After a brief exchange, Catherine and Anson stopped, their gazes both turning to the stage.
As everything settled down, the smile on Anson's face gradually faded, and the nervousness he had momentarily forgotten surged back with overwhelming intensity, spreading through his chest like a storm and flowing through his veins until his fingertips became icy cold.
Cameron's introduction was just a prelude; the atmosphere in the room was the real culprit:
The rhythmic drumming, the focused cameras, the expectant gazes—all of it instantly created a tension that clung to the room. The suspense, moments before the reveal, gripped Anson's heart like a hurricane, pulling him in completely.
Was Anson not the least bit excited?
That would be a lie.
Of course, there was anticipation. Once you're nominated, it's hard not to imagine what could happen. After all, there were only five nominees, and each one had a chance.
If he won, it would be a breakthrough, an affirmation, and a validation—
In both his past and present lives, it seemed he had never proven his own worth.
In the past, he didn't understand; later, he couldn't. But now?
He loved acting, truly enjoyed performing, and had finally started savoring the joy and magic of acting. Whether he won or not, he wanted to keep performing. But if he could gain recognition through an award?
That would be even better!
The Emmy for Best Guest Actor in a Comedy Series wouldn't have to stand alone.
Perhaps, this was the opportunity?
Desire, like a seed, sprouted and grew, taking root in Anson's chest. It wasn't just nervousness anymore; it was excitement and joy filling him. His stomach churned as he instinctively held his breath, his eyes fixed on the stage—
Burning with anticipation.
Subconsciously, Anson clenched his fists and took a deep breath. But instead of trying to control his emotions, he allowed the tension and excitement to spread through his body. That intense sensation, so heated it left his fingertips cold, made Anson feel more alive than ever.
Clearly, he wasn't some saint indifferent to worldly desires.
His lips relaxed slightly as he rediscovered his smile.
On the big screen, clips of the five nominees were being shown:
Richard Gere, Chicago.
Nicolas Cage, Adaptation.
Hugh Grant, About a Boy.
Adam Sandler, Punch-Drunk Love.
One after another, it was hard to imagine a fresh twenty-year-old face appearing alongside such established industry giants.
Without a doubt, he was the fresh, standout face.
Anson Wood, Catch Me If You Can.
Unique and one-of-a-kind, like a refreshing breeze in a spring valley after the rain, the contrast between him and the other nominees was stark.
Jennifer Connelly's voice rang out—
"It's like in Las Vegas, where the house always wins."
The big screen showed Anson's handsome profile, but Tom Hanks' voice came from the speakers as Anson held the receiver to his ear, listening.
Slightly unexpected, the Golden Globes had chosen this scene from Catch Me If You Can, where young Frank Abagnale calls Carl Hanratty for the second time on Christmas Eve.
The lighting was dim, even a little shadowy, but the play of light on Anson's face clearly outlined the shadows cast by his nose and brow. In that instant, the loneliness, bitterness, and struggle he portrayed froze time.
There were no lines; he wasn't the one speaking, yet Anson effortlessly commanded the room's attention.
For a brief second, memories came flooding back, pulling everyone into the story of Catch Me If You Can, with the movie's scenes and emotions coming to life.
This ability to evoke empathy was no ordinary skill.
People had seen Catch Me If You Can, heard professionals praise Anson, and knew he was the only member of the cast to receive a nomination, but the impact had never felt so direct.
Before this, discussions were filled with, "Oh, the Golden Globes, right? Comedy or Musical category? I knew it. That category's always watered down; there's no need to take it seriously. Whether he's in or out doesn't matter. The Hollywood Foreign Press Association just went for the buzz."
That dismissive prejudice had been everywhere.
Until now.
Without a comparison, there's no harm. Even a single clip could change perspectives, making his performance stand out in a whole new light.
Then—
"Carl, sorry, I've got to run."
Young Frank lowered his eyes, hurriedly hiding the emotions in them, hung up, and stood to leave the screen.
The clip ended, and polite applause filled the banquet hall. Yet, for a fleeting moment, the audience was lost in thought.
Some began to wonder if they had truly seen this scene in the movie; others found themselves unintentionally reminiscing about it. A few even felt curious—was it just their imagination, or did that pretty face actually have acting skills?
Of course, not everyone thought that way—only a small portion of the audience.
The magic of film, after all, couldn't compare to the immediacy of live theater.
But Anson himself was lost in a daze.
In that moment, the reality hit him more clearly than ever, gripping his heart and momentarily cutting off his breath.
Time seemed to hit pause.
Watching his performance alongside the other nominees, seeing his own face displayed live on the big screen, the red light of the camera in front of him indicating that everything was being broadcast—
It was impossible not to feel nervous.
Anson didn't hide his nerves. Instead, he looked directly into the camera, awkwardly biting his lip as he realized his anxiety had been caught on film. He tried to smile again.
But it didn't work.
This wasn't acting. It was real. This was Anson's most genuine, unfiltered reaction, presented for everyone to see.
What was there to hide?
A few of the guests noticed, and faint smiles appeared on their faces. His youthful, raw response was so rare and real, it reminded them that Anson was just a twenty-year-old young man.
Everyone had been twenty once.
Amid the hustle and bustle, a little warmth and kindness filled the air.
But it was fleeting, and soon all attention returned to Jennifer Connelly.
Thud, thud.
The banquet hall fell into brief silence. Anson's heart pounded so loudly it echoed in his ears as Jennifer Connelly pulled out the card with the winner's name. For a moment, everything was quiet—
"…Richard Gere, Chicago."
The answer was revealed.
No suspense, no surprises.
Anson exhaled softly, his tense nerves slowly unwinding.
Disappointed?
A little.
He also tasted a hint of bitterness.
But it was only temporary.
The result wasn't unexpected, and Anson had seen it coming. The surge of excitement and anticipation brought on by the atmosphere gradually cooled, grounding him once more, his thoughts quieting.
This wasn't his year.