In the end, Stede was right: he didn’t win the Oscar. Ed did. He’s watched the clip a thousand times since then. When they’d called Ed’s name he just sat there—frozen in his seat, blinking in shock—until Stede came running down the aisle (he’d been seated much farther back) to pull him into a hug

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Stede, on the other hand, had been more or less convinced he wasn’t taking home any prizes, so he mostly just took the piss. Doing elaborate bits that left reporters completely mystified. Cracking jokes with that signature deadpan Kiwi cheer that no one but Ed understood. Ed was obsessed.

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Ed had taken it all VERY seriously. He was young, and hungry, and he wanted to fucking WIN. He could see the career he wanted, shining out there on the horizon—within his grasp if he could stack up the right accolades to his name.

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Everyone knows awards season in Hollywood is sort of a grind, very political. You do so many interviews, go to so many fucking events and press junkets and schmooze fests. It’s boring as hell.

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They met on the awards circuit, circa 2009—Best Supporting Actor. Stede was up for some oddball comedy role; he was surprised anyone had SEEN the film, let alone nominated him for it. Ed was a ~serious actor~, cast in a small but scene-stealing role in a 1970s period drama about biker gangs.

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