Cassius understood immediately.
If they couldn't film the opening dance number, half the movie was dead. All the investor money, the three months of rehearsals, the dancers with blistered feet—it would all go to waste.
"Two whole days is out of the question?"
Cassius was surprised too. Hollywood shut down streets for movies all the time. Who knew they'd hit a wall this late?
"Not even one day!"
Chazelle sounded wrecked. "Traffic control said LA's never closed that stretch for a film before. It's a major artery—hundreds of thousands of cars a day. Even if they approved it, we'd need six months' notice and a massive deposit."
He looked defeated. A bad start like this could poison the whole shoot.
Cassius leaned against the car and stared at the massive interchange. It was only four-thirty in the morning, but traffic was already building—red and white taillights forming a glowing river across the four-level beast.
Looking at the cars, something clicked.
"You asked traffic control why it was denied?"
"Of course," Chazelle said. "They gave me the usual bullshit—safety concerns, resident complaints, blah blah—"
"I'm asking if you found out who actually blocked it."
Chazelle blinked. "I talked to the office."
Cassius pulled out his phone and scrolled to a number. He hit call.
"Chen?"
A groggy male voice came through, annoyed. "Do you know what time it is?"
"Old Joe, quick question. You got any pull at traffic control?"
Silence, then his tone shifted. "Yeah, why?"
"La La Land wants to close the 105 and 110 interchange for two days. Got denied."
The line went quiet again.
Then Old Joe laughed. "You called me at dawn to ask about shutting down a freeway?"
Cassius chuckled too. "You're the only guy I know with connections over there."
"Fine."
Rustling came through, like he was digging for something. "I'll ask around, but don't get your hopes up. That stretch is—"
"I know," Cassius said. "Just pass this along. Tell them it's my movie. We're shooting in LA, using LA actors, telling an LA story. And it's only two days."
Old Joe didn't answer.
Cassius hung up.
Chazelle stared at him, completely lost. "Who was that?"
"Old contact from the Fast & Furious days," Cassius said, slipping the phone back in his pocket. "Local guy. Used to work as a PA on the crew, now runs a car rental company. Does business with traffic control."
Chazelle opened his mouth, then closed it.
Fifteen minutes later, Cassius's phone rang.
Old Joe's voice came through. "It's done."
"That fast?"
Cassius was genuinely surprised.
"I called a guy, he called another guy, and it landed on the deputy director of traffic," Old Joe said. "Guess what? His wife is a huge fan of yours. She loves Fast & Furious and The Ancient One. Her place is covered in your posters. When she heard it was your new movie, she made her husband approve it on the spot."
"Tomorrow and the day after, six in the morning till eight at night. Only catch is you have to have dinner with her and sign some stuff."
Friends in the right places really do make things happen.
Chazelle watched his expression, getting more nervous by the second. "Well?"
Cassius put the phone away and looked at him. "It's good."
Chazelle froze for two seconds.
Then he jumped up and punched the air hard. "YES!"
The nearby crew jumped, turning to stare as the director spun in circles like he'd lost his mind.
Cassius leaned against the car, watching Chazelle celebrate.
The next morning at six, on the 105 freeway interchange.
The road closure was official.
Hundreds of colorful vintage cars lined up neatly on the bridge—sixties Cadillacs to eighties Fords, all sourced locally by the production. The colors were carefully chosen—reds, yellows, blues, greens—looking like a giant palette from a distance.
Over a hundred dancers were already in position, wearing bright yellow skirts, royal blue shirts, purple jackets. Everyone looked serious and ready.
Chazelle stood behind the monitors, walkie in hand, voice already hoarse. "Everyone listen up. This is take one. We're going for one and done."
Cassius stood in the crowd wearing Sebastian's old gray suit, collar open, sleeves rolled up.
Next to him was a young Black woman, one of the lead dancers. She looked about twenty, still with some baby fat on her cheeks.
"Nervous?" Cassius asked.
She shook her head. "Not really. We've been rehearsing for three months."
Cassius smiled.
The sun was coming up. It was August in LA. Even at seven in the morning, the temperature was pushing ninety.
Chazelle checked the sky, then his watch, and raised the walkie. "All departments ready—action!"
The clapperboard snapped. Music started.
The melody of "Another Day of Sun" poured from hidden speakers. The dancers who had been sitting in their cars started pushing doors open and climbing out. Some jumped onto rooftops, some stood on hoods, others opened trunks and pulled out instruments.
Cassius stayed still in the crowd. His part came later.
But he watched the dancers—leaping, spinning, kicking on the scorching asphalt, sweat flashing in the sunlight.
The first one went down.
A white girl collapsed mid-step, knees hitting the ground. Someone pulled her up right away. A PA rushed in and carried her to the shade.
Chazelle called cut.
"What happened?"
"Heat exhaustion!" the PA shouted. "Her temperature's spiking. She needs to rest."
Chazelle checked his watch. They'd only gotten through about three minutes.
He gritted his teeth. "Ten-minute break. Reset for take two."
The girl lay on the ground, face drenched in sweat, eyes open but unfocused. It was way too hot.
Cassius touched the water bottle next to him. It had been sitting in the sun for half an hour and was already lukewarm.
He stood up and walked over to the catering truck, asking for a bucket of ice and tossing in several bottles. Then he had the crew distribute them.
Ice was usually reserved for the principals, but with this heat, he wasn't about to let the dancers and extras suffer. He'd started as an extra himself.
Take two began.
This time they made it to four and a half minutes before someone went down again.
A Black male dancer landed wrong jumping off a car roof and hit the ground hard, clutching his ankle.
The PAs rushed in again.
Chazelle ran over, face darkening. "Twisted it!"
The dancer sat there in pain but looked up at Chazelle. "Director, I can still dance!"
"Your ankle's already swelling!"
"I can do it!" he gritted his teeth. "I'm one of the leads. No one's replacing me."
Chazelle stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Fine. But if you can't handle it, call it immediately."
They helped him up. He tested the ankle, limping badly. But he walked back to his spot beside the blue Chevy and waited for the next take.
Cassius noticed a golden orb drop from the dancer.
[Artistic Obsession and Persistence +15]
He absorbed it. It deepened his understanding of art and movement, giving him a stronger sense of commitment to the dance.
These performers had rehearsed for three months for this one shot.
Take three. Take four. Take five.
The sun climbed higher. The temperature kept rising.
The thermometer on the side read 101.7°F.
The asphalt was burning hot. You could feel the heat through your shoes.
Some dancers' soles started smoking—actual white smoke from rubber cooking on the pavement.
But they kept dancing.
Cassius waited in the crowd for his cue.
Finally, Chazelle's voice came over the walkie. "Cassius, you're up!"
He took a deep breath and stepped into position.