November 14.
Breathing in the Italian air and feeling the atmosphere he had longed for every day he woke up, after so much time spent working, where anything minimally useful had been cast aside for a life he had desired for at least twenty-three years. It wasn't as enchanting back then as it was now, and surely he wasn't as striking as people expected him to be. And yet, he was that kind of person who managed to do things his own way. He had a total of twenty-seven scenes to shoot, and all of them were exactly what he expected to be working on over the next three months. The release of Star Wars in December was a clean setup, paving the way for The Headless Horseman the following year, while Tim Burton continued his work. The next year would carry so much of his name that Billy doubted he would even have time to take on more films. Expanding his legend—that was all that remained now.
--So I suppose we'll be shooting some scenes here.—Billy breathed in the air passing through his nostrils. Being so close to Naples, it was certain that Monica would arrive the following week. He had to take a car to reach the production site, then a small boat that would carry him to where the magic was being made. Billy had always loved these journeys, those that moved through the mind and transformed into a spectacle of the world's beauty, the kind of beauty one wished to preserve before everything fell apart. And yet, even seeing it that way, European capitals were not the overwhelming chaos of endless tourists coming and going.
Things moved at a slower pace, and that was precisely why his business needed to expand. Hotels would generate money—so much money, they would eventually become true resorts within ten years. All he had to do was invest over the coming years alongside a consortium, then sell his share once profits were high enough to move into more lucrative ventures applications, software, exports, or simply the craft of building brands.
The journey lasted, at most, four hours. He rested in intervals, sleeping when he could, and when he couldn't, he simply relaxed his mind and mentally rehearsed some of his lines. All he needed was to be sincere in his own way. He wasn't quite like Matt Damon, but neither was he as different as Jude Law. With Matt Damon, the entire team was already assembled for a table read in the coming days, where everyone would review the script. They had done this before on The English Patient, where Billy had participated and come to know Minghella's precise directorial skill.
--I hope the workload isn't too heavy.—Billy said, looking at the director. He was eager to begin acting; there was still time. Plenty of time. His eyes wandered with curiosity, wondering where else he might find opportunities—to shape and harmonize every remaining word. A good idea, or perhaps a flawed one, just to begin.
-We'll meet this afternoon. I've scheduled a meeting for four o'clock, Italian time,—Minghella replied.
He then left his luggage in a private house located about ten minutes away.
Billy observed the town, and every town he visited had its own kind of beauty. This one felt old houses with brightly colored rooftops, pinewood doors dancing with soft hues. He spent half the day walking, had lunch in a small restaurant with red wine, even though it stung his head. The thought of having a margarita and falling asleep on the beach or beneath a balcony lingered in his mind—time itself felt like something he was competing against. And what irony that was.
The house where he was staying stood completely apart from the others, perhaps a hundred and twenty steps away, by his estimate. With quiet confidence, he entered the living room after some time away from any presence, and there he was—Billy—facing the three principal actors, and one who had lost his place in Saving Private Ryan, while Billy had taken it, or perhaps it had simply never been meant for the other to begin with.
Billy was known for choosing his roles carefully. For a long time, he had been offered major parts everyone gave him a chance. How strange it was to see himself in others' positions. Many of his performances seemed suspended in the air, and each role gave him strength, stronger than the last every time. That was why he was watched so closely they wanted to measure fame, to measure the success tied to his image. And that, in itself, was a good sign.
-You're late.—the director whispered to him from the center of the room. Some had already arrived; Cate Blanchett was only a few steps in, while Philip Seymour Hoffman was also part of the cast. It was ironic how valuable his presence had become, how much was expected of him.
-I'm sorry.—Billy replied, dressed as always in his signature style—a suit, this time without a shirt, worn open to his own liking. His physical training was becoming more noticeable; he looked healthy now, lightly tanned. Naturally pale, that contrast stood out. His face was angular, his features distinctly masculine—that much was undeniable.
-Take a seat. I'm glad you made it. We'd like to hear your thoughts on your character, and whether you'd like to add anything.—the director said, as expected.
-I think my character is, without question, a spoiled boy who always gets what he wants, and that's what makes him happy. It's how he releases that charm—everyone gravitates toward him. But beneath that charm lies someone who provokes disdain, humiliation, even anger, because his nature is so forceful. What can a man do, trapped in the body of an adolescent, yet irresistibly charming—lighting up every room, becoming everything others wish they could be?—Billy replied, weighing every detail that lingered in the air. Painfully aware of expectations, he spoke with clarity—precise, thoughtful, intelligent.
-Well then, let's begin the reading.—came the simple reply.
…
In the following hours, they devoted themselves to reading, refining every remaining piece. Gwyneth's eyes seemed wrapped in something distant. She was beautiful for her age, undeniably so; her presence radiated in every detail. Though her roles varied, her youth carried a kind of burden a quiet, burning weight.
--I think all of you did an excellent job.—Matt Damon said during the reading. He was remarkably skilled at adjusting his lines, making any moment more effective. It was fair to say he had real talent—precise, compelling. To Billy, the most prominent actors were Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, and Leonardo DiCaprio. Yet now, Billy felt as though he had quietly erased Leonardo from the forefront, leaving Brad Pitt alone at the top, while Matt and Leonardo remained powerful, promising figures.
--We could approach this scene like this.—Billy suggested, indicating that it needed a sharper edge.
While Dickie is naked, he approaches and mocks him with careless cruelty. It could be in the words, perhaps in the performance. Maybe something like, "What are you staring at, you damn faggot," or perhaps, "Go kiss one of your little friends, you sissy." Or maybe just a look of pure contempt, a deep, consuming disgust radiating from him, something almost conspiratorial.
--And what does he really do?—Matt asked.
--I'd like him to cry… but then something shifts. Or perhaps he just holds it in, contains it.—Billy replied.
--I'll speak with the writers.—Minghella said.
...