'At least once in our life, at least once while watching our co-stars, every actor thinks, 'I could've done that better.''
Benoit Durand, sitting precariously on the edge of his seat, didn't want to blink. He was afraid that the magical scene in front of him would disappear if he closed his eyes for even a moment.
'It could be a scene, a shot, a sequence, an accent, a wink, or even just a stare.'
In his more than fifty years of life, he thought he had seen it all. He thought he had seen the peak of performative arts. And not once had he cared to think that there could be something even he would fail to understand, a performance he would deem beyond extraordinary, a feat beyond common sense.
Yet there it was—a man in a woman's clothing, creating illusions only psychedelics could replicate.
'This isn't just acting... But what if it is?'
That question tormented him. It made him lonely and happy at the same time.
