The reception to the Conan episode on TBS received 1 million viewers live, beating out Ashton Kutcher Two and a Half Man appearance. The 7 Days DVR came out to be a surprising 1.95 million viewers and the feedback was overwhelming positive and curious towards the newcomer Ryan Stone.
Ryan's twitter profile which only had one tweet which was about the premiere of Margin Call rose from 10,000 to 80,000 followers in a span of two days. Ryan set up an account on Instagram with a photo of the CMBYN on a plain coffee table and by the next day had 50,000 followers.
Ryan was unused to the attention he was achieving and was receiving to parties that he could only dream of. And also thanks to Zach's invitation, he was asked to attend the GQ Men of the Year party at the Chateau Marmont. It would be one of the first industry events that he would attend; he was worried though about going through a dark rabbit hole of fame and attention.
He sat down on the plastic chair as he played Bach on the piano. He tried variations of Liszt and Busoni to Bach's Capriccio on the Departure of a Beloved Brother. The sunset hit his faced, as his concentration waned, he looked around his space.
His apartment, a mess of dirty clothes and books—An Actor Pepares by Stanislavski lying open on the floor—gave him a strange sense of calm, as if the life he had lived until now had been merely the foundation. Soon he would begin his maiden voyage, where the water would slam against the hull, replacing the planks, the mast, and the ribs with newer material: a thought that terrified him, for his greatest fear was looking into a mirror one day and realizing the parts of himself he had once taken for granted had been replaced and were forever lost in the virgin sea.
It is a lesson he learned through his childhood where he was moving to a shitty home to an even shittier home, constantly losing the possessions he loved most: a blue spinning top or a box of Crayola colored pencils. How often he had cried over those losses! But far scarier was the thought that the traits his adopted family had worked tirelessly to install him—honesty, respect, and integrity—might one day erode into their opposites, until he could not tell whether he was still himself or an actor on a stage before an empty crowd.
His thoughts drifted away as he would prepare for the party, he called Mark if the agency could give him a black tuxedo. Surprisingly, Mark told him that Prada would like him to wear the FW11 Black Mohair Suit that had narrow silhouettes and intellectual look about it
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The Chateau Marmont did not look like the type of place Ryan had imagined celebrities gathering in. The building itself was old, vaguely European in architecture, hidden behind thick hedges and palm trees that gave the impression the hotel wished to be invisible. The yellow lighting spilling from the windows felt tired and it seemed like a great place to do an abandoned building video.
Outside the entrance a line of black SUVs waited beneath camera flashes. Assistants spoke quickly into Bluetooth headsets while valets moved with rehearsed urgency. Young women in black dresses stood smoking near the curb, pretending not to notice photographers across the street. Ryan paused for a moment before exiting the car. He could hear laughter somewhere beyond the gates, low and distorted beneath the muffled bass of music.
"You good?" Zach asked.
Ryan nodded even though he wasn't.
The moment he stepped into the courtyard he understood why people mythologized the place. . Strings of warm white lights wrapped around palm trees and hanging vines while candles flickered across stone tables crowded with glasses of champagne and half-finished cocktails. The air smelled of cigarettes, expensive perfume, alcohol, and chlorine from the nearby pool. Hidden speakers played a mixture of The Strokes, Kanye West, and electronic music Ryan did not recognize.
Nobody at the party appeared fully relaxed. That was the first thing he noticed. Everyone carried themselves beautifully. Men in tailored suits leaned casually against walls while subtly scanning the crowd between conversations. Women laughed softly with one another while talking about the latest hits: the Oscar buzz surrounding The Artist , Ryan Gosling in Drive, or the first season of Game of Thrones. Publicists drifted through the courtyard like handlers at a zoo and avoiding the big A-listers.
The entire atmosphere revolved around attention:
who possessed it, who was losing, and who would gain it. Ryan followed Zach toward the bar near the pool. As they walked, he recognized faces everywhere. Michael Fassbender stood near the edge of the water speaking with two producers while smoking under heat lamp. Rooney Mara sat on the backrest of a couch listening silently as David Fincher offered her a role. Ryan briefly caught sight of Andrew Garfield laughing loudly beside a group of journalists near the staircase.
Ryan heard Andrew said, "If I could be any flavor of ice cream. Do GQ readers really want to know that. I guess l like banana ice cream so l would be a monkey".
The absurd thing was how human they all looked up close. Ryan could suddenly see the exhaustion beneath their eyes, the careful maintenance of charm and tension they would receive when their publicist came up to them
A woman carrying champagne paused beside him.
"Ryan Stone, right?"
The fact she knew his name made him stand taller.
"Yeah."
"I loved you on Conan."
"Thank you."
"Did y'all rehearse"
Ryan laughed awkwardly. "God no, l came last minute."
"Did great, l thought Conan brought students from UCLA for a bit"
"Well, they're probably smarter than me."
She laughed and excused herself to catch with her friend.
Ryan stood there holding his drink, unsettled by how quickly strangers now spoke to him with familiarity. A month ago nobody in Los Angeles would have recognized him outside a casting office. Now people watched him when they thought he wasn't looking. He could physically feel the looks he's getting.
"That's the guy from Conan."
"He's the Margin Call kid."
The words never reached him directly, yet he sensed them anyway.
Near midnight the party grew denser. Cigarette smoke thickened beneath the outdoor heaters while the music became louder, conversations dissolving into overlapping noise. Waiters maneuvered through crowds carrying trays of drinks above their heads like offerings. Somewhere deeper inside the hotel someone began playing piano badly while a small crowd laughed drunkenly.
Ryan wandered briefly into the interior hallways alone. The hotel corridors felt dim and dreamlike, lined with old photographs of actors long dead. The carpets muffled footsteps almost completely. He passed a half-open suite where several executives sat around a table discussing international distribution numbers while an actress no older than twenty-two silently checked her reflection in a dark television screen.
The hotel felt haunted. As Ryan reached a balcony overlooking the courtyard below, he took out his phone instinctively: 100,000 thousand followers.
The number barely registered emotionally anymore. Instead he felt a sense of vertigo. The growth was happening too quickly for his mind to adapt. Thousands of strangers suddenly constructing versions of him in their heads based on interviews, photographs, and ten-minute television appearances.
Ryan looked back down at the courtyard.
Below them a cluster of photographers erupted into flashes as another celebrity arrived through the front entrance. Heads turned almost mechanically throughout the party.
"It's strange," Ryan admitted quietly. "I used to think this would feel different."
"How?" Andrew asked nearby.
"I don't know. Bigger maybe."
Andrew laughed softly.
"That's because fame shrinks everyone. God, l need a drink."
The sentence lingered with Ryan.
"You were great on Conan," Andrew added casually.
"Thanks."
"You didn't oversell yourself. Most young actors walk into attention screaming. I remember l did a play on broadway and l remember Leslie throwing up after the premiere. You did better than him"
Ryan leaned against the balcony railing. It was getting colder and the night getting quieter
"You know the dangerous part?" Andrew asked
"What?"
"It would feel personal. Just dont get into your head"
Ryan looked at him."Great advice. l thought Spider-Man supposed to be smart"
"lm in the same boat as you," the man said. "l dont know what the fuck im doing."
Both laughed and Andrew soon disappeared back down the hallway. Ryan remained alone on the balcony for several minutes afterward.
Below him the party glowed warmly against the Los Angeles night. Beautiful people drifted through gold light carrying expensive drinks while conversations about films, agents, scripts, and magazine covers merged into one endless symphony of chatter. A cold breeze moved through the palm trees overhead.
Downstairs someone shouted his name.
Not loudly. Just enough.
He looked over the balcony and saw a small group near the pool staring upward toward him expectantly. One of them lifted a phone slightly, asking silently for a picture.
Ryan hesitated.
Then he smiled automatically.