"Come here and clean this up," Malcolm said, holding a Modelo. He grabbed the TV remote on the wooden kitchen counter.
"If you can't do basic shit like this, then you're useless."
Ryan looked up at his grey eyes, displaying emotions of disappointment and anger that he was long accustomed to, like gas to a car.
I hate this place. Why can't it end? I just want something. Anything.
Ryan kept running around the house, screaming and shouting until he couldn't do it anymore. He jumped two floors onto the roof, staring at the pretty stars, dancing like a hobo.
Ryan woke up in a sweat, and his arms moved frantically like an electric doll. He turned on the lamp and sat on the bed, his hands on his face. He looked out his small window, which was blocked by a beautiful sycamore.
The months that followed were a lovely time filled with the holidays: a cramped Thanksgiving with multiple stories overlapping each other (questions like "How do you get paid?" or Ryan's favorite, "How is Tom Cruise's cake?" were asked), a small, cozy Christmas dinner that was interrupted by loud barking from the houses nearby, and a large New Year's party which was no fun. It was the quiet conversations with his mom at the dining table, which had the New York Times crossword and burning coffee, that were the most peaceful. The late nights memorizing his lines while she sat silently cheering him on.
Finally, it was time to go to Utah to show a movie that Ryan was proud of. The air was thin, the snow freshly arrived from a recent storm, and the town of Park City buzzed with enthusiasm for the Hollywood stars.
The night began with the cast going to eat at Zoom on Main Street before the premiere the next morning. Kevin arrived in a plain white button-up shirt, holding a bottle of wine.
"Who's going to celebrate with me? I was just at Variety Studio telling people that the movie is about greed and we all were brilliant." He sat down, cleaning his glasses.
"We have to wake up early, Mr. Spacey," Ryan said.
"I know. I know. This isn't my first Sundance, kid. You have to do press, smile, and try to get the film bought. Easy."
"The last part is the trickiest." Zachary stormed in and sat down, blowing air on his hands. "Who do I want? Probably Sony Pictures Classics. Just not Weinstein. He moves like a fat pig with a golden necklace. I heard some rumors too."
"Me too. I think the whole industry knows," Ryan added.
"They're good, Sony." Kevin interrupted. "They let you have a lot of control. Some of them are blowhards, but they all want the same thing: money. Greedy and ugly. Just like in the movie."
"Just like you, Kevin," Jeremy said with his posh British accent. "It's so cold outside."
"Hello, Sir Jeremy." Zachary grinned and waved to Jeremy to sit down.
"Oh Zach, I thought you were with J.C."
"I was. But come on, is it official?"
"No. I rejected the letter from Her Majesty. They're going to send medieval knights and have an execution in front of Eccles. It was truly a bothersome process to reject it."
"Wait, you were offered knighthood? And you didn't accept?" Ryan asked.
"Of course not. Actors are vagabonds, tricksters, and at worst glorified clowns. We are mirrors. Give me a stage and silence; the rest is easy. No greater reward than the rapt attention of the crew members or an audience. So then, why should I accept it? It's not about my thoughts on the monarchy. Just get the job done and on to the next."
He's right. It's not only the attention but the emotion that the audience shows after watching a scene. You see them laugh at something you said, or flinch at a jump scare, or even cry—the most intoxicating feeling of it all to see. Not to be rewarded or seen, maybe, but to reach someone. To make the quietest parts of yourself matter to a stranger. Yes, we don't fix bridges, help the poor, or run governments. We are not fucking Gandhi. But we remind people that if you ignore the mirrors for too long, you might just step on a shard of glass. But hell, what do I know?
Camila Parker was showing her badge in front of the Eccles Theatre. She saw the audience: a mix of Hollywood insiders in black puffer jackets, a few lucky general public badge holders, and the film cast, who were all dressed properly. Her fingers were red from the chill, but she didn't pull her gloves back on, soaking up the environment.
The house lights dimmed slowly, not abruptly—like the room itself was holding its breath. Camila eased into her seat, third row from the back, left-center. She tucked her coat beside her, her badge now flipped inward. She was ready to see Ryan's performance.
She saw Before the Door and Myriad Pictures Present in white font. The opening scene showed Seth saying, "Is that them?" next to Will and Peter.
He does look good on screen.
Will said, "Best to ignore it. Come on," and the next moment showed Seth looking down, saying, "Umm… am I safe?"
The high-pitched voice, the droopy shoulders, and the head turned down remind me of my 7-year-old nephew, who could be in trouble and lost at the same time.
The rest of the audience leaned in and was slightly curious about who this actor was. Not too interested, like seeing a cute dog and wondering what its breed was but never asking the owner or searching it up. The next scene was in Eric Dale's office, played by Stanley Tucci, who was told to go to an office. The camera stayed on Eric, who in three seconds resigned himself to his fate and surrendered himself to the firm's higher will.
What a fine actor Tucci is.
All of the audience was impressed by Stanley's masterclass in understated intensity. He didn't plead or shout when he was told that he was fired but just looked at the cheap "Looking Ahead" pamphlet and said, "Okay." The scene cut to Seth, who watched people carrying cardboard boxes and trying to avoid the multiple stares.
As the camera lingered on Seth Bregman, the young risk analyst trying to make sense of the chaos unfolding around him, the audience in the Eccles Theatre watched with a kind of respect. Ryan Stone radiated a kind of cold, studied detachment—his slicked-back hair and crisp shirt suggesting confidence and his blue eyes gloating over the weaker links of the machine. It wasn't what he said but what he held back.
As employees passed by him clutching cardboard boxes—some numb—Seth barely moved. He stiffened his jaw, swallowed hard, and pretended not to notice the stares. His posture straightened, his gaze fixed forward, but the camera stayed just long enough to catch the tremor at the corner of his mouth. It was the two emotions of the scene that the young actor showed that impressed the audience.
From the shadows of the theater, Camila Parker glanced sideways at a journalist scribbling something in a notebook: "Not just a pretty face?"
A whisper ran through a few rows, and the audience thought to themselves that it was people like Seth who brought the crisis to their homes. Back onscreen, Seth finally exhaled and walked away, brushing past a cleaning lady who didn't even look up. His pace was quick, too quick.
He met up with Peter and saw Eric Dale approaching them, holding a cardboard box. Peter said, "Sorry this is happening to you?" and Seth said, "Yeah. But I'm good, right?" He looked like he was trying to convince himself and celebrate his own survival in the company.
I hope he is in more scenes.