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1811-1813
🕑 Added 2025-08-17 15:49:15 +0000 UTCChapter 1811: The Day Job
"…Alright, the Human Project team is having dinner, the smartest people in the world gathered here…"
An old man, well past seventy, sat on a tattered dark green sofa. His scruffy beard, yellowed nails, and flowing white hair gave off a rockstar vibe as he gestured animatedly, talking with gusto. But his enthusiastic spiel was abruptly cut off.
"The ‘Human Project team,’ huh? Why would anyone believe that nonsense?"
The old man’s raised hands froze mid-air, his face blank as he stared at the… young man? sitting across from him on another dark green sofa.
A full beard made him look rugged and weary, while his frizzy hair seemed to have a mind of its own, reaching out in every direction as if trying to touch the sky. His black shirt, unbuttoned at the top three buttons, was a crumpled mess, leaving it unclear when it was last ironed—or washed.
Deep furrows etched his brow, a roadmap of countless nights spent wrestling with frustrations and failures. Even now, when those thoughts weren’t at the forefront, their shadow lingered, making it hard to pin down his age. It was impossible to guess a precise range.
Clearly, he didn’t care.
He paused his restless fidgeting, looked up at the white-haired man, and spoke with an aggressive edge, his words dripping with resentment.
"Even if those people and their secret bases exist, even if they found a cure for infertility, it doesn’t matter. It’s all too late. The world’s already ruined…"
"You know, it was already too late long before the infertility crisis even started."
"Cut!"
Before a response could come, Anson halted the scene himself, closing his eyes in frustration, his face full of regret.
"Sorry."
"Everyone, sorry, really sorry. I’m just not in it."
The crew stirred with soft murmurs, the tense atmosphere loosening as people returned to their tasks.
Anson opened his eyes again, catching sight of the white-haired man awkwardly tossing his long, flowing hair back—a slightly comical move.
Clearly, the old man noticed it too. "For God’s sake, I don’t envy those rock frontmen one bit. I’d rip this hair off if I could, but I can’t. I spent three months growing it out, and I don’t want my past self to look like an idiot."
Wry humor, playful jabs, and sharp wit came effortlessly.
Michael Caine was a master of the set, navigating it with ease and confidence. He switched between character and actor with the grace of someone who’d been through countless battles, commanding the atmosphere with a seasoned air.
But Anson, usually quick with a joke, wasn’t in the mood. He managed a bitter smile. "Sorry, Michael, that was completely my fault."
Michael didn’t even need to look up to sense it—just Anson’s tone was enough. "Anson, you’re too wound up. The harder you try to nail it, the more you overdo it, and it backfires. No need to stress so much. I know I’m old, but I’m not that ancient. You don’t have to worry about me keeling over every second."
A bit of banter, some self-deprecating humor, and casual wit wove through his words, delivered with a carefree charm.
Without waiting for Anson’s reply, Michael stood. "I need some fresh air to clear out these lungs that haven’t smoked in ages. How about a five-minute break?"
Alfonso Cuarón rose from behind the monitor, looking a bit at a loss, as if he wanted to say something. But in the end, he just nodded. "Alright."
And with that, Michael strode out of the room, true to his word, heading outside for some fresh air.
Anson’s tense shoulders slumped, and he buried his face in his hands, rubbing hard, frustrated with himself but unable to vent the pent-up irritation.
He took a deep breath, but it caught in his chest, refusing to release. After a long, long moment, he finally exhaled, his whole body deflating like a punctured balloon. He collapsed into the sofa, sinking deeper and deeper, boneless and spent.
He needed a moment of quiet.
Children of Men had officially started filming.
Perhaps because The Hangover’s shoot had gone so smoothly, using up all his luck, the start of Children of Men was rocky, stumbling at every turn. But Anson knew the real issue wasn’t The Hangover—it was him.
Of course, it was still tied to The Hangover.
In The Hangover, Anson played Phil, a man at a crossroads, teetering on the edge of adulthood. Lost amid life’s pressures and choices, his trip to Vegas was a reckless release, laced with a subtle but undeniable undercurrent of gloom and sorrow, paired with a trapped, restless frustration.
For Anson, that role felt natural, aligning with his own headspace. He delivered a stellar performance, and the shoot went off without a hitch. But that role’s emotional weight lingered, bleeding into his next project.
In Children of Men, Theo was a broken, despairing man who’d given up on himself, living day-to-day with a reckless disregard. He carried a bitter, world-weary resentment, as if he wished the whole world would just burn. In some ways, Theo could be seen as Phil’s next chapter.
Or so Anson had thought. But after diving deeper into the role, he realized his mistake. While Phil and Theo shared some similarities—confusion about the future, discontent with life—they were fundamentally different people.
Faced with hardship, Phil lashed outward but stayed composed, making him the one in The Hangover who could keep a cool head and sort things out.
Theo, on the other hand, turned inward, consumed by self-loathing and a lack of faith in himself. He drifted aimlessly, lost in a fog, until his ex-wife Julian reentered his life, disrupting his rhythm only to die tragically in front of him days later. That shock woke him up, forcing him to rediscover himself.
The two men only seemed similar on the surface.
This posed a challenge for Anson’s performance.
And the problem didn’t stop there—it spiraled further.
After wrapping The Hangover, Anson jumped straight into preparing for Children of Men. He hadn’t fully shaken off Phil’s mindset before stepping into Theo’s world. The characters’ similarities created a false overlap, and Anson struggled to separate them.
Moreover, The Hangover’s shoot had been so effortless—slipping into Phil’s skin took little work, and the process flowed smoothly. Subconsciously, Anson stayed tethered to Phil’s state, slipping back into it without realizing.
The trouble came when he tried to shed Phil and fully embody Theo. He often overcorrected, pushing too hard, yet still couldn’t clearly distinguish the line between the two roles.
And so, he hit a wall.
Chapter 1812: Knowing Nothing
Now, Anson finally understood why some actors stubbornly clung to the expressive acting style, not only rejecting the method and experiential approaches but even attacking, excluding, despising, and belittling them, leading to a clear divide between factions.
In Anson’s view, different acting techniques were simply various ways to get into a role. Everyone had a method that suited them, and everyone was searching for their own approach. There was no need to limit possibilities just because of factional differences.
However, while working on the set of Children of Men, Anson seemed to have stumbled upon some insights.
Expressive acting, also known as classical or academic acting, was the orthodox path. Acting instructors taught students “the craft of performance”—how to convey emotions like joy, anger, sorrow, or happiness; how to coordinate facial expressions, gestures, and body language; and how to master the rhythm and cadence of dialogue. There was a set of techniques to follow.
Teachers passed down these skills, and students interpreted and presented them based on their own understanding and strengths.
Top-tier expressive actors could even fine-tune their performances with precision. Thirty percent sadness was distinct from thirty-five percent sadness, and even a one-percent increase in intensity could make a difference. They could adjust their acting exactly to the director’s demands or their own state, fitting into the role like a perfectly meshed gear.
To the academic school, an actor’s job was to portray a variety of roles. A single actor should be able to play a thousand different characters, rather than diving so deeply into one role, as method or experiential actors did, that they became obsessed, unable to let go, or bound to that role for life, with no further performances to follow.
Even legendary method actors like Daniel Day-Lewis or Robert De Niro, who could deliver wildly different yet breathtaking performances across five or ten roles without being forever tied to one character, required immense preparation time.
Take Daniel Day-Lewis, for instance. He often needed six months to a year to prepare for a role, and after filming wrapped, he might struggle to shake off the character, requiring another three to six months to fully detach.
So, while no one could deny that Daniel Day-Lewis was a phenomenal actor, his career output was remarkably low, with a limited number of works and roles.
The academic school held firm to their perspective because expressive acting originated from theater—
Television relied on writers, film on directors, and theater on actors.
Acting, at its core, came from the stage.
Imagine a theater production running five shows a week, or even more. Over a season, an actor might need to perform in multiple different plays. If an actor got so immersed in one role that they couldn’t snap out of it, or if they needed an entire day to “get into character” before each performance, it would be an absolute disaster.
In theater, actors needed to stay calm, slipping into and out of roles at a moment’s notice, ready to handle unexpected issues on stage. They performed day after day, and after each show, they had to detach from the character and return to reality without carrying the role home.
Otherwise, if an actor playing King Lear couldn’t break character and brought the role home, their family and kids might genuinely fear for their safety.
This was why dedicated theater fans often watched a play ten, twenty, or even more times.
First, actors brought different interpretations and styles to each performance, influenced by their understanding and personal state.
Second, different actors offered unique takes on the same role, delivering the same story with distinct flavors.
Understanding this context made it easy to see why traditional academic theater actors were so committed to expressive acting. To them, method and experiential acting were untrained, unrefined approaches, lacking the discipline and legacy of theater. They didn’t just reject these methods—they scorned them.
Yet, method and experiential acting had risen to prominence thanks to Hollywood’s dominant film industry, while traditional expressive acting seemed to be fading from the spotlight.
Now, Anson was grappling with the challenge of being unable to fully shake off the influence of his previous role, Phil, which kept him from completely embodying his current character, Theo.
It wasn’t that his method acting was so masterful that he was lost in a role—far from it!
Rather, the similarities and subtle differences between Phil and Theo were muddling Anson’s subconscious. This struggle actually highlighted his inexperience. He was still learning, still exploring, and acting remained a vast field with many unknowns waiting to be uncovered.
Just look at Michael Caine.
This British actor, a product of the classical school, was best known to the masses for playing the butler in the Batman series. But in truth, he was a traditional acting powerhouse, with six Oscar nominations, two wins for Best Supporting Actor, and a towering reputation in both film and theater.
Just moments ago, Michael Caine had demonstrated how effortlessly he could slip into a role, performing with natural ease, and then snap out of it the second filming paused, returning to himself instantly.
His costume was wildly ill-suited—long hair, a bohemian vest, everything clashing like he was wearing the wrong size. Yet Michael Caine never faltered, maintaining complete control with relaxed confidence.
That was true skill.
Back in Hollywood’s heyday, actors often said performing wasn’t like flipping a switch—you couldn’t just turn it on or off. Even detaching from a role took time, and the line between film and reality could blur.
Anson had always agreed with that sentiment.
But now, watching Michael Caine, he wasn’t so sure.
Anson was no rookie. He’d worked with heavyweights like Julie Andrews, Tom Hanks, Reese Witherspoon, and Kate Winslet. Yet standing in front of Michael Caine, he still felt like a novice.
It was as if he knew nothing about acting.
But wasn’t that the opportunity?
To spar with exceptional actors, learn from the best, and venture beyond his comfort zone into the unfamiliar and unknown—that was what he craved.
Children of Men was exactly that kind of opportunity.
The frustrations were still there, the gloom hadn’t lifted, but Anson didn’t let himself spiral into overthinking. He quickly pulled himself together.
Taking a deep breath, Anson decided he needed to step away from the set and get some fresh air.
Right now, the crew was in Surrey, a small town less than thirty minutes southwest of London. Naturally, they weren’t filming in the town’s affluent neighborhoods but in a valley among the hills outside, shooting key scenes with Anson and Michael Caine as the leads.
Alfonso Cuarón had his own vision. Most of the film would be shot in London, transforming a modern city into the ruins of a futuristic one, which required extensive work and managing curious onlookers. To get the cast and crew in sync, he wanted them to hit the ground running.
So, they started in Surrey, focusing on scenes with Anson and Michael Caine.
It was a gesture of trust.
But, to everyone’s surprise, Anson—the one shouldering that trust—fumbled. Three days into shooting, his performance was a mess, stumbling and unsteady, leaving everyone exasperated.
The rocky start cast a tense, chaotic atmosphere over the set.
Stepping out of the glass house, Anson was greeted by a sea of green.
Chapter 1813: At a Loss
The rain fell in a soft patter, a gentle drizzle tapping against the leaves, slowly cascading down before silently sinking into the soil. It was as if you could hear the entire forest, the whole mountain range, breathing. All the noise and clamor faded away, slipping into the distance without a sound.
At that moment, the film crew was deep in the mountains, far from the city, far from the town, far from any trace of civilization—a secluded paradise, shooting in the heart of the wilderness.
But calling it a mountain range might be misleading. It wasn’t the untouched, desolate forest one might imagine. Standing at the edge of the ravine, you could still catch a glimpse of Surrey in the distance.
Even so, stepping just a little away from the crowd let you hear the voice of nature. It was hard to believe that London was less than thirty minutes away.
Stepping from indoors to outdoors, Anson glanced around but couldn’t spot Michael Caine anywhere. For a moment, he couldn’t tell if he felt annoyed or relieved.
If he was honest, Anson wasn’t sure whether he wanted to see Michael Caine right now or not.
For years, Anson had been labeled a “pretty face,” a tag he didn’t mind. He saw it as just an outsider’s opinion. He was always learning, always improving. Ever since Friends, he’d been working to become a true actor, and his collaborations on various film sets over the years proved he was on the right path.
Just look at those projects. The chemistry and interactions with other actors didn’t lie. Whether it was Catch Me If You Can or Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, working alongside seasoned performers and acting heavyweights, Anson never fell behind. He always kept pace, finding his rhythm.
It was impressive.
Not to mention Spider-Man. Kirsten Dunst had agreed to audition because she believed Anson could bring something unique to the film.
Maybe Anson wouldn’t call himself a master of the craft—he still had room to grow, to improve. But he never lacked confidence or conviction.
Yet, this time, on the set of Children of Men, he’d hit a wall. It was worse than the struggles he faced during Walk the Line.
A wave of helplessness washed over him.
Anson wasn’t worried about Michael Caine’s opinion. What troubled him was the thought of letting the crew down, betraying their trust as an actor, and causing the project to falter.
At the end of the day, actors had to let their work speak for itself. And Anson genuinely wanted Children of Men to be a great film, to breathe new life and reach a wide audience.
But now?
He was the one dragging the production down.
On one hand, Anson wanted to seek advice from Michael Caine, just like he had with Julie Andrews on the set of The Princess Diaries.
On the other hand, he didn’t know how to start the conversation. He was lost in a fog, unable to articulate his own confusion.
Not seeing Michael Caine at that moment brought a quiet sigh of relief, but also a pang of regret. The breath he hadn’t fully let out seemed to get stuck in his throat again.
Anson was considering whether he needed a cigarette.
“Thinking about a cigarette, huh?”
A low, raspy voice cut through, laced with a touch of laziness and a playful tease. Anson didn’t need to turn to know who it was. That distinctive, unmistakable voice—later, in the film Her, it carried the entire performance without ever appearing on screen, earning a Best Actress award at an international film festival.
Anson didn’t turn. A figure appeared to his right, leaning against the opposite pillar, quietly watching the drizzle fall beyond the eaves.
It was Scarlett Johansson.
When it came to Children of Men, Scarlett was all in. Having committed to the role, she was determined to give it her all. She cleared her schedule, arrived early to the set, and dove into discussions with the director, writer, costume team, and more, dissecting her character bit by bit, hoping to break free from her own limitations.
Even though the first week of shooting had no scenes for her, she still joined the crew in Surrey, observing and participating in the process.
Anson’s peripheral vision caught her, and a slight smile tugged at his lips. “I thought you were about to pull out a pack and share.”
Scarlett let out a soft laugh. “You don’t need a cigarette right now. You need to clear your head. No need to distract yourself.”
Anson pressed his lips together. “So, you’re saying I should face the pain head-on?”
Scarlett gave a small shrug. “If you say so. After all, you’re Theo.”
In the first half of the film, Theo is constantly running from pain, from reality. It’s not outright denial, but a self-destructive way of living. He’s bitter, full of complaints about the world, yet refuses to change or act, wasting away in despair.
Portraying such a character can be simple—playing him as a resentful, whining loser who lashes out at everything. Or it can be complex, showing his inner contradictions and struggles, his pain and confusion. It’s not just about avoidance; beneath his refusal to face the pain, there’s a faint flicker of hope, buried under layers of grief and anguish, unable to break free.
The former is the soap opera approach, good enough for a popcorn flick.
The latter is true dramatic acting, giving the character depth and laying the groundwork for their arc.
Clearly, Anson had done his homework thoroughly. The problem now was how to translate that preparation into performance.
His mind was a storm of thoughts, leaving him restless. The answer was there, somewhere, but he couldn’t untangle the chaos.
Lifting his chin, he gazed at the lush greenery stretching out before him. Raindrops slid down the eaves, like a gentle stream.
Quietly, he stood there, taking in the world’s dampness and chill through sight, sound, touch, and even taste. The chaos in his mind settled for a moment, pushed aside as he focused on the falling rain.
“It’s like the world shrinks, stopping at the edge of the rain curtain,” Anson said.
Scarlett followed his gaze, not responding right away, just listening to the rain. “But it also feels like the world stretches out endlessly, lost in that hazy mist, with no end in sight.”
That’s how things are.
Like a glass half full. Some see it as half full, others as half empty. Some try to fill it up, while others cling to what’s left, unmoving.
Then, through the sound of the rain, Scarlett’s voice came again. “Anson, if even you don’t have confidence, what am I supposed to do?”
Anson turned to look at her.
Scarlett took a deep breath, holding it for a long moment. “I… ugh… honestly, I don’t have confidence in this role. I don’t know…”
Her words stumbled, incoherent.
Realizing her own fluster, Scarlett gave a wry smile. “See? I can’t even explain my confusion clearly. It’s that bad. If you want to replace me now, there’s still time. You can still save the production. Trust me, I’d completely understand. It’s my problem, and I don’t want to hold the crew back.”
