Chapter 300: What Kind Of Monster Are We Fighting Against?
As everyone knows, a nomination is never the same thing as winning.
Still, with the way Shinji was talking, it almost gave people the illusion that Ultraseven X was already guaranteed to take home a trophy—like the only question left was which one.
In truth, Shinji wasn't at all certain. But… he really did have a headache about this.
The reason was simple—Type-Moon's foundation in the film industry was still too thin.
Best Actor, Golden Lion, Silver Lion, Best Screenplay—four awards, but three completely different directions in terms of publicity strategy. Choosing one meant giving up on the other two.
…Huh? Why four awards but only three directions?
Because the Golden Lion and Silver Lion are just the first and second prizes for Best Picture.
The first thing Shinji ruled out was Best Screenplay. That one was meaningless for both him and Type-Moon—he wasn't a screenwriter, after all.
That left Best Picture and Best Actor.
The Golden Lion was the highest honor at the Venice Film Festival—winning it would be no small thing.
But Best Actor wasn't just a personal accolade for Cu Chulainn—it would also boost the name value of all Heroic Spirit actors.
Even in the commercial film world, the title of "Best Actor" was an incredibly useful calling card.
And if Cu Chulainn really did win it, it would become a major step in Shinji's plan to introduce Heroic Spirit actors to the global stage.
If he absolutely had to choose, Shinji would rather Cu Chulainn win Best Actor.
Sure, the Golden Lion had massive prestige, but in the end it would only benefit Ultraseven X, maybe give a small boost to Type-Moon's future cyberpunk projects.
A Venice Best Actor title, on the other hand, had far more lasting value. From a cost-benefit perspective, making a single never-aging actor famous was a far better long-term investment than making one film famous.
However—
Sitting across from him in a loud Hawaiian shirt, Cu Chulainn didn't exactly radiate "Oscar-worthy thespian" vibes.
Not that his looks were bad—far from it. In life, he'd been so attractive that he'd ended up with enough romantic entanglements to last several lifetimes.
It was just… his whole aura was off. Sure, he could be called a knight, but compared to flawless types like Diarmuid or Gawain, he fell short—there was an undeniable whiff of "streetwise second-rate rogue" about him.
If Diarmuid was "upright from head to toe," Cu Chulainn was "upright in one leg at best."
And then there was the problem that, after seeing this guy pull boneheaded stunts and die repeatedly, Shinji couldn't help but see him as… well… a bit of a clown.
Once you dive into the ocean of comedy, dignity becomes a distant shore.
Yes, humor, wit, and comedic charm were all great ways to make audiences remember you—right after good looks.
But once those labels stuck, they were almost impossible to peel off.
Which meant that when a comedian tried to act in something serious, audiences couldn't help but feel the performance was lacking.
Was it really that their acting was bad?
Not at all—people just weren't used to seeing them that way.
That was Shinji's problem right now. He was so used to "Lancer dies again!" Cu Chulainn that he couldn't accurately judge the man's dramatic chops.
Even though he'd once seriously considered pushing for Best Actor, now that the time had come, he hesitated.
"If only it were Diarmuid," Shinji muttered, mimicking Yakusho Kōji's line from Shinjuku Swan.
"Oi, Master! That's cold!" Cu Chulainn shot back, full of indignation.
Shinji glanced at him and said flatly, "Diarmuid is more popular with older women."
"Hey!"
Cu Chulainn had never imagined he'd lose out over… a mole.
The Venice Film Festival, like the other two great European festivals, was still very much a place where the jury held absolute power in deciding the awards.
Although the Venice Film Festival wasn't quite like Cannes—where the jury president reigned supreme—the results still showed that the president's voice carried a lot of weight.
Take this year for example: the jury president was the legendary French actress Catherine Deneuve, a classic star from the 1940s who had a particular fondness for emotional, sentimental films.
And so, this year's Golden Lion went to the Chinese director, Jia Zhangke, Still Life.
Unfortunately for Shinji, there was one tiny problem—he had absolutely no idea what this lady's taste in men was like, because he couldn't even remember who won Best Actor this year.
Not that he had a bad memory—Shinji prided himself on his movie knowledge—but memorizing every single film festival winner year after year was pushing it.
Most of the time, he only remembered a movie's accolades after seeing its name somewhere… and even then, only if it was the sort of film that left a strong impression.
'Damn it, those reincarnators with perfect memory are basically cheating!' he growled. 'How the hell am I supposed to know if this old lady prefers boyish charm or rugged manly men?! Seriously, no one knows?'
In truth, Shinji's worries were entirely unnecessary.
Because this year's Venice Best Actor was none other than Ben Affleck—yes, that Ben Affleck.
And setting acting skill aside for the moment, Ben Affleck's rugged, mature persona wasn't all that far off from Cu Chulainn's.
Which meant that, at least when it came to Catherine Deneuve's personal taste, Cu Chulainn might actually have a decent shot.
Not that Shinji, that blockheaded director, had the faintest clue.
For the record, the film that won Ben Affleck the award was Hollywoodland, in which he played George Reeves, the very first actor to portray Superman.
Sure enough, "A Batman who can't play Daredevil isn't a good Superman" held true here as well.
Shinji was also lucky—Hollywoodland hadn't been screened at this year's Venice festival in this world.
Otherwise, there's no way he wouldn't have recognized Ben Affleck's name.
Perhaps in this parallel world, Ben Affleck didn't exist. Or maybe comic book adaptations just hadn't taken off yet, so a film about the mysterious death of the first Superman never even got greenlit.
Either way, by process of elimination, Cu Chulainn and Ultraseven X actually held a not-insignificant advantage.
Still blissfully unaware that Cu Chulainn was already playing to the jury president's taste, Shinji crossed his arms and turned to Denis Villeneuve.
"How much sway does media hype have over the jury?" he asked.
"A little… but not much. And it often backfires." Denis didn't even need to guess what Shinji was thinking. "If the media starts pushing too hard—overhyping a film or an actor—it can trigger a reverse reaction from the jury."
"Of course, if the film is truly excellent, that's another matter. But…"
Denis trailed off, but his expression said it all.
As a director, he had confidence in his work—but not so much that he believed it was unmatched in the entire world.
"In that case, we'll have to be smart about the publicity," Shinji sighed in resignation.
Without the most valuable "future sight" intel, this was the first time since his reincarnation that Shinji truly felt powerless in the film world.
Unable to directly influence the jury, all he could do was wait for the festival's results to be announced.
"…Master, why are you staring at me like that?" Cu Chulainn asked, noticing the way Shinji's gaze lingered after he'd finished talking about PR strategy.
"Hm… I was just wondering whether you should wear a curtain with a big hole in the middle," Shinji said, dead serious.
"…What kind of performance art is that supposed to be? And will it help with the award?"
"To push the cheongsam to its ultimate limit—an esoteric art form," Shinji declared solemnly. "After all, people always say, 'open the flag and win the battle.'"
"…Master, you really are an animal."
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Sure, Shinji had said they'd wait for the results—but waiting didn't mean doing nothing. If that were the case, he wouldn't have been assigning PR tasks in the first place.
After so many years in media and entertainment, there was no way he didn't know how to indirectly influence a film festival jury.
These self-proclaimed "lone sober souls in a drunken world" of the art scene had one predictable flaw—their contrarian streak. The thing they hated most was being openly praised by "common folk."
Pouring massive effort into telling them how wonderful your work was? That was the most shallow, boneheaded publicity tactic imaginable.
The real way to win them over was subtle—quietly stoking interest within certain circles, then letting the work "naturally" find its way into the jury's hands through a carefully laid chain of influence.
Complicated? Oh yes. Tedious? Absolutely. Pretentious? You bet.
But… that was exactly the kind of bait these "artisans" bit on.
In fact, ever since Shinji had held that press conference announcing Ultraseven X as a cyberpunk work, Venice had quietly been swept up in a cyberpunk craze.
People were reading Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, Neuromancer, The Fire in the Abyss— digging into cyberpunk concepts, debating what the true core of the genre was.
On the surface, it looked perfectly natural—film buffs watching Shinji Matou's press conference, then becoming curious about the movie he produced.
But behind this whole cyberpunk boom, Type-Moon's fingerprints were everywhere.
The trick was that the PR was so low-key, people genuinely thought they'd fallen in love with cyberpunk all on their own.
Now that the festival had opened and the genre was trending, Shinji was ready for Phase Two—getting the jury to accept cyberpunk as an artistic form.
He was confident that, with their aging-hipster literary sensibilities, once the old guard understood the core of cyberpunk, they'd love it.
The tricky part was getting them to approach it without prejudice.
After all, sci-fi films were inherently expensive to make—and in these old fogeys' eyes, "big budget" was synonymous with "commercial" and "vulgar."
Breaking that mindset was the single most crucial step in Ultraseven X's PR strategy.
Annoying? Sure. But Shinji wasn't about to waste such a rare opportunity.
Worst case scenario, he could always have Cu Chulainn "sacrifice his body" and spend a night or two with that 1943-born grand dame.
As long as Catherine Deneuve could still walk afterwards—and not end up with a fractured pelvis from Cu Chulainn's… enthusiasm—Shinji was pretty sure Best Actor would be in the bag.
…Probably.
While Shinji wrestled in Italy with the question of whether to dangle his fresh piece of man-candy in front of the Venice jury president, the entire television-viewing population of Japan was being strung along by Shinji in another way.
And the reason was simple—Magical Illya!
Rin Tohsaka and Luviagelita Edelfelt—two magical ladies (emphasis on "ladies")—hadn't appeared in the plot just to make cute faces and banter. They were there to give the audience action.
Compared to rookies Illya and Miyu, Rin and Luvia's combat experience was on a completely different level.
Sure, their raw stats didn't come close to Saber's, but they could still trade blows with her on equal footing.
Especially Rin Tohsaka—wielding a blade woven from ultra-dense magical energy—she not only broke through Saber's magical defense, but even managed to fight her to a standstill.
Ruby, of course, kept sniping at her over the comms, complaining that such a brutish fighting style was hardly befitting of a magical girl. But through that close-quarters exchange, Rin was gathering a wealth of combat intel.
To see a magical girl engaging in melee swordplay was enough to leave rookie magical girls Illya and Miyu slack-jawed.
They had never even imagined that magical girls could fight like this.
"Wait—no, I've seen this move before!"
When Saber finally broke through Rin's guard, Illya suddenly cried out.
Because in her eyes, Rin had not only tanked Saber's slash with maximum physical defense—she had turned the tables in the same instant, pressing her staff right up against Saber's body.
"Gotcha. Cannon shot!!"
Point-blank bombardment!!
After unleashing an attack that gave Illya some intense déjà vu, Saber was forced back a fair distance.
But before she could launch another assault on Rin, her eyes caught sight of something—an enormous magic array, made up of six overlapping circles.
It turned out Rin's melee had only been a distraction. The real finishing move had been prepared during that time by Luvia—a massive magic formula of terrifying scale.
"I don't care if you're a mist of mana, or whatever ridiculous nonsense you're made of! Bottom line—GET LOST!"
"Blow away, you hear me?! Die—!!"
With a pair of lines worthy of an archvillain, Rin and Luvia poured their magic into the array, turning it into pure artillery.
"Full volley—!!!" ×2
As the saying goes—no matter how high your martial arts skill, one good brick to the head will drop you.
If my attack is strong enough, all your flashy little tricks mean nothing.
Only… the "brick" the two girls had picked this time was colossal—so big, in fact, that even a wide-angle lens couldn't capture it all.
And the "brick" was devastating—so devastating that entire streets warped from the blast, riverbanks twisting under the sheer force of the explosion.
Unfortunately, man proposes, but heaven disposes.
No matter how mighty a brick, if it hits a steel wall, the result is the same.
Rin and Luvia's strike was indeed powerful—so powerful that even in the mainline Fate series, it would rank among the top-tier light blasts.
But their opponent was Saber—this Saber, with magic resistance off the charts. And so, the grand, dazzling attack failed to bring down the black-clad swordswoman.
"We…"
Standing in the ruined riverbed, Illya murmured in a daze.
"…just what kind of monster are we fighting against?"
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