1814-1815

Chapter 1814: Character Collision 

The breeze scattered the rain, cool droplets landing on Anson’s cheeks. The corners of his mouth lifted into a gentle smile, growing brighter and more unrestrained by the second. 

Finally, with no attempt to hide it, he burst into cheerful laughter, his grin fully unleashed. 

Scarlett stared at Anson, utterly baffled. She’d just been pouring out her frustrations and anxieties, and this was his response? 

She rolled her eyes and gave a light shrug. “Well, my pleasure. If I can bring a smile back to Anson Wood’s face, I might actually sleep well tonight.” 

Anson laughed even harder. “Haha, hahaha!” 

His laughter was downright wild. 

Realizing it himself, he waved his hands, finally reining it in a bit. “No, that’s not what I meant.” 

“Actually, I was thinking the same thing as you. I was just wondering if I should walk away from this project. Maybe without me, this movie could actually be a masterpiece.” 

Scarlett’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide with disbelief as she stared at Anson. 

He nodded repeatedly. “Seriously. I mean it. Looks like we’ve got two deserters here.” 

Scarlett blinked, then couldn’t hold back—a smile crept onto her face. 

They exchanged a glance and both burst out laughing. 

Anson spread his hands. “So, let people keep calling us eye candy. We deserve it, right? If we’re not cutting it, no need to force it.” 

Scarlett nodded eagerly. “Exactly. Let’s just keep coasting on our looks and tell everyone who’s annoyed to buzz off. Until our faces aren’t enough anymore and the new kids take over, and Hollywood forgets us. So, how long do we have? Five years? Three?” 

Anson grinned. “Five or three, doesn’t matter. If I retired now, I wouldn’t have to worry about going hungry.” 

Scarlett let out a hearty laugh. “Haha, make a quick buck and bounce, huh?” 

Anson shook his head. “No, no, one buck’s not enough. I need to rake in a few more before Hollywood gets sick of me. Gotta prep for retirement—actors don’t exactly get pensions.” 

“Haha!” Scarlett was cracking up now, studying Anson’s expression closely. The more serious he looked, the funnier it got, and her laughter grew louder. “Hahaha!” 

But as the laughter faded, she calmed down. “You’re not actually giving up, though, right?” 

Anson gave a casual shrug, completely at ease. “Why would I quit? This is my movie, remember? If anyone’s bailing, it should be Michael Caine, not me.” 

The second he said it, his confident expression vanished. He glanced around nervously, as if worried Michael Caine might overhear. 

Scarlett couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Ha!” Her smile bloomed fully. 

Anson looked back at her, not the least bit embarrassed. “You have no idea how much effort it took to convince Michael Caine to join. We need him.” 

Scarlett pressed her lips together and nodded lightly. “I can imagine.” 

Anson let out a small breath. “What if we’re both screwing this project up?” 

Scarlett raised an eyebrow, a touch of surprise in her expression. “Didn’t you consider that possibility when you were prepping? Or even when you invited me to join?” 

“Maybe you’re just winging it. Maybe you’re making a mistake?” 

Anson’s answer was simple and direct. “Nope.” 

Clear, concise, no hesitation. 

He looked at Scarlett openly, a glint of determination in his eyes. 

Her half-joking self-deprecation caught in her throat, and under his steady gaze, she felt a flicker of embarrassment. 

Flustered, Scarlett looked down, but in that split second, she realized how awkward she must seem. Her heart started racing. 

Anson’s voice cut through the soft rain. “Maybe Theo and Julian are like that too.” 

Scarlett blinked. “Huh?” 

Anson continued, “I mean Theo and Julian. They’re not black-and-white characters, not your typical Hollywood good-versus-evil archetypes.” 

“At their core, they’re the same—scarred, broken, their hearts in ruins. From the moment they lost their child, they lost hope, lost their spark. They’re carrying so much pain and despair, it’s suffocating. And the world’s mess hasn’t exactly helped.” 

“But the difference is, Theo’s passive, trapped in his darkness. Julian’s the opposite—she’s relentless, always charging forward, always searching.” 

Scarlett was catching up now. She’d been diving deep into her character too, and it clicked. “So, she’s made mistakes, paid prices, but she never gives up. She keeps pushing, keeps chasing, even if it costs her life.” 

“Julian’s not just a spark to wake Theo up. She complements him. Even when they’re apart, their souls are still tied.” 

“Like…”  

Anson finished the thought. “Twin flowers growing from the same plant.” 

Julian is Theo’s opposite but also his complement. That’s why Theo can’t say no when Julian asks for his help. And when Julian dies, the hope buried deep in Theo’s soul, long suppressed, starts to flicker again. 

Theo’s avoidance isn’t just despair—it’s a cry for help, a longing for someone to wake him up. 

That’s why, even in his pain and bitterness, he keeps a close eye on the world’s collapse, always watching. 

That’s why, later, he risks everything to protect that newborn. 

On the surface, Theo and Phil might seem similar, but at their core, they’re worlds apart—not just in motives but in personality, tone, edges, and how they handle the same situations. 

Clearly, Anson’s brain had tricked him, blurred his perspective, and mixed things up. 

Studying a character, like studying acting, has its limits when done in isolation. The character you end up with is often just a one-sided vision, lacking contrast, lacking a mirror to show its depth. 

The chemistry sparked by actors bouncing ideas off each other is an essential part of the process. 

And it wasn’t just Anson. 

Scarlett’s eyes lit up. “I’ve been stuck in a stereotype.” 

“I kept thinking I need to be tough, tougher, toughest. I need to shed my old image, break the mold, hit the audience with something shocking. Only then could I pull off what you said—transferring their trust when the character’s gone.” 

“But I forgot about the character herself.” 

“Her pain, her vulnerability, her persistence—it’s there, even if no one sees it.” 

“Seeing Theo again, that’s hard for her. It brings back all those painful memories. But she has to find him. They lost one child; they can’t lose another.” 

“In a way, she sees the baby in that pregnant girl as their own?” 

Anson shrugged lightly. “In the script’s context, yeah, in a way. It’s like everyone’s coming together to protect, to nurture, to bring that life into being.” 

“That’s why the movie’s called Children of Men. That child is humanity’s creation.” 

Scarlett took a deep breath, clutching her head. “Hold on, hold on. I need to process this… oh, God…” 

Chapter 1815: Finding Balance 

Inspiration hit like a tidal wave. 

Anson’s mind buzzed with a chaotic swarm of thoughts and ideas, overwhelming and dizzying, impossible to untangle in the moment. But amidst the storm, a framework was slowly taking shape. Different threads and clues began to surface, and something seemed to shift quietly. 

Scarlett let out a long breath and looked at Anson. 

They locked eyes, grins spreading wide. 

Scarlett gestured playfully. “See? Who dares say we’re not method actors? Two pretty faces sitting here, having a deep chat about the craft.” 

Anson tilted his head. “And then we step in front of the camera, brains blank, acting as stiff as wooden planks, no clue what we’re doing.” 

Scarlett burst out laughing. “Hahaha!” 

Anson clenched his fist, pressed it to his chest, and yanked it down dramatically, channeling an over-the-top, anguished wail. “You’re tearing me apart!” 

“Ha!” Scarlett nearly doubled over, gasping. “Oh God, is that James Dean’s version or Tommy Wiseau’s?” 

“You’re tearing me apart” was a legendary line, first delivered by James Dean in Rebel Without a Cause. 

But just last year, in 2003, a cult classic called The Room had exploded onto the scene, with Tommy Wiseau delivering a performance for the ages, reinterpreting that line in a way that became… iconic. 

“Mark my words, that’s how you don’t act. Oh, and the script, the lighting, the editing—that’s not how you make a movie.” 

A true masterclass in what not to do. 

Anson was stunned. He only knew of The Room because of The Disaster Artist, a later Oscar-nominated film where James Franco brought Tommy Wiseau’s story to life. But right now, in this moment, The Room was an obscure oddity, barely known even among those with a taste for the bizarre. 

Anson’s eyes widened as he stared at Scarlett. “You know that movie?” 

Scarlett’s laughter wouldn’t stop, tears streaming down her face. “Caught it at a midnight screening by chance. Oh God, you’ve unlocked the full memory.” 

Anson threw his hands out. “I forgot to add ‘Lisa’! ‘You’re tearing me apart, Lisa!’” 

Scarlett clutched her stomach, laughing so hard it hurt. “Lisa! Hahaha, that’s the soul of it. You can’t leave that out.” 

A smile crept into Anson’s eyes too. “Don’t laugh. Maybe that’s how the audience sees our acting.” 

Scarlett, unfazed, shrugged with easy confidence. “That’s fine by me. At least we’re entertaining. Do you know how hard it is to make an audience laugh these days?” 

Now it was Anson’s turn, a grin tugging at his lips. “The director might cry, though.” 

Alfonso Cuarón, that earnest guy? 

Scarlett pictured the director’s shy, awkward demeanor and burst into laughter again. 

This time, the giggles didn’t last long. Scarlett looked at Anson. “So, what do we do?” 

Anson caught her gaze drifting past him. He turned to follow it and spotted Michael Caine. 

The old man, shoulders hunched, was puffing on a cigarette, settling into a rocking chair on the porch with a leisurely sway. 

No one knew when Michael had shown up—or if he’d overheard their roasting session. 

Michael didn’t look at Scarlett or Anson, his voice low and gravelly. “Stop thinking.” 

Both young actors froze. 

Michael didn’t need to glance their way to read them—he’d been through it all himself. 

Despite his legendary status, Michael came from humble roots. His father was a fisherman, his mother a maid. Forget formal acting training; he couldn’t even afford college. 

He stumbled into acting in his early twenties, landing a job as a stagehand and bumbling his way into the theater world. 

Michael’s craft was born from traditional stage work, but not the polished academy kind. It took nearly a decade for him to make a name for himself, and he didn’t find solid footing until his thirties, clawing his way up through grit and grind. 

A method actor by training, Michael also understood Hollywood’s approach. He didn’t look down on it like some academic snob. 

“What I mean is, trust your instincts,” Michael clarified. 

“You’ve been sitting in rooms, reading novels, studying scripts, analyzing characters. Hell, you’ve probably written whole backstories for them. That prep is more than enough. I know you both get your characters and your place in the story.” 

“So now, forget all that. Just act. Dive in. Collide.” 

“Don’t be afraid to mess up.” 

“This isn’t just about movie sets where the director lets you screw up fifty, a hundred times. Even on a theater stage, it’s the same. Don’t worry about mistakes. No one’s perfect. Follow your instincts, your understanding, and the answers will come naturally.” 

He paused, glancing at Anson. 

“And stop apologizing.” 

“People want you to carry their expectations. That’s their baggage, not yours. Just do your thing at your own pace.” 

“You’re overthinking, too tense, too eager to prove yourself. That invisible pressure? It bleeds into your performance. The audience might not know what’s going on—they can’t see inside your head—but they’ll feel the exaggeration, the strain. It pulls them out of the frame.” 

“What you don’t need right now is to stand here debating acting or dissecting characters, saying ‘it should be this’ or ‘it should be that.’ No. Actors who talk too much are a problem.” 

“If you want to ramble like those talentless, theory-obsessed academics, go write a dissertation on acting. Hide in your little room, critiquing everyone else’s work, acting like you know it all when you don’t know a damn thing.” 

Pfft. 

With a few casual words, Michael had roasted the entire academic crowd. 

Anson and Scarlett ducked their heads, exchanging sneaky glances, struggling to hold back laughter. 

Michael acted oblivious—or maybe he just didn’t care. 

“Actors? We’re meant to stand in front of the camera, on the stage, and perform. Feel it. Clash. Experience it with our bodies. That’s the job.” 

“People think acting’s some glamorous gig, but it’s physical labor. Labor.” 

Michael tucked his chin, peering up at Anson with a mischievous glint, like a playful old rascal, clearly pleased with his own jab. 

“Relax.” 

“Just relax. What you’re missing isn’t more thinking—it’s action.” 

“Chill out.” 

With a carefree wave, Michael leaned back in the rocking chair, swaying gently. After speaking, he seemed to close his eyes, drifting off. 

Anson and Scarlett shared a look, unsure how to react. Laughter danced in their eyes, but bursting out loud right now didn’t feel quite right. 

Out of nowhere, Michael spoke again. “Cigarette? Or, how about whiskey?” 

As he spoke, he dangled the cigarette between his fingers, gesturing toward Anson with a roguish smirk, his carefree attitude clashing hilariously with his appearance.