In just a few days, it seemed like nothing had changed, as if everything had returned to normal.
However, everything had indeed changed, drastically and unrecognizably.
The entire crew of Spider-Man 2 now felt like they were walking a tightrope. They could sense the tug of internal power struggles within Sony Columbia, feel the pressure of both internal and external scrutiny, and knew that even the slightest misstep could ignite an explosive situation.
Imagine it—innocent, radiant, and unique Anson almost being inexplicably kicked off the set. What about the rest of them, just cogs in the machine?
What's more, now that Anson had stayed on and was shielded by public opinion, would the internal clashes at Sony Columbia result in smaller players becoming scapegoats?
An uneasy gloom and a sense of panic hung over everyone, the atmosphere distinctly different from before.
In reality, both the director and the actors tried—tried hard—to calm down and focus, but no one succeeded.
It was like the current scene.
Kristen's performance was just off—not because of forgotten lines or misplaced blocking, but in the subtle details like emotional nuance and how she handled eye contact. As a result, the whole scene's mood felt wrong.
She didn't even need Sam's criticism; Kristen herself wasn't satisfied.
Even if Spider-Man was just a commercial popcorn flick where no one cared about an actor's "performance energy," or if Sony Columbia had rejected the idea of giving Mary Jane any real space to act, reducing Kristen to little more than a pretty face who just screamed—a role with no real character arc or room for acting—Kristen still had expectations for herself.
But still, it wasn't working.
The rhythm, the feeling, the state of mind—everything was slightly off.
It wasn't professional.
Kristen had entered Hollywood at a young age and knew what professionalism meant. No matter if a loved one had died, if her body was racked with illness, or if her personal life was in chaos, once she stood in front of the camera or on stage, she had to be in character, fully present, and temporarily set aside the distractions of real life to deliver a perfect performance.
That's what being an actor is all about.
But now? She was fidgety and distracted—utterly unprofessional.
It shouldn't be like this.
More than Sam's criticism or the stares of the crew, Kristen was trapped in her own self-reproach, unable to shake off the sense of frustration and defeat. She felt both stifled and upset, yet didn't know how to express it.
Actors suffer more than directors.
Yet, Sam himself wasn't the type of director who excelled at guiding performances.
He knew the scene wasn't right and had a clear vision of what he wanted, but he had no idea how to help Kristen adjust or how she should act it out. Beyond telling her to take a 30-minute break to regain her focus, he couldn't offer much assistance.
At that moment, Sam finally understood Alfred Hitchcock.
Hitchcock had always hated method acting and was a staunch advocate of presentational acting.
He didn't need actors to delve into the inner psyche of a character or portray emotional depth. He just wanted actors to convey the right emotional effect. Fear meant fear—there was no need to distinguish between surface-level fear or deep-seated terror. A scream, panic, a flickering gaze—that's all it took.
Everything was simple and straightforward.
In this way, directing performances became simpler as well.
Right now, Sam wished for that kind of presentational acting. There was no need to dig deeper; he just wanted to wrap up this torturous scene as quickly as possible.
Unfortunately, Sam wasn't Alfred Hitchcock.
The words were on the tip of his tongue, but in the end, he swallowed them back down.
Sam thought to himself that Kristen was a great actor. Given a little more time, things would surely improve. If a director doesn't know how to guide an actor, the wisest thing to do is trust them—give them space and allow them to perform at their own pace.
Few people knew that Kristen held herself to incredibly high standards.
After all, since becoming an adult, she had been trying to shake off the label of child star. She'd been working on films like Bring It On, Crazy/Beautiful, and Get Over It. Even though she tried exploring her acting range in independent art films, it was hard for people to break their stereotyped view of her.
But Kristen had her own expectations and hopes.
When told to take a minute-long break, she used exactly that minute to take a deep breath and quickly regain her calm. She nodded toward the monitor, indicating she was ready to go again.
Sam didn't object.
The scene started again.
Kristen, true to form, adjusted quickly. Her body language relaxed, and her facial expressions were much clearer in conveying emotion.
However, Sam's face remained impassive as he watched the monitor—there was no visible reaction.
If Kristen's earlier performance was a 70, this was a 79.
Sam wasn't expecting a perfect score. Hoping for perfection in every take while shooting a movie would only lead to ruining himself, the crew, and the entire project.
Sam wasn't a perfectionist.
He aimed for an 80. And this take was very, very close, but it still felt like something was missing.
"Cut."
The scene ended, and Sam paused the filming, but he didn't say much else.
Standing on the stage of the theater, Kristen took a deep breath. "Director, I'd like to try again."
Sam didn't agree, but he didn't refuse either.
He was thinking about how this scene could be shot to achieve the right effect. If he didn't have an answer, shooting it a hundred more times wouldn't change anything.
"Hey, director, can I help?" a polite voice came from behind him.
Without turning around, Sam said, "No."
The voice didn't give up. "I could help run lines. Maybe it would make Kristen's focus on her eyeline easier."
Sam still didn't turn around. "I said no."
The voice finally went quiet, and the area around the monitor fell silent again.
Several beats later, Sam hesitated for a moment, his mind pausing. Why did that voice sound so familiar?
He suddenly sat up straight, turning his head—and there it was, that handsome face.
Sam's perpetually sleepy eyes suddenly widened in surprise, unable to hide his delight.
"Anson!"
Sitting there on a small stool, looking obedient and innocent, was none other than Anson.
A rush of joy and excitement surged in Sam's chest. He never realized how happy he'd be to see Anson again.
But why was Anson here?
According to the schedule, Anson wasn't supposed to return to the set for another five days. Despite the doctor's original estimate of a three- to six-week recovery period, no one expected Anson to be fully healed and back on set after just three weeks.
Anson played Spider-Man, but he wasn't actually Spider-Man.
If his recovery didn't go as planned, even returning in five days might be a stretch.
So what was happening here?