From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

After a long period of quiet and silence, a sound finally emerged—

Buzzing, buzzing.

The guitar strings were gently plucked, the subtle vibrations rippling and spreading through the air.

Johnny Cash was making a move.

“…Yes, I know Jesus saves me.”

Luther and Marshall harmonized, “Save my soul.”

One could feel him trying to open his throat, to display the brightness of his voice.

However, the performance still felt somewhat dull and heavy.

The intonation and enunciation were trying their best to show vitality; yet, all he felt was a dryness in his throat, dragging the sound backward, like an elephant with its feet tied to the ground, trying to grasp a hydrogen balloon to break free from the shackles of gravity, only to fall back to the ground again and again.

Even Luther and Marshall’s voices sounded strained.

Logically speaking, the harmony of three voices should add layers to the entire performance; even without distinct vocal parts, one should be able to feel the collision of different voices resonating.

But alas.

The three-person chorus before them seemed monotonous and weak.

All three were vocalizing, but their voices clearly didn't resonate together.

To make matters worse, the three were immersed in the performance, completely unaware, and continued to sing, trying to stir up the vitality within their bodies.

Johnny, “In the moment he forgave me.”

Luther and Marshall, “Made me whole.”

Johnny, “He removed my heavy burden, God, he gave me peace of mind.”

Luther and Marshall, “Peace of mind.”

If you listened carefully, you could hear Johnny’s voice trembling slightly; his stiff shoulders and straight back made his entire upper body appear particularly awkward, as if he had forgotten to remove the coat hanger from his shirt, wearing it out together, making his entire demeanor seem strange and unnatural.

That stiffness was infused into his voice, making the entire performance seem rigid and mechanical.

Lacking vitality.

Yet, Johnny himself didn't realize it; he thought everything was going according to his imagination, that he and his two young partners were performing exceptionally well.

Johnny looked left at Marshall and then right at Luther, flashing a smile—

At least, he thought he was flashing a smile, but his tense lips didn't curl upward at all, his facial muscles twitched, revealing a bizarre expression.

Johnny tried to motivate his two partners; they needed to showcase the essence of the music.

Johnny, “Satan can’t shake me.”

Marshall and Luther, “I won’t be shaken…”

Dallas—Sam Phillips noticed it; even someone without professional or systematic knowledge of music could notice the problems with the performance before them.

Raw. Rough. Crude. Amateur. It had a self-amusement vibe.

Perhaps the voices weren't bad; but the way they were suppressing their voices to sing revealed obvious traces of imitation, trying to use the bass to show depth, trying to use resonance to show emotion, but the effect was bland and tasteless.

Was it worth listening to?

Not really; it would quickly pass through your ears, leaving absolutely no impression.

Tasteless to eat, but a pity to discard, that was probably it.

Gradually, Dallas could feel that emotion, his whole body tensing up; the more he wanted to perform actively, the more he trapped himself, even his vocalization seemed tense, let alone emotional expression.

In the end, he stood properly on the safe track, singing properly, not even considered singing to his heart's content.

The entire performance was dry and tasteless, without color, without edges, without… emotion.

It was sleep-inducing.

Please, this was gospel; just go to a Sunday service at any church and look at those black people with full singing skill talent points, and you'd know that any one of them was more talented than the man before them.

Dallas looked up at Anson, and before he realized it, he had fallen into a kind of trance, a kind of illusion—

That tension, that restraint, seemed so insignificant.

Unconsciously, Dallas quietly straightened his back; he couldn't lie: it wouldn't work, it just wouldn't work, even if he didn't want to criticize from a high position, the facts before him were so clear.

A little bit of caution, a little bit of disappointment, a little bit of tension.

Sam Phillips couldn't hide his expression, and Dallas himself didn't realize that he had perfectly entered Sam's role.

Everything, silently, was everywhere, forming a powerful force; amidst those curiosities and confusions, amidst those waiting and watching, it had already dragged everyone inside and outside the recording studio into a vortex, as if traveling through time, entering the world of Johnny Cash.

The line between reality and illusion, between life and film, had disappeared before he even realized it, with one foot in reality and one foot in drama, straddling two spaces without even realizing it; whatever tension, whatever apprehension, whatever worry, whatever retreat, had long since vanished, swept into the storm.

It was that simple, not even needing a snap of the fingers; the magic had already happened.

Was this real?

In real life, people often believe that there is a line between reality and drama, between life and performance.

Dallas thought so too.

A “Action!”, a “Cut!”, formed boundaries, marking the beginning and the end, leaving the performing persona in front of the camera lens, drawing a line in the long river of real time, ensuring that the actors remained clear-headed, not becoming a madman who was unable to extricate himself from the role.

However, was things really that simple?

Could a beginning and an end easily divide one's own experiences, one's own feelings, one's own immersion?

If a truly excellent and outstanding performance was one of complete immersion, showing a convincing impact; how could one easily get rid of it?

Real life was often not that simple.

To be too immersed in the role, yet unable to get out of it, was the madness of being too deeply involved.

To be immersed in the role, yet unable to be 100% immersed, was bad acting.

To be immersed in the role, yet to suddenly leave the role without warning, was an NG.

Relying solely on “Action!” and “Cut!” to divide time, divide feelings, divide experiences, was clearly far from enough.

There was a saying that travel begins from the moment you decide to go.

To some extent, acting was the same; from the moment you start reading the script, the performance has already begun.

Before him, it was like that.

Long before Mangold announced “Action!”, long before the cast and crew were ready, in fact, Anson's words and deeds had already begun to create an atmosphere.

Dallas had no idea about this.

Because of the deterrent power of the name “Anson Wood,” he was unconsciously drawn into Anson's rhythm, and before he had time to realize what was happening, the conditioned reflex in his subconscious had taken over his brain, preemptively entering the role, the line between reality and illusion had long been blurred.

The role, silently entered his body, without even having time to react or realize it, switching back and forth between the lines of tension and anxiety, unconsciously entering the state, between half-dream and half-awake, the performance naturally flowed out, without needing to think or sculpt it.

Everything was so natural:

A little bit of regret, a little bit of pity.