From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Covering his cheeks with both hands, he used the warmth of his fingertips to shield his eyes, preventing tears from welling up, trying his best to control himself.

Heh.

Taking a deep, deep breath.

But.

He froze like that.

Inhaling, but not exhaling.

The fingers covering his eyes trembled slightly, the lines of his shoulders and arms were strained to the extreme, as he used all his strength to try to control himself.

Because.

Once this breath was released, tears seemed ready to burst forth.

He thought he had controlled it, he thought he had no particular thoughts, he thought he just needed a little space to relax.

But he didn't expect…

That confusion, that surge, broke through the defenses without warning.

Then, he stood there blankly, like a wooden figure.

The scene froze again—

Not only Anson, but also Alex and Eric couldn't help but hold their breath, and even though they tried their best to control themselves, their eyes still became slightly moist.

Was it sadness? Anger? Pain?

Yes, but also no.

It was just a kind of bewilderment, a deep sense of powerlessness and unspoken depression intertwined, at a loss and bewildered, without any particular sadness, but unable to control the tears welling up in their eyes, all kinds of thoughts intertwined.

One breath held, but it was like burying his head in the water, tears silently dissolving in the water, no one could see it except himself.

The power of that emotion was silent but surging.

Only now did he realize that performance doesn't necessarily have to be seen.

But now it was not.

It was still a close-up, but you couldn't see the expression or the eyes, not only covering his cheeks with his hands, but even just showing the side of his face, everything was hidden, but it still firmly grasped the focus of the lens in another way.

This was also what Gus had been looking for—

A state. A feeling.

It was hard to imagine that without lines or plot, such a long shot could push the power of the lens to a whole new level.

Was this what Dogme 95 advocated?

Cinema has always been about the lens.

Just as the saying goes, TV series are the art of the screenwriter, drama is the art of the actor, and film is the art of the director. In addition to the plot and actors, the audio-visual experience presented by the director through the lens is the greatest charm of film.

And at this moment, Gus finally found the state he had been searching for.

No acting, no carving, everything was natural, flowing out naturally, just like the movie breaking the boundary between reality and illusion, the boundary between the actor and the character had also disappeared, drama and reality were perfectly integrated, and a power enough to make the soul tremble was budding.

In the picture, a deep breath, but it seemed like there was no end in sight.

One second. Two seconds. Three seconds.

Anson maintained his inhalation state, trying to press the pause button, for a long, long time, but he still couldn't control himself.

Gus seemed to see a faint glint of tears flashing in the corner of Anson's eyes, but before he had time to distinguish it carefully, Anson immediately wiped it away with his fingertips.

He exhaled a long breath, then took another deep breath, continuing to control himself.

His hands tightly covered his face, completely blocking all the expressions on his small face, a trace of struggling collapse was revealed between his eyebrows, and he tightened the reins on the edge of the cliff.

What to do.

What should he do?

There were so many question marks in life that they almost overwhelmed him to the point of breathlessness, but he had no answers, not even a way to think calmly, just running in place like a hamster.

A daze.

Sometimes, he really wanted to just walk away and leave this mess behind; but sometimes, he couldn't help but worry about his father, and ultimately couldn't bear it.

Sometimes, he just wanted to forget all this and continue to be a child; but sometimes, he realized that he was no longer a child.

Sometimes, he thought that if everything hadn't happened, if time could be reversed, if he could heartlessly ignore those victims, if he could selfishly pursue happiness, if life could be simpler…

If life was like a math problem, it would be great if every question had a formula and an answer.

Again, inhale.

Pause.

As if pressing the pause button, as long as he didn't exhale this breath, time would not continue to move forward; as long as he persisted long enough, his wish would come true; as long as he continued to hide here, he would become invulnerable.

In the short time of holding his breath, the world quieted down, and all the noise and clamor disappeared.

Then.

Exhaling a long, long breath, as if exhaling all the stuffiness and irritability, the tension in his shoulders and arms also relaxed, and he lowered his head sullenly, his long hair hanging down to cover the expression on his face, and an invisible gloom and sadness fell on his shoulders.

Regaining the steadiness of his breath.

Finally, he finally calmed down a little.

Hastily raising his hands and rubbing his eyes vigorously, pretending that sand had gotten into his eyes.

"Hey, hello."

A greeting came from behind, and he subconsciously rubbed his cheeks quickly with both hands, nervously and flusteredly, and looked back cautiously, this time seeing the figure of the girl.

An uninvited guest, Alicia.

"Hi," Anson responded.

Immediately turning around, sniffing, lowering his head, using his hanging hair as a mask to hide the embarrassment remaining on his cheeks.

Trying his best to pretend that everything was fine.

But he didn't expect Alicia to walk over directly.

Anson flusteredly wiped his eyes and face, quickly trying to compose himself; but he was still half a beat too slow, Alicia had already come over.

Alicia noticed Anson's movements, and even slowed down her pace, tilting her head slightly to look at Anson, gently brushing his hair away, "What's wrong?"

Anson mustered up the courage to meet Alicia's gaze, nonchalantly covering up, "Nothing."

Alicia saw Anson's slightly red eyes, "Have you been crying?"

That voice, light and gentle, was like the first ray of warm sun tearing through the night in the winter morning.

Anson: …

"Yes."

After a slight pause, Anson shrugged slightly, not denying it.

But lowering his eyes, he tried his best to pretend to be calm, trying to downplay it as much as possible.

Alicia looked at Anson worriedly, "Did something bad happen?"

Anson was stunned—

How should he explain it? And where should he start explaining?

Looking up at the ceiling, thinking seriously, he still had no answer, "I don't know."

Alicia sized Anson up for a while, an impulse, a primal impulse, she tiptoed and gently kissed Anson's cheek, without any emotion, just a comfort.

Like a hug.

Her lips, like a butterfly landing on the first green bud sprinkled with sunlight, a faint warmth and vitality quietly bloomed, and they separated after a brief touch, but people couldn't help but hold their breath, for fear of disturbing the butterfly, staring at the colorful butterfly wings.