One by one, the technical and artistic awards were handed out, each met with polite applause from the audience.
It was the usual warm-up—the quieter part of the ceremony before the real stakes came into play.
Then, the second half began.
"Next, the five nominees for the 80th Academy Award for Best Original Screenplay are…"
On the massive stage screen, the montage started rolling.
Each clip carried the essence of its film in just a few seconds.
First was JUNO.
The scene showed Juno telling her best friend Leah about the pregnancy, quipping, "I'm a suicide virgin. I'm just pregnant… with like, a furniture baby."
The audience chuckled—it was the kind of sharp, offbeat humor that had made the film a cultural talking point.
Next came LARS AND THE REAL GIR, with Lars awkwardly introducing Bianca—his life-sized doll—to his brother. "She's Danish… and she's not a prostitute."
The delivery was so earnest that it landed somewhere between absurd comedy and gentle heartbreak.
MICHAEL CLAYTON followed, its clip cutting to Arthur's breakdown—Tom Wilkinson's voice raw and trembling as he shouted into a voicemail: "I am Shiva, the god of death! I am covered in blood and I'm laughing!"
It was intense, visceral, and unapologetically dramatic.
Then RATATOUILLE lit up the screen, Anton Ego's final review scene. "Not everyone can become a great artist… but a great artist can come from anywhere."
Even in animation, the moment carried a quiet, profound weight.
Finally came GET OUT. Chris sat across from Missy Armitage, her spoon gently clinking against the teacup. "Now… sink into the floor."
His eyes glazed over as he fell into the Sunken Place, the unsettling dread pulling the room into silence.
Up on stage, Owen Wilson and Jason Reitman—this category presenters—were still cracking jokes, trying to keep the nominees and the audience relaxed before reading the winner.
But Jihoon barely heard them.
In his mind, scenes from each nominated film replayed like a reel on loop. He knew, from his previous life, that JUNO had taken home the award that year. But this time, he felt the tide could be different.
Still, he couldn't stop himself from weighing the two films against each other.
The Academy Awards—especially with their global reach—were never decided in a vacuum.
Like most major film festivals and ceremonies, they were as much about politics, personal preferences, and public sentiment as they were about artistic merit.
Each of these forces carried its own weight, sometimes tipping the scales in unexpected directions.
For some directors, winning might simply mean adding another trophy to a crowded shelf.
But for others—and often for the countries they represented—an award could carry a deeper message, one that resonated beyond the film industry.
Personal opinions aside, Jihoon had to admit why JUNO had struck such a powerful chord.
It wasn't just the quirky humor or the sharp, whip-smart dialogue.
The film took sensitive subjects—teen pregnancy, abortion, adoption—and presented them with warmth and sincerity.
It didn't preach. It simply told a story, allowing audiences to feel and reflect.
In doing so, it managed to capture a very particular cultural moment, one that spoke to millennial restlessness and a yearning for something real.
And then, there was the Cinderella factor.
Diablo Cody real name is Brook Busey Hunt—wasn't the kind of person Hollywood typically embraced from the start.
She began as an advertising copywriter in Chicago, then walked away from her corporate job.
Out of both curiosity and financial necessity, she worked as a stripper, all the while blogging her life with an unfiltered, witty voice.
That's right! She was a stripper before turning to be a Hollywood screenwriter.
And her experinces eventually caught the attention of the right people, and a new path opened before her.
Hollywood adored stories like hers—outsiders breaking through, turning unconventional beginnings into triumph.
The Academy did too.
To many, especially Americans, Cody's journey was more than a career milestone; it was the embodiment of the underdog spirit they adored.
A former outsider who defied the odds, she turned her unconventional path into a Hollywood triumph. It was the American Dream itself, bound in the pages of a script and lit up on the silver screen.
But that didn't mean Jihoon's GET OUT didn't stand a chance.
Looking purely at the story, the film had something no other nominee in the category could claim—genre innovation.
A horror film being nominated for an Oscar was already unconventional.
But GET OUT wasn't just horror for the sake of scares.
It blended satire with psychological terror, creating something that could have broken the mold early on.
The way it wove in social commentary—especially its unflinching look at liberal racism—gave it a weight and relevance that felt almost inevitable in the cultural climate.
And the timing couldn't have been more explosive.
It was February 2008, and in that same month the year before, in Springfield, Illinois, a political moment was unfolding that would echo across the nation.
A name should already come to mind—Barack Obama.
On February 10, 2007, Obama had announced his candidacy for the US presidency, standing on the steps of the Old State Capitol.
At the same place where Abraham Lincoln had once delivered his historic "House Divided" speech in 1858.
Lincoln's words, "A house divided against itself cannot stand," had been a moral foundation in America's fight against racial injustice.
And now, more than decades later, Obama's presence there signaled the possibility of a new chapter, one where African Americans could finally see a path to the highest office in the land.
Jihoon knew—long before anyone else—that Obama would win.
And that gave GET OUT an edge over JUNO that went beyond pure artistry.
The film's themes of race, identity, and social tension were not just timely; they were politically resonant.
In a year when the first Black American president was running for office, GET OUT's message would align perfectly with the cultural conversation.
Hollywood, with its long-standing ties to the Democratic Party, had always leaned toward politically progressive stories, and the industry's support for Democratic candidates was no secret.
When celebrities endorsed politicians, it wasn't just symbolic—it was part of Hollywood's identity.
Jihoon's film, in that sense, was tailor-made for the moment.
It was what politicians and the media of the future would call "politically correct," but in 2008, it simply meant relevant.
With so many points in his favor, Jihoon struggled to see how he could lose.
As the big screen behind the stage replayed key moments from all five nominated films, the tension in the theater rose.
One by one, the clips ended. The spotlight shifted back to the presenters.
The envelope was opened. The rich, gold paper caught the stage lights, reflecting a cold, metallic gleam.
Jihoon's attention snapped back to the stage. Even though he felt confident, he still braced himself because until the result was announced, anything could happen.
Beside him, Jim sat frozen, head tilted forward, eyes locked on the presenters. Somehow, he looked even more tense than Jihoon—the man whose fate was about to be decided.
"Let's congratulate the Best Original Screenplay winner—Get Out, Jihoon Lee!"
Boom.
The sound of applause and cheers rushed over him like a wave.