January 15, 1999.
An old story, set in a decaying Italy, steeped in aristocracy, unfolding in a moment that allowed the rise of the Duce, a bloodthirsty man, a figure of Italy's extreme right. That way of letting all of Europe go to ruin stood as one of humanity's great errors, and the fervent problems that had been building from even the smallest moments.
How brilliant the script was, as it had been carefully crafted by a young Guillermo del Toro, alongside an Italian writer, a master screenwriter who sought to turn the work into something bold and courageous—Tonino Guerra, one of the finest writers for such a piece. It had taken six months, and Billy had promised they would hire his daughter, Andrea Guerra, to compose the film's score.
Guillermo took everything Billy had delivered and devoted himself to a meticulous, disciplined construction of each character. Now sheltered under Billy's wing, he was set for a three-film contract, where everything would fall under Guillermo's creative execution. He was a tireless worker, with a thought process that branched across multiple perspectives—granting actors freedom, allowing each of them to shape their roles organically, fostering a collaborative dynamic with the director. Each of them was fiercely dedicated, and all of them shone in response to how crucial their roles were. Catherine Zeta-Jones, as a beautiful and fiery British woman, stood as Monica's counterpart, bringing to life two women equally stunning, each in her own way.
The concept and the scheduling were ideal.
Male lead → Billy Carson
Femme fatale → Monica Bellucci
Key supporting role → Catherine Zeta-Jones
Antagonist → Jeremy Irons
--Thank you for taking on the role. —Billy remarked.
The man looked at him intently; he hadn't expected to be addressed in such clear Spanish. It had been said that the young man would shoot in Italian and some parts in English. It was undeniable that he had talent. But languages—those opened up entirely the idea of crafting a script and filming a movie in three acts. The first act was an introduction to all the characters.
--Well, I couldn't turn it down when they promised to finance two of my own projects, and that's not exactly easy to come by. I suppose it's not so simple for a person to get everything they want. I admit, I was surprised when they called me and told me that perhaps in the coming years I would only have to do what I was born to do. —Guillermo commented.
A confusing life, or a deeply desired one—how ironic life can be when a person has little to do. What can someone do when time becomes a ledger of opportunities, some sorrowful, some unanswered? He had only three films, a few scattered jobs assisting other directors, and that was the closest he had come to shaping an intimate answer—crafting a love story through effort and collaboration. Over the past six months, he had been building that solid structure, again and again.
-Script reading.-
The first scenes begin to take shape. In each one, they search for the essential core. This is the second act, when they arrive in Italy, after the journey, where the story turnsaggressivei, ve and life is seen through a harsher lens.
The light cuts sharply through the blinds. The heat of Naples clings to the skin like a second shirt. There is no narrator. There is only us.
—I don't trust you —Billy says, leaning against the wall, feeling the sweat run down his back.
—You don't have to —Monica replies, looking at me as if she already knows the ending—. You just have to follow me.
She walks slowly. Her light dress moves with the warm air. The camera follows closely, almost breathidown of her neck. Her footsteps echo against the wood. He watches her, lost, unable to look away.
—You say that as if there were no danger —Billy responds.
—You are the danger —she answers, without turning—. You always have been.
Silence. Only the sound of the city outside.
Cut.
-That's the first cut of that scene, and then we'll continue from wherever you decide. Does anyone want to modify scenes in this style? —Guillermo del Toro commented.
-Script reading.-
We are in a wide hall, mirrors everywhere. Reflections multiply, fracture. The camera enters as if it were another presence in the room.
—Look at me —Monica says, opening her arms, her body moving with a captivating grace.
I look at her. But I also see myself, multiplied.
—What do you see? —Monica asks again.
—Someone who lies. —She smiles.
—Then you're seeing clearly. —Billy steps closer. Too close. I can smell her perfume, something sweet, almost dangerous.
—I don't lie —Monica says carefully.
—Of course you do —she whispers—. We all lie when we want something.
She touches my chest. It's not romantic. It's a challenge. --
—And what do you want? —Billy asks.
—I want you to fire first. -- Monica answers sharply, firmly, almost contemptuously.
Silence.
The camera lingers on our faces. No cut. It feels uncomfortable. Real.
—I don't have a gun —Billy replies.
She laughs. It isn't a joyful sound.
—Then you're already dead. -
Abrupt cut.
Exterior. Harbor. The sea crashes violently. The wind moves everything.
—You shouldn't have come —Billy says.
—I always come —Monica replies—. Even if it costs me my life. --
The camera trembles slightly, as if held by hand.
—This isn't a game. —Billy, his face tense, bitter under the weight of the moment.
—It never was. -- Monica responds.
She steps closer again. She always moves closer.
—Kiss me —she says.
—No.
—Do it.
I hesitate. One second. Two.
I kiss her.
The sound of the sea disappears. Only breathing remains.
—Now it's done —she whispers—. There's no going back now.
She pulls away. Draws a gun.
—You knew —I say.
—I always knew.
She aims.
—Say something —she asks.
I look at her.
—I would have believed you.
She fires.
Cut to black.
Silence.
-cut.-
That scene takes place in Naples, after an intense morning.
-I think we need to adjust the intensity of the shots. It feels like we should make Act 1 more intense, or add something that builds tension as much as possible, so the catharsis truly lands. —Billy responded, thinking through the script from beginning to end.
What can a person do when everything that remains is fixed before their eyes? What can they do but approach each scene with an intensity reserved only for their finest work? What had been an ode for Monica became an answer for Billy—it was simple to do.
Billy carried strength in his role through sheer intensity.