Owen and company were already inside the Dolby Theatre. Their seats weren't front row, but they were far from bad.
They were in row eight of the main orchestra.
Above them stretched the upper level, an area usually reserved for general guests: Academy members, industry people without direct nominations, family members, additional guests, and some corporate invitees. They were still part of the event, of course, but the difference with the lower orchestra was clear.
They were downstairs.
A comfortable spot, with a very good view of the stage and, more importantly, close enough for the cameras to reach them easily when focusing on nominees. It wasn't the absolute center, but it wasn't the outskirts either. They were in that middle ground where you were still visible.
As they settled in, Owen let his gaze wander calmly across the venue, observing how everyone else was arranged.
It didn't take long for him to notice.
The teams from the other short films were seated a few rows further back, all together. Not too far, but enough to make the difference noticeable.
They, on the other hand, were seated among producers and some recognizable actors, not A-list stars, but familiar faces and industry people.
Matt noticed it too, leaning slightly toward him, "We're better placed than I thought," he murmured.
Owen gave a small nod, not taking his eyes off the stage, "Yeah."
He leaned back slightly in his seat, still facing forward. 'Who would've thought having a relationship with A24 would be good for something like this,' he thought.
To Owen's left was Matt; to his right, Tyler, followed by Eric and then Sophie.
Finally, the ceremony began.
The theater lights dimmed gradually, leaving the stage as the only fully illuminated point. The murmur of the audience faded little by little, replaced by anticipation.
A clear, steady voice echoed through the speakers.
"Ladies and gentlemen… your host for tonight… Jimmy Kimmel."
The theater erupted into applause.
From above, a figure began descending slowly with what appeared to be a parachute. It wasn't real, of course, you could see the harness and the mechanics behind it, a clear nod to Top Gun: Maverick.
Jimmy touched down smoothly, adjusting himself slightly as the applause continued.
"Thank you, thank you…" he said, raising a hand in greeting as he walked toward center stage.
The applause softened slightly as he continued.
"Congratulations to all of you, and welcome to the 95th Academy Awards."
The applause swelled again, now mixed with whistles and cheers, not overwhelming, but noticeable.
Jimmy let the moment breathe for a few seconds, scanning the audience with a faint smile.
"I know being here tonight is a dream come true for most of the people in this room," he said finally. "Thank you for inviting me to be part of this year, especially when the world has finally gone back out to see the movies you all worked so hard to make. And the way they're meant to be seen in a theater."
The audience responded with another, stronger round of applause.
Jimmy paused, letting it settle. Cameras began moving, capturing different faces in the crowd, actors, directors, producers…
At that moment, Matt noticed one of the cameras moving closer and pointing in their direction. He gave Owen a subtle nudge, just enough to get his attention.
"Look," he murmured, barely moving his lips.
Owen, still clapping, turned his head slightly, glancing at the camera out of the corner of his eye.
On stage, Jimmy continued his monologue smoothly, chaining jokes together. Some landed better than others, but all kept the audience engaged.
"I also want to congratulate a longtime collaborator of Steven's… the great John Williams," he said, gesturing toward the audience.
The cameras quickly found John Williams, and the theater erupted in applause.
Rightfully so.
Williams wasn't just another composer. For many, he was one of the pillars of film music. Star Wars, Indiana Jones, E.T., Jurassic Park… names that practically defined entire generations.
"He's now the oldest nominee in Oscar history," Jimmy continued over the applause. "And he looks great. John turned 91 last month and is still composing, if you know what I mean."
Laughter spread across the room.
Jimmy went on without missing a beat, "By the way, only Walt Disney has been nominated for more Oscars than John Williams. Walt has 59 nominations, and John, with this one, reaches 53."
The audience applauded again.
Jimmy nodded, as if the number spoke for itself, then added with a half-smile, "Fifty-three nominations and he's won five. Which, honestly, isn't that impressive. But good luck tonight."
The laughter returned, louder this time.
"That was a good one," Matt murmured with a short laugh.
Owen nodded, a faint smile on his face.
It was, and it had some truth to it, though not entirely.
Fifty-three nominations and only five wins might seem like a low percentage, but in reality, it wasn't. At that level, over so many years, losing more than winning was normal. Even someone like Walt Disney, with 59 nominations, had won 22, still less than half.
"Switching gears," Kimmel said, clasping his hands together as if closing that segment and moving on, "this year was great for movies. The business is booming."
"I know people like to debate now what's better, movies or television, but here's the thing," he added, pausing briefly.
"No matter how good a TV show is, there are things movies can do that television simply can't."
He looked straight ahead, hands casually in his pockets, "For example a TV show can't lose a hundred million dollars."
The hit landed clean.
The reaction was immediate, everyone understood exactly what he was referring to.
Kimmel turned his head slightly to the side, as if looking for someone in particular in the audience.
"Is the Babylon crew here?"
The reaction was different this time. It wasn't clean laughter.
It was more of a mix of sounds: some laughs, yes, but also a collective murmur, almost scandalized, the kind that moves through the room when a joke hits a little too close.
Owen was among the part of the audience that laughed openly, finding it a good joke.
"That hurt," Eric murmured, amused as well.
Babylon had been one of the most talked-about cases of the past year, but not for the reasons the studio would have wanted. Officially, its budget was around eighty million dollars, though within the industry it was known, or at least suspected, that, with reshoots and adjustments, the real number had surpassed one hundred million. And if you added marketing, the total easily climbed to one hundred sixty, even one hundred seventy million.
The box office, on the other hand, had been poor, painfully so. Barely sixty-three million worldwide.
A massive financial failure, and not just that. It hadn't held up critically or with general audiences either. Despite having a cast of superstars like Brad Pitt, Margot Robbie, and Tobey Maguire, the reception had been, at best, divided.
On stage, Kimmel raised his hands in an innocent gesture.
"I was just asking if they were here," he said, shrugging. "I was welcoming them, that's all."
"But hey…" he added suddenly, shifting tone as if he'd found his next point, "This year we also had the opposite in movies."
He took a second.
"A film that cost… what? Twenty thousand dollars? And ended up breaking return-on-investment records, grossing over one hundred forty million worldwide."
The audience began reacting, some already knowing where he was going.
"Yes, I'm talking about Paranormal Activity, whose creator is here tonight as a nominee for one of his short films."
He pointed toward the audience.
"Owen Ashford."
The camera didn't take long to find him.
In row eight, Owen raised his hand slightly in greeting, wearing a measured smile, not overplaying the moment. The applause came immediately, stronger than you'd expect for someone in his category.
Around him, Matt and the others exchanged a quick look, as if they hadn't expected that mention of their friend, but it wasn't completely out of nowhere.
The camera returned to Kimmel.
"You should give the Babylon guys a class," he added with a crooked smile. "A little crash course on how to make a profitable movie."
Laughter erupted again.
"Then you sold the IP, right?" Kimmel continued, leaning forward slightly with that perfectly crafted tone of fake curiosity. "How much was it? Twenty million? Thirty? Come on, we're among friends."
He shook his head, as if it still didn't quite add up.
"This kid became a millionaire in… what? A year?" he added, bringing a hand to his face. "I'm pretty sure he's got more than half my net worth right now."
He paused, looking at the audience with a mix of amusement and disbelief.
"How did you do that?"
In his seat, Owen laughed along with everyone else, drawing a few glances around him.
Kimmel wasn't done yet.
"Well, although I also read somewhere that you've already spent like twenty million on your next two movies," he said, raising an eyebrow. "So maybe you don't have that much anymore."
Kimmel gestured slightly toward Owen's section.
"Be careful with that, alright?" he added in an almost paternal tone, though clearly joking. "Let's hope we're not talking about you next year when we're making jokes about massive losses."
The reaction was more restrained this time, still laughter, but also murmurs. It wasn't normal to have two personal projects premiering in the same year. One already in post-production and another that had just finished casting, with no one really knowing how far along it already was.
Then he softened the tone.
"But seriously good luck tonight," he said, shifting gears. "Paperman, I have to say, was a short film that really made me feel something."
He nodded slightly, as if admitting it with a hint of surprise.
"And that doesn't happen to me very often."
He paused briefly, then finished, looking out at the audience with a half-smile.
"But hey, it was the only short film I watched."
"I knew it!" Tyler said with a grin, applauding along with everyone else in the theater.
"See? We're not the only ones, man," Eric said, looking at Matt, who was smiling and applauding a bit more calmly.
"Shut up, it's a funny monologue, someone must've seen more than just ours…" Matt replied.
Jimmy Kimmel's opening was nearing its end with a couple more jokes, maintaining that balance between light humor and sharper jabs.
He briefly went back to what had happened the previous year, indirectly mentioning Will Smith, and clarified in a casual tone that if anyone that night decided to get up with bad intentions, the Academy might not do anything, but before getting to him, they'd have to get through a few obstacles.
He pointed around with his hand, one by one, drawing reactions from the audience. First toward the section where Michael B. Jordan was seated, referencing Adonis Creed, which triggered immediate applause. Then he turned to Pedro Pascal, making a Mandalorian reference.
He continued with Andrew Garfield, mentioning him as Spider-Man, which got some laughs from the crowd. Finally, he looked toward Steven Spielberg, closing the sequence with a reference to The Fabelmans.
Kimmel smiled, satisfied with the rhythm he had built, and wrapped it up with one last warning.
"And by the way… if your speeches go over time, we're not just going to play music. This year, we've got dancers. They'll come up on stage and dance you off."
The image alone was enough to trigger one last wave of laughter, and with that, the opening came to an end.
Finally, the ceremony truly began. The first category of the night was Best Animated Feature. From the side, the presenters appeared.
Emily Blunt and Dwayne Johnson.
She wore an elegant white dress, clean-lined and form-fitting, with a striking presence. The Rock wore a bright salmon-colored suit, perfectly tailored, paired with a black bow tie and a floral brooch that stood out even more under the stage lights.
"Damn, Emily Blunt is very hot," Tyler murmured.
"Yeah…" Eric replied quietly. "She looks really good."
On stage, they began presenting the nominees.
Images appeared on screen, accompanied by brief clips from each film.
Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio.
Marcel the Shell with Shoes On.
Puss in Boots: The Last Wish.
The Sea Beast.
Turning Red.
Each announcement was met with applause, some louder than others, depending on the recognition in the room.
Finally, Emily held the envelope. She opened it, read it, and paused briefly for suspense.
"And the Oscar goes to… Guillermo del Toro's Pinocchio."
The theater reacted instantly with strong applause, many rising to their feet.
Matt was the first to react, "Yes!" he said, clapping hard.
Eric nodded, also applauding, "It was incredible," he said. "Shame it didn't get a proper theatrical release."
"Yeah," Tyler added, still watching the stage. "It brought stop-motion back."
"Damn Netflix and their irrational hate of releasing their movies in theaters," Owen said with a slight smile, and the others laughed.
The ceremony continued without slowing down. Category after category, with different presenters taking the stage, keeping the pace steady. Some were more interesting than others, and it showed.
Owen, Matt, Tyler, and Eric celebrated certain results more enthusiastically, whispered comments, exchanged looks when they got a prediction right.
Sophie noticed.
Not just the enthusiasm, but the pattern. Every reaction had a reason.
Her eyes drifted briefly toward Tyler, who had a small notebook resting discreetly on his leg, writing something down after each category.
She frowned slightly, intrigued. 'They're way too into this…' she thought.
What she didn't know was the bet they had made just a few hours earlier. Every correct prediction added up, and between all of them, they had built a small pool that was already over three thousand dollars.
One of the major categories arrived: Best Supporting Actor. The winner was Ke Huy Quan for Everything Everywhere All at Once.
The reaction felt different, louder applause, cheers, even whistles. As if everyone genuinely felt happy that he had won.
When he stepped onto the stage, his voice broke almost immediately.
"Mom… I won an Oscar."
The theater responded with a standing ovation.
Matt was clapping too, but as he did, he started to notice something else.
Not just in that speech.
In several.
As the night went on, winners kept taking the stage, and over and over again, the same pattern repeated: breaking voices, teary eyes, trembling hands, words coming out in fragments, or staring at the trophy as if they couldn't quite believe it. Some cried openly, others held back tears, but all of them were clearly overwhelmed by the moment.
Matt turned his head and looked at Owen.
Would he react like that?
The answer came immediately: no.
He could picture Owen perfectly walking onto the stage, giving a brief thank-you, not dragging it out, and probably finishing his speech before the music even started. The complete opposite of the other winners.
And then he thought about himself.
Would he be any different?
He took a second.
No.
It wasn't that he was the same as Owen, he was more expressive, more enthusiastic in general, but in this particular moment, he didn't feel it that way either. What really drove him was something else: the process, and seeing how people reacted to it.
The award mattered, of course. Being here was a dream that had made him nervous, but if they won, it would feel more like a consequence of the work than the goal itself.
"Hey," Matt murmured.
Owen turned his head toward him, raising an eyebrow slightly, as if giving him the floor.
"Do you have a speech prepared in case we win?"
Owen looked at him for a second, unhurried, "No," he replied naturally. "I'll improvise, I guess."
There was no weight in his voice. No expectation. As if it were a minor detail.
Matt held his gaze for a moment longer, then looked back at the stage, a faint smile forming.
'Yeah… we're screwed if we win,' he thought.
But not in a literal sense. More because they'd probably be, by a wide margin, the least emotional winners of the entire night.
"Our moment's coming!" Tyler said excitedly, leaning forward slightly in his seat as the short film block began.
"And look who's presenting," Eric added immediately, grabbing his arm with a mix of excitement and contained nerves.
On stage, to applause, Pedro Pascal and Elizabeth Olsen appeared, walking naturally to center stage.
"Damn, now I want to win more than ever," Tyler murmured, swallowing. "The Scarlet Witch and the Mandalorian are going to shake my hand."
"And who knows, maybe a hug, especially from the Scarlet Witch," Eric added, not taking his eyes off the stage.
Sophie turned her head toward them with a teasing smile, "You guys sound like perverts."
Tyler let out a quiet laugh, "I'm just a man who wants a hug."
Eric nodded, completely serious.
Sophie shook her head, amused, while Owen simply listened to the exchange with a faint smile.
On stage, the first category of the block was Best Documentary Short.
The nominees appeared on screen with brief clips, and after a short pause, the winner was announced:
The Elephant Whisperers.
A respectful round of applause spread through the theater.
Tyler, Eric, and Owen all turned almost at the same time toward Matt, as if expecting some kind of comment or context about the film.
But Matt shrugged and shook his head, "I just know it's an Indian production and it's about an elephant or something…"
Matt hadn't seen it, which was unusual, considering he was the one who watched the most obscure films.
"Well, no one scored any points," Tyler murmured, quickly writing something in his small notebook. No one had bet on that one.
On stage, several people stepped up. The winner, held the statuette with both hands and began reading her speech, thanking a considerable number of people.
"…and finally, thank you to my mother," she added toward the end.
Owen frowned slightly, leaning a bit toward Matt.
"Why does everyone thank their moms specifically?"
Matt let out a small laugh, "Mom, family, and the Academy. It's like a checklist."
Owen nodded slightly, processing it, while the speech went on a little longer than expected.
It didn't take long for the music to come in. Soft at first, then more noticeable.
The clear signal to wrap it up.
The ceremony kept moving almost without pause, and the next category came up quickly.
Best Animated Short Film.
The nominees appeared on screen one by one, with their respective clips, and finally the winner was announced:
The Boy, the Mole, the Fox and the Horse.
Applause once again filled the theater as the team made their way to the stage.
"That's a long name…" Tyler murmured as he clapped, watching the winners take the microphone.
"The next nominees…" Elizabeth began, stepping forward smoothly as the murmur in the theater quieted slightly, "…are creators who use different visual styles and techniques to tell complete stories in under forty minutes."
Pedro nodded beside her, picking up naturally, "Stories that are short in length, but not in impact," he added. "Often, they're the boldest and most personal."
Elizabeth resumed, holding the still-sealed envelope, "Here are the nominees for Best Live Action Short Film."
The lights dimmed slightly again, and the screen behind them changed.
The first title appeared, accompanied by a clip.
"An Irish Goodbye. Tom Berkeley and Ross White."
A respectful round of applause spread through the room, not explosive, but solid. The short's team reacted with restrained smiles, hands clasped, visible tension.
The next.
"Ivalu. Anders Walter and Rebecca Pruzan."
Another clip, a completely different tone.
"Le Pupille. Alice Rohrwacher and Alfonso Cuarón."
Cuarón's name triggered a slight rise in reaction, stronger applause, a kind of automatic recognition.
"Night Ride. Eirik Tveiten and Gaute Lid Larssen."
A brief clip with a darker tone.
Then, a fraction of a second of silence. The screen changed once more.
"Paperman. Owen Ashford and Matt Rogers."
The clip appeared: black and white, 1960s, Owen in a suit, Sophie the same, and then the papers coming to life. The music, that identity that didn't need an introduction.
The reaction was immediate, and noticeably stronger. The applause rose a clear level, not just because of the nomination, but because everyone recognized the short. Easily over 80% of the room had seen it.
Tyler lightly hit Eric's leg.
"That was louder," he murmured, unable to hide his smile.
Eric nodded, glancing around, "Yeah, you can tell."
Even for someone not paying attention to all the details, the difference was obvious.
Attention shifted back to the stage.
Elizabeth held the envelope with both hands, taking that extra second of pause that seemed to stretch longer than necessary, as the entire theater held its breath.
"And the Oscar goes to…"
She opened it, her eyes dropping briefly to read. Pascal leaned slightly toward her, looking at it at the same time.
Both of them looked up almost in unison, with a clear smile, more pronounced than in the previous announcements.
"Paperman… Owen Ashford and Matt Rogers," Elizabeth said.
The theater reacted instantly. Strong applause, several people standing, and a different kind of energy that spread quickly through the room.
The camera immediately found them.
Owen was already adjusting his jacket as he stood up, unhurried, as if he had anticipated that exact moment. Matt, beside him, reacted a bit faster, turning toward him with a wide smile.
They exchanged a firm, brief handshake.
"Let's go!" Tyler said, still not fully believing it.
Eric nodded with a smile, giving Matt a pat on the shoulder.
Sophie stepped forward with a genuine smile and hugged Matt, Tyler, Eric, and Owen as well, more briefly, without overdoing it.
Without hesitation, they began heading toward the stage.
Owen and Matt led the way, side by side. Behind them, just a few steps back, Tyler, Eric, and Sophie followed, still processing all the attention now focused on them.
"Man, I'm nervous," Tyler murmured under his breath, looking at the stage that seemed to be getting closer too fast.
Eric let out a small laugh, "Relax, we're with those two," he said, tilting his head forward.
Tyler followed his gaze.
Matt was walking with energy, focused, clearly locked into the moment but still in control.
And Owen was just walking. With the same calm as always.
Tyler shook his head slightly, still smiling, "Yeah, I think we're good."
The applause followed them as they climbed the first steps to the stage.
Owen was the first to reach it.
He took the final steps without hurry and came face to face with Pedro Pascal, who was holding the statuette with a wide smile.
Owen extended his hand for a handshake, but Pedro didn't stop there. He pulled him in for a brief, firm hug, giving him a couple of pats on the back.
"Congratulations," he murmured warmly.
"Thanks," Owen replied, a bit surprised by the gesture but accepting it, returning the pats.
Then he turned slightly toward Elizabeth, giving a small nod in greeting. She smiled back at him, then smiled at Matt and handed him the statuette.
Behind them, Sophie, Tyler, and Eric stepped onto the stage as well, briefly greeting the presenters before positioning themselves a few steps back.
Owen stepped forward, positioning himself in front of the microphone.
The theater was still applauding. He didn't speak immediately. He stayed silent for a couple of seconds, letting the sound fade on its own.
"Thank you to everyone who watched Paperman and helped it get here," he said finally, beginning his speech.
Another round of applause, shorter this time.
"And thanks to my best friend," he added, turning his head slightly toward Matt. "For directing this."
Matt looked at him and nodded with a smile.
Owen continued, gesturing slightly behind him, "Also to Eric and Tyler, our go-to tech guys. They're much more reliable than they look."
Laughter came quickly, along with some applause.
Tyler raised a hand with a grin; Eric shook his head, "And to Sophie, her performance was incredible."
Sophie smiled, lowering her gaze for a moment.
The applause rose again, filling the stage once more. And as the sound began to settle naturally, Owen glanced at the watch on his wrist. His eyebrows lifted slightly, almost surprised.
"There's still plenty of time…"
The comment came out unfiltered, amplified through the microphone. The reaction was immediate, some laughter, murmurs, and people looking at him oddly. Most were struggling to say everything before the music cut them off and he seemed ready to wrap up already.
Owen turned his head slightly toward Matt.
"Your turn," he said, taking a small step to the side.
Matt stepped up to the microphone, still holding back a laugh. But as soon as he faced the theater, the lights, the cameras, the sheer number of people watching him, the feeling shifted. He scratched his head with his free hand, adjusting his grip on the Oscar with the other.
"I don't really know what to say…" he murmured.
The simple, honest line drew several laughs from the audience.
Matt let out a small exhale, still processing the moment.
And right then, Owen leaned slightly toward the microphone from the side, not intruding, more like a casual suggestion.
"You could thank the Academy and your mother."
The comment landed clean and everyone immediately understood it wasn't just a suggestion.
It was a direct, and very conscious, mockery of that pattern repeated throughout the whole night.
This time, the reaction was different. The laughter truly exploded.
Not like those that come out of politeness or inertia, but closer to the ones provoked by Kimmel's best jokes, even above them, precisely because no one had seen it coming.
In the front rows, several people leaned forward, some laughing openly, others shaking their heads, surprised.
A few meters away, Pascal turned his head toward Elizabeth, "He could do a monologue for the next Oscars."
Elizabeth let out a soft laugh, "Yeah, Jimmy has competition."
It wasn't the kind of intervention expected from a winner. It felt more like someone who, for a moment, had stepped into the rhythm of the show and made it his own.
Matt laughed and the tension he had faded, "It's true, thanks to my mom for always supporting me and also to my dad, I don't want to cause problems at home."
The laughter spread again.
When the ambient sound dropped, Matt took another breath and continued, this time with a slightly more personal tone.
"You know? Last year we watched the ceremony with the same crew," he said, briefly pointing toward Owen and the others behind.
"We were in a place, watching the ceremony like anyone else. And then I stayed with this guy," he added, pointing at Owen, "having some beers, talking about random stuff at two or three in the morning. And at one point he told me we were going to be here," he said, shaking his head.
"He didn't say when, but that we would be here. I didn't take it very seriously at the time… but guess what?" he said, lifting the statuette.
"A year passed, we're here and not only that, we won," Matt said, answering his own question.
"Thanks to everyone who made this possible," he concluded, and with that he took a step back.
The applause came back stronger.
For a few seconds, the sound filled the theater and then it began to drop.
But something didn't fit. Matt looked up, waiting for the usual cue.
Nothing.
He frowned, confused. "Where's the music?" he asked, looking around.
Owen took a step forward, moving back toward the microphone, "Our speeches are very short, man. We still have thirty-five seconds."
The comment once again generated immediate reactions.
Owen turned his head slightly back. He looked at Sophie, then at Tyler and Eric.
"Anyone want to say something?"
The three of them shook their heads almost at the same time.
Tyler raised both hands, as if completely dismissing the idea. Eric made a quick gesture with his head. Not a chance. Sophie the same.
Owen nodded slightly, returned to the microphone and looked forward, "Well…" he said, taking a second.
"I also thank the Academy and my mother," he said with an irony so obvious it didn't even need to be emphasized.
But Owen didn't wait for the audience's reaction and kept speaking, "And also to Walter, our editor on Paperman. Those papers coming to life don't happen on their own. Unfortunately he couldn't come, but when we see him, we'll let him take a picture with the Oscar."
The laughter spread again, and right then the music started to rise.
'Finally,' Sophie thought, sighing as she saw that Owen and Matt wouldn't have more time to throw in another joke that could end either very well or very badly.
Owen lifted his gaze toward the top of the theater, listening to the music, and then looked around with a slightly confused expression.
"Where are the dancers?" he said, remembering Kimmel's opening joke.
The final laugh was immediate.
With that, Owen took a step back with Matt and the rest, and they began leaving the stage while the music kept marking the end.
The applause followed them on the way out.
To the side, Pedro leaned slightly toward Elizabeth, not taking his eyes off them as they walked away.
"That definitely wasn't a normal speech," he murmured.
Elizabeth shook her head softly, with a faint smile that hadn't faded yet, "Yes, it was the only one that really felt different."
Pedro nodded, "Yeah. I didn't see anyone that comfortable up there."
And that was despite the fact that throughout the night, people with decades of experience had gone up there, established names in the industry, people who had already been on that stage more than once. And yet, a twenty-one-year-old, in his first nomination and winning on top of that, had moved as if there was nothing extraordinary about it.
On stage, the ceremony continued. New categories, new winners, and more speeches. The rhythm held until the end, moving forward with the same structure it had all night.
Eventually, it reached its conclusion.
The final award was presented, the last applause filled the theater, and the lights began to shift, marking the end of the 95th Academy Awards.
But the night didn't end there. The post-Oscars party was already underway. And while that was happening, something else started to circulate online. Owen's name.
Not in isolation. First, the red carpet.
His interview with ABC.
The confidence with which he spoke about Good Will Hunting, Cannes, awards… something that, in another context, might have sounded arrogant, but now, after what had just happened, started to be read differently.
He said he was confident he would win Paperman, and he did. That simple fact changed the way everything before was interpreted.
Then came the speech. Or, more precisely, what hadn't been a traditional speech. Clips started multiplying: the comment about time, the Academy and mother joke, the natural way he moved on stage, as if he weren't fulfilling a dream but simply occupying a place that felt natural.
There were no tears, no breaking voice, no endless thank-yous. And yet, or perhaps precisely because of that, it was being discussed at the same level as the most emotional moments of the night, alongside names like Brendan Fraser, Michelle Yeoh, and Ke Huy Quan.
But what ultimately cemented his name in the conversation was the fact that began to circulate shortly after, first on smaller accounts, then in bigger media outlets, until it became something repeated almost everywhere. Owen and Matt, at twenty-one, hadn't just won.
They had broken a record that had stood untouched for more than half a century. They became the youngest winners in the history of the category, surpassing the 1970 case of John Longenecker, who had won as a producer at twenty-three.
Without a doubt, that category, which normally went almost unnoticed among the major ones, had become, that night, one of the most talked-about and visible in recent years. For once, the short film didn't stay in the background.
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