Salma Hayek had a presence that the camera would love, and more importantly, the talent to back it up. After a short, intense reading from the script, Leo knew he'd found his female lead.
"That was excellent, Ms. Hayek," Leo said, making a definitive note on his legal pad. "One final question: do you currently have an agent?"
A wave of hopeful relief washed over Salma's face. She knew this was the real final question. "No," she said, her honesty direct and disarming. "I have not been in Hollywood long. My English, I am still learning."
"Your English is fine, and your talent is better," Leo said. "Here's the deal. We want you for the role. The offer is contingent on you signing with my agent at CAA, Rick Dawson. He'll handle your contract. Is that agreeable?"
"Yes," she said, a brilliant, genuine smile finally breaking through her professional composure. "Absolutely, yes."
"Good. Rick will be in touch."
As Salma left, Leo knew the most difficult part of the actress hunt was over. He saw a few more candidates, but they were a ghost parade of 'almosts' and 'not-quites.' The soul of the film, however, remained elusive. The male protagonist was a supporting role in his own story, but Jigsaw… Jigsaw was the philosopher king. He was everything.
Leo closed his eyes, picturing the auditions. He'd seen a dozen actors over forty, all trying to play 'menacing.' One was a theatrical Shakespearean, booming his lines. Another was just a creep, his eyes lingering unpleasantly. None of them understood. Jigsaw wasn't a monster; he was a dark savior with a twisted conviction.
As dusk painted the LA sky in shades of orange and purple, Leo packed his bag, the frustration a knot in his stomach. He pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Rick Dawson."
"Rick, it's Leo. We have a problem. Jigsaw. None of these guys have it. They're playing a villain, not a visionary. I need you to open up the casting call. Forget the age requirement. Makeup can make a 35-year-old look 60. I need the soul of the character."
There was a pause on the other end. "You know," Rick said slowly, "I might have someone. A friend of mine. An actor. He's got this… quiet intensity. Why don't you come over for dinner tonight? My wife, Karen, is making her famous roast chicken. You can meet him. No pressure."
An agent's 'friend' was usually a trap. But Leo trusted Rick's instincts. "Okay. Send me the address."
Rick's house was in a quiet, tree-lined neighborhood in Sherman Oaks. It was a different universe from the steel and glass cage of CAA; a universe built on mortgages and family photos . The warm smell of roasted garlic and rosemary filled the air.
"Leo! Get in here!" Rick boomed, pulling him into a hug. He was a different man at home—relaxed, loud, and unguarded.
In the living room, a man with a kind, intelligent face and a slightly receding hairline stood up from the sofa. He looked to be in his late thirties, with a friendly, self-deprecating air about him.
"Leo Vance, this is my old friend, Clark Gregg," Rick said. "Greg, this is the boy genius I was telling you about."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Clark said, shaking Leo's hand. His grip was firm, his eyes thoughtful.
Leo felt a bizarre jolt of recognition, like seeing a character step out of a movie screen that hadn't been filmed yet . He knew that face. He knew that calm, reassuring demeanor. It was Agent Coulson of S.H.I.E.L.D. A wave of future knowledge washed over him—NYU, a string of tiny, thankless roles, the years of struggle before he became the beloved anchor of a cinematic universe.
He pushed the foreknowledge aside. The director took over. Could this man, the embodiment of a benevolent government agent, find the philosophical monster inside him?
"Rick tells me you're an actor," Leo said, sitting down.
"On my good days," Clark said with a wry smile. "Rick was kind enough to let me look at the pages for this… Jigsaw character. He's terrifying. And brilliant."
"You think so?" Leo asked, intrigued.
"He's not a killer," Clark said, his brow furrowed in thought. "He's an engineer of choice. He believes he's giving people the one thing they've lost: an appreciation for their own life. It's a horrible, beautiful piece of writing."
He understood. He actually understood the core of it.
"Read for me," Leo said, his voice quiet. "Right here. The final monologue."
Clark looked surprised, then nodded. He took a breath. The friendly man on the couch vanished. His posture shifted, his shoulders slumping slightly, as if under a great weight. His eyes lost their warmth, replaced by a profound, chilling weariness.
When he spoke, his voice was a soft, gravelly rasp, filled with disappointment and a terrible, unshakeable certainty.
"Most people are so ungrateful to be alive…"
The transformation was absolute. The kind, self-deprecating man disappeared, and in his place was a chillingly calm philosopher of pain . He wasn't acting; he was channeling. He wasn't a monster; he was a man who had stared into the abyss and believed he was showing others the way out.
When he finished, the room was silent. Rick was staring, dumbfounded.
Leo leaned back, a slow smile spreading across his face. He looked at Rick, then back at Clark Gregg, who seemed to be slowly returning to himself, a little shaken by his own performance.
"Well, Clark," Leo said, his voice filled with the pure, joyful certainty of a director who has just found the soul of his film. "Welcome to Chainsaw."