Of the bad omens of life, of the dark signs in which one is forced to act. Billy could no longer remember how long he had been trapped in a mental block, living again and again as a prisoner of that paralysis that seemed to catalog his life.
He picked up two decks of playing cards, knowing he needed to work through them for as long as necessary. He was missing something—perhaps time, perhaps deeper work. How poor and how difficult the immeasurable could be, never steady, always wavering. He took a deep breath while studying the script relentlessly, with careful attention, a focus that almost carried him somewhere else entirely. It was complicated for everyone involved, even intrusive now that he was in Los Angeles, preparing himself for The Rules of the House of Life, The Cider House Rules—a film of love, pain, and experience where the only thing required was to act.
The film moved at a slow pace, but Billy devoted himself to studying the next two volumes, one of them bringing him a sense of ease. It was complicated because in both cases his characters reminded him of other roles. For example, At the End of Love was a film that tried to explain how to portray a detestable man, how to be carried away by the fury that tormented him, and when that fury was spoken aloud, when it finally erupted into something resembling reason.
-They might both be subtle in their own way. —Winona replied, holding the script in her hands. She had just finished filming a movie that had filled her with pain and anger.
-Very much so. —Billy commented.
-But in both roles you're portraying that same thing: a young man who succumbs to love for another woman. This time, he does it with tenderness, and in the other, through the destructive rage of passion, driven by a story that has been building for a long time. Still, they say they want someone a bit older. I auditioned for the woman's role two days ago. —Winona sighed, letting herself be carried away by the difficulty of the reading. Who could give absolute truth when so much was demanded by the work?
On the other hand, all that remained was to show up. The films had been in production for a long time, and Billy had always used money to secure roles, with small pushes here and there, while refining his performance with a talent that sometimes felt barely sufficient. The actor was exactly what one would expect, and when he acted, everything felt like a simple challenge—nothing extraordinary or especially relevant. But the drive he felt to be part of that challenge called acting, where he gave everything he had, was what mattered. Giving his best, what was enough, and even what was missing, all lay in the details.
-Come on, I'll help you a bit. —Winona said. —I think you need to lower your modulation a little—slower, always calm, always restrained. Because your character lives with constant anger, at least when he's not with the woman he loves, and that makes him more intimate with her, even when she gives him her life.
-And when I refuse to do the right thing. —Billy said. —I have to seem guilty, but at the same time almost indifferent. Because the only thing that truly moves me is the love I carry in my mind.
-My agent, who's friends with the producers, knows they asked for you because of your role in The English Patient, which earned you a small nomination. People know that, they always choose based on that, and when it's true, it gives me peace of mind. I cansay theyy may have had their eye on you for a few days now. —Winona replied.
Billy took a sip from his glass. He calmed his mind and allowed the words he still had to become simpler. He sensed that maybe he wouldn't get the role—and for the first time, he liked seeing nothing resolved. It was almost fateful that it made him want to push himself twice as hard, maybe even three times as hard. It didn't bother him. It was simply the challenge he now faced, as his life whispered a new test.
He clenched his jaw. The profile he was reading, the implicit work, seemed to lull him into a kind of self-contempt for reasons he didn't fully understand. Something felt withered. But repeating the lines again and again was enough to leave no doubt behind, enough to silence anyone who wished to dismiss him.
-Your eyes don't feel strong enough. They need more power. —Winona whispered.
-Eyes.
-You have to do it—you do it sometimes. Alive. Other times, you're just Billy inside the role. —Winona whispered. She could say it simply because she knew a great deal about male acting. She had worked with many men who gave strength and image to their roles—the best in cinema: some good, some unpleasant, others downright despicable. She believed that, as an actor, the eyes were the beginning of everything, followed by gestures repeated again and again.
The sunset lingered in the air.
...
Lasse Hallström was a Swedish film director. For months now, he had seen that Billy's performances were solid—acceptable, at the very least.
He saw then that Billy's acting was what he expected. He appeared formal, and with posture alone, when he wished, he could convey a sadness that felt natural, something commonly seen in people.
-I can say he's good. But there's something I don't like. —Lasse Hallström replied.
-He's too handsome. —John Irving replied.
-Then the pilot's role is compromised. —Lasse said, now understanding. It wasn't what he had expected. Billy was excellent, but too handsome, and he couldn't see the military man he had envisioned. Billy was blond and green-eyed. The other should have been a large, tall, strong man with comparable acting skills—perhaps rugged, even burly.
-He doesn't fit the role. —Lasse commented. —Reject him.
A hard blow for Billy, delivered with clarity and simplicity