Chapter 753: Everyone has schizophrenia.

In the dimly lit VIP box perched on the second floor of the nightclub, the pulsating rhythm of the music set the stage for the evening's indulgence. Four stunning girls, each with a distinct combination of hair and skin tones, swayed their long locks as they attended to the needs of tonight's affluent quartet.

Martin, ensconced in the luxury of the VIP area, savored the tactile sensation of reality amidst the euphoria of the night. Nolan, his companion, singled out a black girl with skin so radiant it seemed to gleam under the ambient glow.

Leonardo and Nicholson reclined in their seats, seemingly entranced by the ambiance. As the music faded into silence, so did the ritual of being pampered.

With a nonchalant gesture, Martin produced a stack of bills and placed them on the table, commanding, "Carry on."

Taking note of the thickness of the wad, one of the girls resumed the music, signaling the start of another round of pampering.

Half an hour later, the quartet emerged refreshed and rejuvenated, descending from their lofty perch to embark on the next phase of their evening escapade. Bruce, already stationed behind the wheel, awaited their command.

Martin instructed, "To the theater, for the midnight show."

Nolan, fastening his seatbelt, muttered his discontent, "I can't stomach the thought of lining Jon Berg's pockets."

Martin, retrieving bottled water from the car's refrigerator, quipped, "They say even condemned men deserve a decent meal before facing the chair."

Leonardo interjected with a reminder of political correctness, while Nicholson concurred with a sardonic remark about certain Hollywood figures meeting their comeuppance.

Martin, ever the provocateur, toyed with a stone sculpture left behind by Lily, causing it to clatter at Nicholson's feet. Nolan chuckled at the exchange, jesting, "Hurry up, Jack, pick it up!"

Unperturbed, Nicholson retorted, "Afraid of you?" before pocketing the trinket with a nod of approval.

As the car descended into the depths of Century City Plaza's underground parking lot, the quintet, disguised to evade prying eyes, ascended to their private VIP box at the movie theater.

Seated comfortably on the second floor, they beheld the brightly lit auditorium adorned with posters heralding the premiere of "Jack the Giant Catcher," poised to captivate audiences across North America.

Martin's entourage, poised at the cusp of another night of opulent entertainment, eagerly awaited the unfolding spectacle.

Nolan's invitation to Martin for an early screening of the film had a twinge of defiance against Jon Berg's arrogance. The British director's hubris grated on Nolan's nerves, mirroring Martin's disdain for films crafted with pretentious production methods.

As they settled into their seats, Nicholson, a seasoned cinephile, requisitioned a blanket from the box attendant, preemptively adjusting his seat for optimal slumber.

Martin quipped, "Planning to hit the hay before the opening credits?"

Nicholson's reply dripped with resignation, "After your scathing assessment of Berg's 'genius,' I've lost all hope for this flick. Let's endure a bit, catch some Z's, and then Jennifer's in for a cozy night at my place."

Following Nicholson's lead, Leonardo summoned the attendant, "Four more blankets, please."

Martin chuckled, "I splurged on those VIP seats for the prime napping experience."

As the attendants distributed the blankets, the quartet draped them over their legs, ready to cocoon themselves into a cinematic hibernation at a moment's notice.

As the theater plunged into darkness, the Warner Bros. logo illuminated the screen, signaling the commencement of the film.

The narrative unfolded with stunning visuals and intricate special effects, but the portrayal of the protagonist, Jack, elicited a mixed response. From solemn to slapstick, from romantic to righteous, Jack's character underwent erratic transformations, leaving the audience bewildered by the change of personalities.

In the midst of the film's schizophrenic narrative, the symphony of snores commenced, with Nicholson, ever prepared, donning earplugs and retreating into the depths of sleep.

Leonardo, in a moment of wry observation, remarked, "They could spin off the male lead into a one-man show with six personalities, each a potential Oscar contender."

Nolan, curious about Berg's editing decisions, queried Martin, "How many versions made it into Berg's final cut?"

Drawing from insider information, Martin replied, "It appears there are six versions."

Nolan nodded sagely, analyzing, "Indeed, while the film's palette may be uniform, its characterizations and editing styles vary significantly. Each iteration offers a distinct flavor, akin to a cinematic tasting menu."

Martin, acknowledging Berg's ingenuity, mused, "Truly a master of his craft."

Leonardo, his frustration palpable, declared, "If this film somehow succeeds, I'll personally deliver Jack's head to Jon Berg!"

Nicholson's retort cut through the dim theater, "Who's eager to take a swing at my noggin? Sounds like your tune, Leo."

Leonardo gestured toward the protagonist on the screen, "Jack's the culprit."

With a resigned shrug, Nicholson reclined once more, drifting back into the embrace of slumber.

Meanwhile, Martin and Leonardo, resigned to the cinematic debacle unfolding before them, opted for the time-tested combination of popcorn and Coke to alleviate their boredom.

In stark contrast, Nolan, the seasoned director, approached the viewing with a scholarly intensity. Despite the film's shortcomings, he saw it as a learning opportunity, dissecting each flaw to inform his own craft.

However, even Nolan, unable to overlook the film's glaring deficiencies, eventually succumbed to the allure of popcorn, resigned to the reality of the movie's mediocrity.

As the narrative unfolded, it became increasingly apparent that the film suffered from a multitude of flaws, ranging from the protagonist's inconsistent characterization to the disjointed plot.

Nolan, with his keen eye for storytelling, recognized the root of the film's issues: an overindulgence in spectacle at the expense of narrative coherence.

Disengaging from the screen, Nolan abandoned his scrutiny, acknowledging that the film's failings were too fundamental to merit further analysis.

Martin, growing restless, diverted his attention to his phone, scouring Twitter for early box office figures for "Jack the Giant Catcher." Instead, he found a deluge of scathing reviews from disillusioned viewers.

"Is the protagonist schizophrenic, or am I?"

"The entire film feels schizophrenic, dark and brooding one moment, comedic the next, then suddenly Shakespearean. It's a mess!"

"The title promises a giant-catching hero, yet Jack seems more interested in stumbling through his identity crisis!"

Martin chuckled at the online vitriol, realizing that perhaps only the enigmatic "Warner Team" could conjure such a cinematic calamity.

"I ditched home for this early show, and all I got was a lousy movie!" Nicholson lamented, his disappointment palpable.

"Wouldn't it be wiser to save that $8 for a decent hot dog and coffee instead of enduring this cinematic catastrophe?" Martin quipped, voicing the group's collective regret.

"Not even a ten-year-old would sit through this!" Leonardo added, echoing their sentiments.

The trio's disdain for the film was evident, prompting Martin to seek solace in the distraction of social media. "Jack, mind if I tweet about our thrilling cinematic adventure?" he inquired, receiving a nod of acquiescence from the slumbering Nicholson.

Capturing the scene with his phone, Martin snapped a picture of the peacefully dozing Nicholson, juxtaposed with images of himself and Leonardo ensconced under blankets. Crafting a witty caption, he posted the trio's misadventure alongside an electronic poster for "Jack the Giant Slayer."

"Caught in the hypnotic grip of boredom at the cinema. Almost nodded off. #MovieNightmare," Martin captioned the tweet, sending it into the digital ether.

Within moments, their escapade had garnered attention, with major entertainment media outlets sharing Martin's tweet and sparking a flurry of online engagement.

As the comments poured in, ranging from sympathy to amusement, Martin decided to call it quits. "Shall we make our escape?" he proposed to Nolan and Leonardo, both of whom readily concurred.

Nolan, fed up with the film's lackluster quality, remarked, "Let's bolt. This 'genius' production has nothing to offer."

Leonardo nudged the still-drowsy Nicholson, urging him to join their exodus. "Time to go," he declared.

Stretching his stiffened limbs, Nicholson remarked dryly, "The rejuvenation from the face wash has worn off."

"Back to the nightclub for round two," Martin declared as the group made their hasty exit from the cinema.

Late into the night, in the illuminated offices of Warner Pictures, Jon Berg's restless pacing betrayed his anxiety. Despite the flurry of negative reviews flooding the internet, he clung to the hope that his meticulously edited film would find an audience.

As his assistant delivered the long-awaited statistics, Berg's anticipation turned to dismay. The box office returns fell far short of his expectations, signaling a bitter disappointment in the wake of the film's lackluster reception.