Chapter 73: A Pulitzer?
The hotel ballroom was a blur of clinking glasses and polite conversation. Wayne, under the guidance of Jeff Robinov, moved through the crowd, shaking hands and raising toasts with practiced ease.
If there was anyone in the room who truly understood film critics, especially in this era—it was Wayne. He knew exactly what these people were. Despite the polished image they presented to the public, they were, at their core, leeches feeding off the film industry.
This was a publicity banquet orchestrated by Warner Bros. Everyone in the room—be it the studio or the critics—understood the unspoken rules. If you accepted the studio's hospitality, then you'd better control your pen. No reckless reviews in tomorrow's columns.
Wayne knew all too well: this was the golden age for film critics. Once the internet fully took hold and moviegoers gained direct access to information, the critics' influence would rapidly shrink—limited mostly to the aging cinephile crowd. They'd no longer sway the choices of the broader audience.
"Wayne, this is Mr. Roger Ebert, Pulitzer Prize winner and a renowned film critic," Jeff said, leading him toward a balding, bespectacled man.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Ebert. I'm Wayne Garfield," Wayne said as he extended his hand. Then he turned to the man beside him.
"Hi, I'm Kenneth Turan," the other man introduced himself before Jeff could.
"Pleasure," Wayne replied with a nod.
Ebert raised his champagne flute and eyed the young director carefully. "Director Garfield—"
"Please, call me Wayne, Mr. Ebert."
"Well then, Wayne," Ebert leaned against a nearby table, his voice taking on a mentor-like tone, "I've met many talented directors, but you—you're something else. And not just because of your age. It's your style."
His gaze was firm as he went on. "In just two films, you've shown a distinct command of camera work, story structure, and an almost cruel insight into human nature. But…"
Ebert's tone turned regretful.
"…you rely far too much on graphic violence. You should channel that creativity into other aspects of your storytelling. Get Out had so much promise in its buildup, but you squandered the ending with bloodshed instead of digging into your characters' emotional depth."
As Ebert continued to lecture him like a well-meaning professor, Wayne's expression darkened. He'd heard enough.
Remove those cathartic, visceral sequences and dive deeper into emotional trauma? What would Get Out become then? A long, bleak, depressing film that bored people to sleep—a glorified art-house snoozefest?
Screw that. How was that any different from those self-important art films that nobody actually liked?
In that moment, Wayne realized this man was either truly trying to "help" him win awards—or setting a trap to derail his momentum.
"If you follow my advice," Ebert said solemnly, "your films will be brimming with artistic sophistication!"
Wayne had reached his limit. He and this critic were clearly not on the same wavelength.
"Mr. Ebert, I'm still figuring out my voice as a director. No one can say for sure how my future films will turn out—" he began cautiously, but Ebert interrupted him yet again.
"Trust me, Wayne! If you do as I say, you'll earn immense critical acclaim!"
Critical acclaim? That's just another way of saying "approval from critics like you."
Everyone in the industry knew: these so-called professional critics existed completely outside the market. Whenever they hadn't been bought off by a studio, their reviews often went against general audience opinion.
That's how they distinguished themselves—by pretending to have "refined taste." Wayne understood the game. He wanted to cultivate his own directing style, yes. He was working on it every day. But filmmaking without a connection to mass audiences—what was the point?
These critics loved to posture like they were educators, guiding the masses to the "right" films. But that arrogance could only last so long.
Once the internet took over, regular moviegoers would quickly start to question: Why should a few hundred critics decide what millions of people across North America should watch?
Audiences loved big-budget commercial films—so critics opposed them. Audiences found slow, meandering indie films unbearable—so critics labeled them masterpieces of high art.
Let's be honest: in the eyes of these critics, anything the masses loved was lowbrow. Only their rare, niche favorites could be considered true "cinema."
Yet even now, with six major studios still dominating Hollywood, none of them dared to fund the kind of "artistic" films critics loved—unless it was a deliberate awards push. Everything else was aimed squarely at the general public.
Take tonight, for example. Warner Bros. invited Roger Ebert and the others here for a reason. Regardless of what Get Out actually turned out to be, tomorrow's columns would be full of glowing praise.
Because at the end of the day… they'd been paid to smile.
So what exactly are these people? Just a bunch of smooth-talking freeloaders—critics who pretend to love art while feeding off the film industry like parasites.
Or, to borrow a phrase from across the Pacific: they want to act like whores and still build themselves a chastity shrine.
Wayne exchanged a few perfunctory words with the Pulitzer Prize-winning critic, then turned to leave. He was worried that if he stayed, he might lose his temper and say something he'd regret.
"Director Garfield!"
It was Kenneth Turan, who had been quietly observing the conversation nearby. "Mind joining me for a quick chat over there?"
"Of course."
Kenneth had been watching Wayne closely the entire time. When he noticed the young director's face darkening in response to Roger Ebert's "guidance," he nearly laughed out loud. Unlike Ebert, Turan's style—both personally and professionally—was quite different. Sometimes, even diametrically opposed.
Sure, Ebert was more famous, won a Pulitzer, and had greater mainstream influence.
But Turan had a distinct edge of his own: he was a born-and-raised Jewish Angeleno. And that gave him an inherent sense of kinship with Wayne.
"Director Garfield, don't abandon your style," Turan said sincerely as they sat down. "Even if the most famous critic disagrees with you, that doesn't mean he's right. After all, we critics haven't exactly produced any legendary directors, have we? I'd wager you understand audiences far better than we ever could."
Wayne blinked, momentarily stunned. He had expected all critics to be like Ebert—preachy and disconnected from reality.
"Mr. Turan, to be fair, Ebert did make a few good points," Wayne replied, his tone lightly sarcastic. "Following his advice might've brought me a little closer to that golden statuette…"
Turan chuckled. "Don't worry, Wayne. With your style, winning awards is actually easier than for directors who rely purely on visual spectacle."
He took a sip of his drink, leaned in closer, and lowered his voice.
"You're still young. Be patient. Remember your heritage—what's meant for you will come in time."
Then he looked up, locking eyes with Wayne.
"Just be patient."
Wayne understood what he was getting at. As a Jewish director, he knew exactly how much weight that carried in Hollywood.
From top executives to studio heads, producers, and even media professionals—the Jewish community formed the backbone of the American film industry. The Academy's voting members? A significant portion of them were also Jewish elders with tremendous sway.
So, just like Turan said—there was no rush. Even if he had to wait and age into it, that little gold man would eventually be his.
"Thank you, Kenneth," Wayne said sincerely, raising his glass for a toast. He could tell this was someone who genuinely appreciated his work.
Kenneth smiled, recognizing the shift in tone.
"Wayne, your style is unique. Sure, there have been films with similar tones before—but never a director like you.
Both of your films focus on the darkest corners of human nature. Then, instead of lingering in that darkness, you give audiences a cathartic outlet through bold, violent releases.
You know, there are horror and thriller films out there with far more gore than yours, but they don't carry the same emotional weight. Your approach has substance. And that's rare.
What you're building—it's something new. A voice that can both convey deeper meaning and connect with mainstream audiences. That's not something we see every day."
Wayne felt a rare sense of recognition—like someone had finally seen through the layers of effort he'd been carefully building.
Since his arrival in this world, he'd been planning his career in detail. Only this critic, whether by instinct or insight, had picked up on it.
Kenneth was right—he wasn't picking scripts at random. He had watched countless dark films in his previous life, and among all of them, only a few had managed to be both profound and commercially successful. But those were the work of different directors, each from different backgrounds.
Wayne wanted to carve out a new path.
In a Hollywood dominated by assembly-line filmmaking, he wanted to be the anomaly—the exception to the rule.
It was a calculated decision, years in the making. After all, who could truly compete in the world of pure commercial cinema?
James Cameron, the truck driver turned blockbuster king, had rewritten the game.
Before him, George Lucas had launched the blockbuster age.
Then there was Spielberg, the master of all genres.
And don't forget Michael Bay, who made even robots explode with testosterone.
As for gangster films? They already had legends like Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese.
Every genre had its titan.
But Wayne—Wayne Garfield—was determined to walk a path no director had fully conquered before.
And with his next project, he would finally unveil his carefully crafted style to all of North America—and the world.
"Thanks again, Kenneth. I'll keep doing what I'm doing. I believe the audience will understand my vision."