Zenith of Desire: The Hollywood Incubus

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”This has been an extraordinary year for everyone involved with Shakespeare in Love,” he began.

The giant screens projected his face across the auditorium.

”We believed in this film from the very beginning. We believed audiences would embrace it, and we believed it represented the very best of what cinema can be.”

As he continued speaking, many in the audience listened politely.

Others did not.

At one table, supporters of *Saving Private Ryan* maintained diplomatic smiles while applauding at appropriate intervals.

At another, members of *Thin Red Line* appeared more interested in the exits than the speech.

The disappointment of defeat still lingered.

And for some, watching Harvey celebrate so publicly only amplified it.

Yet regardless of personal feelings, one fact remained undeniable.

Tonight belonged to Miramax.

Tonight belonged to Shakespeare in Love.

And standing beneath the brightest spotlight in Hollywood, Harvey Weinstein looked determined to make sure everyone remembered it.

With thirteen nominations and seven Oscar victories, Shakespeare in Love completed one of the most successful Academy campaigns in modern Hollywood history.

Whether people loved the result or hated it, nobody could deny what had happened.

Harvey Weinstein had changed the game tonight.

For months, Miramax had waged an aggressive awards campaign unlike anything Hollywood had previously witnessed. Trade magazines, screenings, interviews, industry events, advertisements, private receptions—every avenue had been utilized in pursuit of Oscar gold. Years later, industry insiders would still debate the campaign and its impact on Academy voting as new rules were created to stop it.

And tonight, the strategy had paid off.

While Steven Spielberg walked away with Best Director, Miramax claimed the industry’s highest prize.

Even more impressively, between *Shakespeare in Love* and *The Sixth Sense*, Harvey’s banner had dominated both the box office and the awards season from beginning to end.

If Hollywood had a king that year, it was Harvey.

His films had generated well over a billion dollars worldwide. The Sixth Sense alone had become a global phenomenon, earning more than $800 million and rewriting the rules of what a psychological horror film could achieve. Meanwhile, the meticulously campaigned Shakespeare in Love added nearly another $300 million to his empire, transforming what many had expected to be a niche period romance into a major commercial success.

Everywhere Hollywood looked, Harvey’s fingerprints were there—on the biggest box-office sensation of the year, on the most talked-about awards contender, and on nearly every major conversation taking place in studio boardrooms across the city.

Now, as the trophies are already piled up, he wasn’t just having a successful year.

He was making history.

Few studio executives in Hollywood had ever enjoyed a season quite like this one.

Eventually, the ceremony drew to a close.

The orchestra played.

The final credits rolled.

The velvet curtains slowly descended.

Almost immediately, the industry’s attention shifted elsewhere.

Toward the Governor’s Ball.

Toward the after-parties.

Toward the flashing cameras and exclusive celebrations that would continue until sunrise.

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Backstage, Marvin found himself guided toward one final photo opportunity.

This one was reserved for the evening’s acting winners.

A few moments later, he found himself standing beside Roberto Benigni, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Judi Dench.

Four Oscar winners.

Four golden statuettes.

And enough star power to dominate tomorrow’s newspapers.

Photographers packed the room, many of them standing atop ladders to shoot over one another’s shoulders.

Camera flashes exploded without pause.

”Roberto, over here!”

”Gwyneth, center!”

”Judi, look left!”

”Marvin, hold the Oscar a little higher!”

The four winners shifted positions and smiled patiently as camera shutters rattled nonstop.

It was an image destined to circle the world by morning.

Among three celebrated adult performers stood a thirteen-year-old boy clutching an Academy Award.

The contrast was impossible to ignore.

History, after all, made for excellent photographs.

As hundreds of photographs captured what would become one of the defining images of the 71st Academy Awards.

Eventually the session concluded.

The photographers dispersed.

The reporters hurried away to file stories before their deadlines.

Clutching his Oscar beneath one arm, Marvin slipped back into the maze of backstage corridors.

Waiting for him there was Jeff.

Unlike the A-list stars seated near the front of the auditorium, his agent had spent the evening several sections farther back.

The moment he spotted Marvin carrying the statuette, however, his grin was impossible to miss.

Upon hearing Kim Basinger announce Marvin’s name, Jeff felt so overwhelmed with excitement he actually jumped up and danced in the aisle, drawing the envious, judging eyes of rival agents.

”Marvin,” Jeff asked, having finally composed himself, adjusting his tie. ”Harvey hosts a dinner party at Spago later. Elton John performs. Do you want me to arrange a car? We should make an appearance.”

”Forget it, Jeff,” Marvin replied, rolling his shoulders to work out a knot of tension. ”I’m tired. I want to go home and show this piece of metal to Mom and Dad.”

Jeff looked like he wanted to say something, but Marvin was already heading toward the exit.

The last thing he wanted tonight was another publicity photo.

Especially one involving Harvey Weinstein.

Marvin had absolutely no desire to end up in some iconic Oscar-night photograph standing shoulder-to-shoulder with that fat man while dozens of cameras flashed away. Harvey loved collecting those images—moments that tied him to stars, winners, and history itself.

The image would run in newspapers across the country by morning.

Marvin wanted no part of it.

He tightened his grip on the statuette and kept walking.

Some photographs aged well.

Others became liabilities.

Harvey loved images like that.

Marvin did not.

And if he could help it, this would not be one of them.

”Okay. I’ll take you back to the estate.”

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After suffering through a few more routine photos near the exit doors and answering three rapid-fire interviews for the morning news shows, Jeff politely ran interference. He declined dozens of invitations to various, exclusive after-parties, explaining smoothly to disappointed producers Marvin was still young, the hour stretched past midnight, and he needed rest.

It had already proven a grueling, historic night.

Despite his soul, his physical teenage body imposed certain societal limits on how he could celebrate. ’It represents a shame really,’ Marvin mused as he walked to the waiting car. He could have a great deal of fun at a Hollywood Oscar after-party, navigating the corners among the beautiful, ambitious women of the industry. If only his physical body reached at least sixteen, or better yet, eighteen, since the drinking age in the States applied strictly at these high-profile events.

The after-parties were only beginning to come alive. Hollywood’s stars, executives, producers, musicians, models, and socialites would spend the rest of the night celebrating behind closed doors.

Under different circumstances, Marvin might have found the spectacle fascinating.

Unfortunately, the world still saw a thirteen-year-old boy.

No matter how many awards he won, no matter how many bestsellers he wrote, certain doors remained closed to him.

Perhaps that was for the best.

”Sigh.”

Time to go back to the suburbs.

The two of them climbed into the Maybach and left the chaos of Los Angeles behind, heading for Marvin’s secluded home on Buren Street.

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Marvin pushed the front door of the San Marino estate, expecting to find the house quiet and his parents asleep, perhaps leaving a note on the kitchen counter.

Instead, the moment the door swung open, the foyer exploded.

*Pop! Pop!*

Small, indoor fireworks erupted from either side of the entryway.

”Surprise!”

Marvin stopped in his tracks, genuinely stunned.

His Uncle Frank and his father, Grant, stood by the staircase, holding empty party poppers.

”Why are you here, Frank?” Marvin asked, blinking as colorful paper rained down on his suit. ”I thought you stayed in New York.”

”To celebrate our little genius becoming the second youngest Oscar winner in human history, of course!” Frank yelled, grinning widely. He stepped forward and tossed a handful of loose confetti directly over Marvin’s styled hair.

”Well, I’m glad you made the flight,” Marvin said, a genuine, warm grin stretching across his face, shaking the paper from his shoulders.

”Come on, everyone! Let’s eat!” Frank announced, clapping his hands together.

”We fired up the grill out back. Grilled lobster tails and dry-aged Angus steak.”

Linda emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron thrown over her nice dress. She pulled Marvin into a tight hug. ”Marvin, honey, come cut the cake!”

”Mom, is there actually a cake at one in the morning?” Marvin asked, amused by the domestic chaos.

”Yes, your favorite—double dark chocolate!” she replied, beaming with pride, her eyes dropping to the gold statue in his hand.

”Wow. Awesome.”

”Miranda, come on over! The guest of honor arrives!” Linda called out toward the living room.

Miranda walked around the corner, holding a glass of sparkling cider. The young Australian model looked stunning in a simple, elegant silk dress. Her wide, striking eyes filled with undisguised admiration as she looked at Marvin.

”Congratulations, Marvin!” she said, her voice soft, clearly in awe of the gold Oscar he held casually by his side. ”I watched the speech on television. You looked amazing.”

”Thank you,” Marvin said, stepping into the kitchen. He set the Oscar down on the granite counter next to the fruit bowl. ”Are you staying in Los Angeles for a while?” he asked casually, reaching out and gently taking Miranda’s hand to guide her closer.

They stood together by the massive chocolate cake, the warm light of the kitchen highlighting her delicate features.

”Yes, I’m staying,” Miranda replied, a faint, pretty blush rising to her cheeks at the sudden, intimate contact of his hand holding hers. ”I signed with an agency here. I’ll work full-time as a model now.”

”Good. If you need any help navigating the agencies, or if anyone gives you trouble, just call me,” Marvin said with a reassuring, protective smile.

”Thank you, Marvin. I will.”

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The late night hours passed with loud laughter, the clinking of glasses, and genuine celebration. Frank dominated the conversation with loud stories of his own business, while Grant and Linda simply watched their son with quiet, overflowing pride. The burden of Hollywood politics faded away, replaced by the simple warmth of family.

Eventually, exhaustion claimed the house.

Frank, Kris, and Miranda all stayed at the estate that night in the guest wing. Miranda’s assigned room sat on the second floor, located right next door to Marvin’s master suite.

After taking a long, hot bath to wash away the stress of the day and the smell of airplane cabins, Miranda wrapped herself tightly in a plush, white towel. She stood in front of the bathroom mirror, holding a blow dryer, running her fingers through her long, damp auburn hair with golden highlights.

She turned off the dryer and walked out of the bathroom into the dimly lit guest bedroom.

She froze.

Marvin was lying casually across her unmade bed. He still wore his dress shirt and trousers, his suit jacket discarded somewhere. He propped himself up on his elbow, looking entirely relaxed, with the golden Oscar statuette resting on the mattress right beside him.

”Why are you in here?” Miranda asked, startled, clutching the towel tighter around her chest.

Marvin turned his head, flashing a slow grin. He waved casually at her. ”I heard the hair dryer stop. I thought you might have trouble sleeping in a strange bed. Do you want me to tell you a bedtime story?”

Miranda rolled her eyes, recovering her composure, clearly not amused by the teasing. ”I’m not a child anymore, Marvin. I’m fifteen.”

She walked over to the edge of the bed.

Ignoring him, she picked up the Oscar statuette and examined it closely, running a finger over the engraved nameplate.

”You just throw things other people consider priceless treasures everywhere, don’t you?”

she commented, noting how casually he treated the highest award in cinema.

Marvin smiled, shifting his weight. The playful mood of the Incubus gleamed mischievously in his eyes. ”To be completely honest, Miranda, it’s just a copper bump covered in cheap gold leaf. It carries my name, but that forms the extent of its value. I already put the one I won last year on a dusty shelf in the study. To me, this piece of metal doesn’t mean half as much as the manuscripts and the music scores I write. The paper holds the soul; this just holds the ego.”

”Then why did you bring it in here with you?” Miranda asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Marvin shrugged, his gaze dropping to watch the way the towel clung to her frame. ”I noticed you kept glancing at it while we ate the steak downstairs. I thought you might feel interested in the craftsmanship, so I brought it over for you to take a better, private look.”

Miranda’s face flushed a deep, sudden crimson. She realized, with a spike of embarrassment, she hadn’t actually stared at the golden statuette on the counter during dinner at all. She stared at Marvin standing beside it.

****

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