If there is one lesson I’ve learned from failure and success, it’s this. I am not the outcome. I am never the result. I am only the effort.
Kamal Ravikant
The American actor and filmmaker Bradley Cooper has been chasing the elusive Oscar for years. With twelve nominations under his belt, he’s come close to grasping the coveted golden statue, only to watch it slip through his fingers time and time again.
Each near-miss is a painful reminder of Hollywood’s fickle nature. From his first nomination for Best Actor in “Silver Linings Playbook” to his most recent nod for Best Picture in “A Star Is Born,” Bradley has consistently delivered performances that have earned him critical acclaim and industry recognition. Yet, the ultimate prize has remained just out of reach.
But then came “Maestro” – the project Bradley believed would finally bring him the Oscar glory he desperately craved. He threw himself into Leonard Bernstein’s role with a fervour bordering on obsession. He spent months researching the legendary composer’s life, poring over biographies and studying video footage to capture every nuance of his mannerisms and speech patterns.
Bradley even went so far as to wear a prosthetic nose to more closely resemble Bernstein, a decision that sparked controversy and accusations of insensitivity. But he was undeterred, believing that the physical transformation was necessary to embody the character fully.
On set, Bradley was a man possessed. He worked tirelessly, often spending hours in the makeup chair before a single frame was shot. He pushed himself to the brink of exhaustion, smoking cigarettes until his lungs ached and his voice grew raspy, all in the name of authenticity.
When the film wrapped, Bradley was confident that he had delivered the performance of a lifetime. He waited with bated breath for the Oscar nominations to be announced, certain that this would be his year.
But when the nominees were revealed, “Maestro” was met with a mix of praise and disappointment. The film garnered recognition in several categories, but Bradley’s name was conspicuously absent from the Best Actor list. Once again, he found himself on the outside looking in, watching as his peers celebrated their victories.
Now, as he paces the stage of the Netflix theatre, Bradley’s frustration and desperation are palpable. He pleads with the executives, his voice raw with emotion, “What do I have to do to win an Oscar? Who do I have to fuck? Who has to fuck me? Give me the list.”
The silence that follows is deafening, broken only by the crackle of the overhead speakers. Reed Hastings, the co-founder of Netflix, has his voice echoing through the theatre, a disembodied presence that seems to fill the room.
“Bradley, Hollywood doesn’t care about an actor’s hardships and sacrifices,” Reed says, his tone almost fatherly. “People don’t want to see how the magic is done. They just want to see the magic.”
Bradley listens, his head bowed, a single tear rolling down his cheek. He’s a man who has consistently come so close to victory, only to watch it slip through his fingers like sand.
“Do you know what all that disappointment will do for you, Bradley?”
The question lingers, the theatre silent save for the hum of the air conditioning. Bradley looks up, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, waiting for the answer.
Reed’s voice cuts through the stillness.
“It will make winning your first Oscar all the sweeter.”