in unruly curls along her body with an unheard-of sensuality. A pearl necklace rested on her neck, a silver thread playing across it, and an Audemars Piguet watch took shape on her wrist like a sign of life. Billy had bought three or four watches for the brunette, who now looked like a brand ambassador, much as Billy himself was.
He could hear people talking everywhere, echoes coming from all sides. The struggle for roles was strangely comforting. Everything felt surprising, and without a trace, with his soft voice, the winner was announced: Titanic. Billy sighed as he unbuttoned his jacket and joined the procession; it was a war of awards that had been unfolding step by step for so long. He saw a young Gillian Anderson adjusting herself for the next role, while he watched producers and James Cameron speak with fervent passion about what cinema meant and how important it was for people to strike quick deals—something that burned itself into Billy's eyes.
-You look more serious than usual. – whispered Kate Winslet beside him, offering a simple, almost timid gesture.
Billy's sharp features leaned closer to Kate.
-I was just drifting off… it seems to me you have strong competition tonight. – Billy replied, aware that the weight of the actors she faced was no lighter than his own. They had set Titanic aside as the main contender and focused directly on Fight Club, which fought across different categories, though it was swept away—at least in the technical ones—by Titanic.
-It worries me… a lot. It feels like everyone tells you that you'll win, but in the end, when you lose, it seems like they never really considered you and only offered empty words of encouragement. – Kate replied with certainty, still struggling to understand Hollywood relationships.
-I'm glad they won Best Motion Picture – Drama. – Kate added.
It was almost a universal truth to say that the victory of As Good as It Gets, led by Jack Nicholson and Helen Hunt, dealt a real blow to the media's expectations of what could be achieved—especially under director James L. Brooks, who had enjoyed powerful recognition in the 1980s, though he was better known as a producer. Billy had known him since Brooks played a key role in Jerry Maguire.
-We'll see each other at the farewell. – Kate commented. Billy nodded, offering what little he had left.
…
Billy returned to his table to watch Peter Fonda win for Ulee's Gold. He was genuinely surprised by the response. Still, he needed to see the film; hedid not doubt that the quality of each movie on the marquee was first-rate. It had been a good year for cinema, and the years to come—almost until 2001—promised much, or at least that depended on Billy. Even if some projects lagged in fame, media attention, and various maneuvers, he debated endlessly with the people he sponsored—young minds with ambitious projects, seemingly faceless, asking only for minimal investment and willing to close their eyes to art cinema. That was what Billy wanted to promote, leaving capable producers and directors in charge to create some of the most haunting films by those young people without connections or resources, who seemed destined to fail—not because they lacked talent, but because their minds were fragile… no, perhaps not fragile, just logical. Their dreams only stretched as far as their lifetimes allowed.
-We lost. – Daniel Day-Lewis whispered to him.
-In fact, we did. – Billy replied. – And now I actually want to see Ulee's Gold. –
-Ohhh, well. – Daniel responded.
He looked at the absurdly wealthy man, to the point of being known for investing in cinema year-round—children's films his wife loved, along with everything else. They were deeply devoted to the books the man wrote on a quiet Sunday afternoon.
-I haven't seen your film. – Daniel said.
-The Boxer, I did manage to see. – Billy replied, offering a smile to one of the greatest actors in history.
-We watched it in French. – Monica laughed. Her eyes collided with a charm that carried an almost erotic quality, straight out of a fairy tale. She seemed alive—taller, stronger, more powerful—just by being there.
-Then I can't refuse. – Daniel replied, never particularly good with words, when trapped in a conversation he hadn't wanted to start. His wife, meanwhile, used the moment to talk fashion with Monica, sharing her passion as a writer.
…
The next award went to Titanic's winning tally, with James Cameron as Best Director. It was clear he was the favorite of the night. No one doubted that a story that had earned 1.8 billion dollars was anything less than a blazing flame. Titanic's strength was well known, especially after Billy's book became a bestseller, with millions of copies sold and countless printings. It would run through library corridors for a long time to come; the prose contrasted beautifully from different perspectives, filling gaps while offering new insights into how each scene unfolded.
-I'd say it's one of the best performances. – people whispered at the table in front, applauding Helen Hunt, who now seemed poised for an Oscar in most scenarios. Few believed she would fade into obscurity anytime soon—at least that was the sentiment among those watching the blonde step onto the stage to deliver her speech.
The film could be called an odyssey of love that lingers between words, a certainty worthy of the belief that nowhere else exists a moment as pure as two people creating art with such poise.
A fine Golden Globes dinner followed. In one corner, a small industry party awaited—a gathering of connections. Everyone held, to some degree, a minimum level of recognition, and when one was famous, famous figures clustered together. Perhaps that was why he already knew the Golden Globe winners.
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