It could not have been done any better—those were Billy's thoughts as he finished his role within that short span of time, one that lasted perhaps no longer than the murmur of time itself. From that fine tradition came the feeling Billy carried as he wrapped up Saving Private Ryan. The deception of Spielberg and Jim Wait had been catalytic; he ended completely exhausted and four days behind schedule at Tim Burton's studio. Taking a break with a beer, he tried not to push himself further. How ridiculous the essence of people could be, and how indifferent it often was when even the smallest opportunity to do something good appeared, and that was something he loved.
-It seems to me it was harder than I thought. - Billy replied.
-Everything was harder- they told Billy -I think we hated you for the first two weeks, and honestly, I thought you were one of those unpleasant people I've met: the rich kid, spoiled and always cheerful, the sort of man who had everything and could do whatever he wanted because of his name and his circle. Even Tom, who has won two Oscars, is the type who has to struggle to do the work in front of someone talented who simply does whatever he wants.-
It was an almost punitive answer, but Billy merely made a faint grimace, and that alone was enough to speak of the divergence that existed between people.
-I'm afraid it was the director's fault. He only called me a week before and asked me about my lines. I didn't know there was a training camp involved; it was quite a surprise when they told me I seemed a bit lost. - Billy replied, laughing. -I mean, look at me. I almost ended up disliking all of you, and even so,o I wanted to ask you for work afterward. It was a complete mess.-
-The reason is that I nearly punched you in the face. - Edward replied.
By the time he finished his fourth beer, Billy was already on his second, while the crew had gone through two or three large mugs of beer, and that was a genuine problem. How infuriating things could become when something twisted the shape of sleep itself.
...
He took a breath as his plane headed directly toward New York. With a sigh,gh he thought about everything he had done; it was almost as if he could say it alouGreateat work.
He took out his blank sheets and began working on the different drawings. The story kept growing as the hours passed, becoming a fountain of memory. He began sketching the panels; his memory and talent allowed him to construct everything under a premise of development. During a six-hour flight he managed to produce an entire volume—at least in its essential details—and left two other chapters prepared in script form and rough outlines. He intended to close the entire work with two hundred volumes, already weighing the scope of what it might become.
Chapter 29 of Death Note depicted the first steps toward Kira's downfall, and the arrival of new characters who would eventually fuse into a single force.
Monica returned to doing what she knew best: reactivating her agency and her work. She was always intense when it came to pursuing what she truly wanted. When the script she had been expecting for several months finally arrived, the two films already had a date and time set.
-Darling, I can't believe it. I simply can't believe it. - Monica said.
-What exactly? The fact that we're making a film that, in my opinion, still needs a few modifications in the script, or the fact that your husband bribed me with financing for three films, entirely to my taste and under my own conditions? - Bernardo Bertolucci replied.
-Oh, God! You sound like a queen—just face it. For how long have you been complaining about someone giving you complete freedom, and when they finally do, you run away from it? - Monica answered.
-My fault, of course. But it is also my great fault to feel jealous of a man capable of bringing you to such sweetness; he manages what once seemed impossible. - Bernardo Bertolucci replied. -I think we both know very well that The Lady from Shanghai is a complex film, one that will place a noose around my neck if I fail to produce something acceptable by the standards of my contemporaries. In a way, I now find myself caught between a rock and a hard place.-
-You will make it magnificent, and with Billy you will make it even better. - Monica replied.
-I doubt that very much. - Bertolucci answered, with that unmistakable arrogance that seemed so natural in him. An Italian man who had admired Monica from the shadows, who knew that smile and understood perfectly well that a woman in love could deliver the finest performances. The tension of sensitivity was a whirlwind of thoughts that blossomed like comets, giving him the strength he needed for that kind of film.
-We will make history. - Monica said.
She knew perfectly well that she could invite three older actors to shape the film. With strong faces alone it would be possible to create the role he feared so much.
-I liked your last film, The Matrix, though only certain parts of it. Without so much American excess and with the strength of the script, it was impressive work. - Bernardo replied.
-You should meet him. He chose you and wanted you to direct the project because, in Billy's eyes, your talent lies in the rawness of the lens—in placing human emotions and human sources into perspective through dialogue that collides so perfectly with itself. - Monica said. After finishing the script, she was now completely certain that Billy's precision had not been a mistake.
Knowing Billy's ideas, she simply sighed.
-I can say this quite freely: if you do good work on three films, Billy will sign you and give you complete freedom. You will be the king of Rome. - Monica whispered with a certain playful malice, in that Italian tone capable of stirring even the last eyelash. It was a reality so refined and predictable that she hoped soon to leave modeling behind and continue pursuing her ambitions in cinema.
...
Monica sipped a glass of wine, enjoying the thought of what the future might bring. It was comforting to know that in the coming days everything would arrive and resolve itself with coherent completion.
-I accept, and I accept gladly. It is simply gratifying. - she replied softly, as though the answer had been waiting to be spoken.
-Dear. - murmured Christy Turlington, who had understood for some time now that life's difficulties had reshaped her. She had become a new woman, devoted entirely to others. For a while it had been clear that she would replace her in two or three years; her commitment to people was no longer superficial. She avoided the old circles, avoided the parties, and avoided every gift, because she had eyes only for her true patron.
-Dear, you look completely exhausted. The party must have been… intense. I think you need some rest. - Monica said, pulling the curtains aside. She needed to get her out of there, if only so she would not drown beneath the weight of her own work.
...