From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

In just a few short days, things seemed unchanged, everything back on track.

However, everything had already changed, turned upside down, unrecognizable.

Now, the entire "Spider-Man 2" crew was walking a tightrope, able to feel the pulling forces from the internal struggles within Sony Columbia, and also able to feel the attention and pressure interwoven from both inside and outside, and even able to feel the tension that even the slightest misstep could ignite a powder keg.

Imagine, the innocent Anson, the dazzling Anson, the unique Anson, almost got inexplicably kicked out of the crew, so what about them, these insignificant screws?

Moreover, now that Anson was staying and being protected by public opinion, would the whales fighting within Sony Columbia possibly take out their anger on other small fry?

An uneasy haze and a sense of bewildered panic loomed overhead; the atmosphere was, after all, different.

In fact, whether it was the director or the actors, they had tried and strived to calm down and stay focused, but no one succeeded.

It was just like the scene in front of them.

Kristen's performance was simply not up to par; it wasn't an obvious mistake like forgetting lines or misplacing movements, but rather subtle aspects like emotional details and handling of sightlines, so that the emotion and atmosphere of the entire scene were always off—

Even without Sam's condemnation, Kristen herself couldn't be satisfied.

Even if "Spider-Man" was just a commercial popcorn movie, and no one cared about the actors' "performance energy"; even if Sony Columbia simply refused to give Mary Jane any room to perform, and Kristen only needed to play a screaming vase, with no character arc or acting space at all.

But Kristen still had expectations and demands of herself.

However.

It still wasn't working.

The rhythm, the feeling, the state, everything was slightly off track.

This was unprofessional.

Kristen had entered the Hollywood entertainment industry at a young age, and she knew what professionalism was; even if a loved one passed away, even if her body was plagued by illness, even if life was a mess, as long as they stood in front of the camera or on the stage, they had to enter the role and get into the state, temporarily putting aside all the disturbances in real life and delivering a perfect performance—

That was what an actor was.

But what about her now? Mumbling and distracted, it was simply too amateurish.

Things shouldn't be like this.

Compared to Sam's condemnation and the crew's gazes, Kristen was deeply trapped in self-blame, that sense of frustration and bewilderment, both aggrieved and depressed, but unable to find the right way to express it.

Actors tormented themselves more than directors did.

Unfortunately, Sam himself was not a director skilled at instructing acting.

Sam knew that the scene was wrong, and he also knew what kind of effect he expected in his mind; but he couldn't say exactly how to adjust it or how to perform it, and he couldn't help at all except to let the actors rest for thirty minutes to find their feeling.

Now, Sam finally understood Alfred Hitchcock.

Alfred Hitchcock had always hated method acting, and he was a staunch advocate of presentational acting—

He didn't need actors to dig into the character's heart or present the character's arc; he just wanted the actors to present the emotional effect as required.

Fear was fear, there was no superficial fear or deep-seated fear; screaming, panic, and shaking eyes, that was enough.

Everything was simple and straightforward.

In this way, the director's coaching of acting also became simpler.

At this moment, what Sam hoped for was also presentational acting; there was no need to delve deeply, they just needed to end this torment as soon as possible.

Unfortunately, Sam was not Alfred Hitchcock.

The words were already on the tip of his tongue, but in the end, he swallowed them back down.

Sam thought that Kristen was an excellent actress, and things would get better if he gave her a little time; if the director didn't know how to guide the performance, then the director's wisest choice was to trust his actors, give them space, and allow the actors to perform according to their own rhythm.

Few people knew that Kristen was an exceptionally strict actress with herself.

After all, after adulthood, she had been trying to break free from the child star halo; the movies she was currently shooting were like "Bring It On", "Happy Endings", and "Prozac Nation"; although she had also tried to explore the boundaries of her acting in independent art films, people still found it difficult to reverse the stereotype.

But Kristen had demands and expectations of herself.

Saying to rest for one minute meant one minute; after briefly adjusting her breathing, Kristen had regained her composure, nodded towards the monitor, indicating that she was ready.

However, Sam still stared at the monitor expressionlessly, unable to see any changes in expression at all—

If Kristen's performance just now was seventy points, now it was seventy-nine points.

Sam didn't expect a hundred points; when shooting a movie, always expecting a hundred points would result in ruining himself, the crew, and the work.

Sam was not a perfectionist.

Sam expected an eighty, and this shot seemed to be very, very close, but it always felt like it was lacking something, missing a little something.

"Cut."

After a scene was performed, Sam paused the filming, but he still didn't say anything more.

Kristen stood on the stage of the theater, took a deep breath, "Director, I'll do it again."

Sam didn't agree, but he didn't refuse either.

He was thinking about how to shoot this scene to achieve the desired effect; if he himself didn't have an answer, reshooting it a hundred times would probably yield the same result.

"Hey, Director, is there anything I can help with?" A polite voice came from his ear.

Sam didn't turn his head, "No."

That voice didn't give up, "I can help with running lines; maybe it would be easier for Kristen to handle the focal point of her gaze."

Sam still didn't turn his head, "I said no."

That voice didn't continue to push, obediently closing his mouth, and the surroundings of the monitor returned to silence.

It was a good few beats later that Sam paused slightly, his head stopping for a moment; how did he feel that the voice just now…

Suddenly sitting up straight, he turned his head, and that handsome face entered his eyes; Sam's always sleepy eyes suddenly widened, unable to hide his joy.

"Anson!"

The guy sitting on the small stool with a well-behaved face, who else could it be but Anson?

An emotion of joy and excitement intertwined and instantly erupted in his chest; Sam never knew that seeing Anson again would be such a happy thing.

But why was Anson here?

According to the plan, Anson wouldn't be able to return to the crew until five days at the earliest; although the doctor's initial examination results said that the rest period was three to six weeks, no one expected Anson to recover and return to the crew immediately after three weeks—

Anson played Spider-Man, but he wasn't the real Spider-Man.

If the recovery progress was not as expected, returning in five days might also be difficult.

So, what exactly was going on in front of him?