Ch-172

Viola Davis and Carrie-Anne Moss turned toward me in unison, both immersed in rehearsing their lines before I arrived.

"I'm sure you won't find anything interesting between a pair of old hags," Carrie joked.

"Old hags?" I glanced around deliberately. "I don't see any old hags here." Then I turned to Benji. "Do you?"

Benji, my ever-dutiful assistant, shook his head.

"Benji doesn't either," I continued. "So, can I join you for rehearsals?"

Viola gave me an appraising look from head to toe before saying, "I don't think any of us here can tell you what to do or not to do, young man. You call the shots, don't you, Mr. Producer?"

"I'm not really the producer," I said, wagging a finger to emphasize the point. "Well, technically, I am, but not really. I had no hand in pre-production or anything. They're just adding my name for marketing reasons. I don't want anyone treating me differently because of that."

Paramount had been milking my name for all it was worth. When they announced the film a few days ago, they also revealed that, in addition to acting, I was a producer. That was because I'd produced three back-to-back critically acclaimed films last year, and people were eager to see what else I could whip up.

I didn't mind much—actors who get a share of the revenue are often given the title of Executive Producer, even if they haven't invested personally. So being bumped up to Producer wasn't a big deal, especially for a film that wasn't meant for awards season. That was a whole different scenario, requiring proof of heavy involvement in production to qualify for the Best Picture nomination.

"If you say so," Viola relented. "Let's not waste time with idle talk. Let's run the scene a few times before DJ gets ready for the shot."

"You're oddly serious about this," I remarked but moved to my mark anyway.

"I have to be," Viola said solemnly. "Once, I shot a big studio movie where I had a small role—just a few scenes. I wrapped in a week, got my paycheck, and moved on. When the film was released, I went to the theater with my entire family, excited to see myself on screen… only to find out they had reshot my scenes with another black actress. Apparently, I wasn't 'good enough' for the role, and they hated my performance so much that they didn't even have the decency to call and tell me. Instead, I humiliated myself in front of everyone I loved."

I didn't know what to say to that. I'd done so many films over the years, but I'd never played a minor role in any of them. My briefest role to date had been in the [Extras] episode I shot with Ricky Gervais. And given my fame, no one would dare do something like that to me without my prior approval.

I knew being a struggling actor was tough, but hearing Viola's story was heartbreaking.

"Don't worry," I said in what I hoped was a reassuring tone. "I'll make sure that doesn't happen to you this time."

"My scenes won't get reshot, or they'll at least call me if they do?" she asked challengingly.

"The former," I said with confidence.

Viola didn't look entirely convinced but nodded nonetheless as we began rehearsing. One thing she hadn't said outright—but had certainly implied—was that there had been a racial element to her treatment in Hollywood as a small-time actress. I felt bad for her, but I couldn't change the entire industry on my own. I could, however, make sure something like that didn't happen on a project I was involved in.

"So, you guys have already been acquainted, huh?"

I turned to see DJ Caruso, the film's director, watching us with a pleased expression.

"Let's begin, then." He nodded to himself in a self-satisfied way, as if he had just accomplished something great, then said, "Action!"

"Wait!" I called out before the scene could start. Turning to him in confusion, I asked, "We're just jumping in? You're not going to give us any direction at all?"

"Not on the first take," he explained. "I like to let my actors do a few takes however they want. Then I step in and tell them what worked and what didn't. The cameras aren't even rolling for this one—we only start filming once we hash out the approach. The others already know this since we covered it at the table read."

The table read that had taken place weeks ago—back when Shia LaBeouf was still attached to the project.

I had to admit, it was a unique way to film a scene. I'd worked with plenty of directors, but this was the first time I'd encountered this particular approach.

Not that it was bad, necessarily, but I wouldn't call it ideal either. The great visionary directors—Steven Spielberg, Alfonso Cuarón, even the newbie Rian Johnson—always came prepared with a clear vision of how a scene would unfold. After all, filmmaking isn't just about acting. There are cameras, sound equipment, mics, lighting—so many moving parts that need to be coordinated to perfection in order to nail a scene.

"Okay," I said after a moment's thought. "Let's try it your way."

There was no point in antagonizing him—especially when we had the whole film ahead of us. As long as Caruso stayed civil, I would too.

With that in mind, I resumed my position on top of the kitchen island. Viola crouched down to fasten the ankle monitor around me while Carrie-Anne and José, the other actor in the scene, stood behind me in the background. We had already run through the scene a few times, so we were fully prepared.

From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of Benji, watching eagerly. This was the first feature film he had seen me shoot since coming to work for me, so his excitement was understandable.

"Action!"

At the sound of the magic word, Viola began the scene.

She clicked the ankle monitor onto me, and a green light blinked on. "Okay, you're all set to go nowhere." Straightening up, she met my gaze and continued, "Now, green means you're good—in the safe zone—which covers about a hundred-foot radius from this guy." She patted a modem-like black device on the kitchen counter. "You unplug it, the police come immediately."

As she continued her monologue, explaining the device's mechanics, I couldn't help but marvel at the speed and precision with which she delivered her lines. She barely paused, her rhythm seamless. Her scene was fast-paced, but according to the script, the camera would remain equally focused on all three of us—Viola, Carrie, and me.

I had already decided what emotion I wanted to convey in this moment—helplessness. My character had done something wrong. He had hit his teacher, and now he was facing the consequences. A small part of him regretted it, but a much larger part was simply resigned to his fate. He had no hope of escape. And so, I had chosen helplessness for this scene. Without saying anything, I had to say it all.

"Cut!" Caruso called out, even though we weren't actually filming yet. "You're all doing great, but we need to adjust the blocking a little. Jose, shift a bit to the right. Yes, exactly there. Carrie, move left. Perfect. Viola, you'll be facing Troy most of the time, but keep Carrie in your periphery."

Everyone accepted his directions easily. Then, finally, he turned to me.

"Troy, you're doing great, but I think you're too good for this scene."

I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about. If I was good, wasn't that better for the film?

"This isn't some Oscar-bait movie," he clarified. "We don't need top-tier acting from you—just enough to keep the character believable."

Keeping my voice level, I asked slowly, "So… you want me to lower my standards on purpose?"

"Exactly," Caruso nodded as if he had just made some profound point. "That's exactly what I want. I want to keep this film real, and you express too much for a teenager. I noticed that in your last three films as well. It's better if we curb that tendency from the start."

I didn't say it out loud, but in that moment, I hated that man with a passion. I had worked with some of the greatest directors of my time, and not one of them had ever accused me of overacting. And now this nobody thought he knew better? If I truly overacted, I wouldn't have three acting Oscar nominations and a win under my belt.

The air in the room grew thick with tension as I remained silent, my expression unreadable. Everyone else had stilled, clearly sensing the shift.

The silence stretched—until Landon, the first AD, finally broke it.

"How about we shoot the scenes in two versions?" Landon suggested nervously, carefully gauging my reaction. "One where Troy acts the way he wants, and one where he follows DJ's direction."

That was actually a great idea. I wanted to get through this film as quickly as possible, and DJ Caruso was already grating on my nerves with his passive aggressive behavior—and it hadn't even been a full day yet. If two takes could keep the arguments to a minimum, I was all for it. And I already had a feeling that there would be plenty of arguments ahead.

"That would be too much work," Caruso interjected before I could respond. "Everyone would have to deliver two perfect takes. It would unnecessarily inflate the budget."

"I'll handle it," I said, breaking my silence. "I'll talk to the studio. Don't worry about the budget. From now on, we'll shoot two versions—one where I follow your direction, and one where I overact."

"That's not what I said," Caruso immediately.

"Sure you didn't," I replied with a patronizing smile before turning to Landon. "Send the request to the production team. If they have any concerns, tell them to get in touch with me."

Landon gave a hurried nod.

"Now," I addressed Caruso with authority, "we'll shoot the overacting version first to get it out of the way. Once that's done, we'll shoot your version. Your job will be to make sure that everyone else is acting perfectly."

The director remained silent for a few moments, while the rest of the cast and crew shifted uncomfortably, clearly uneasy about the on-set tension.

Then, Caruso stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear him.

"I'm sorry if I offended you, Troy," he said, his tone apologetic. "I didn't mean to question your acting ability."

"But you did," I replied coolly.

His mouth opened slightly, as if searching for a response, but I didn't give him the chance.

"Listen, man, let's not waste any more time," I continued evenly. "You do your job directing everyone else, and I'll direct myself. As a courtesy, I'm allowing you a second take of your choice. And remember—my producer credit might be mostly for marketing, but I am still a producer. Don't push my buttons. You won't like the outcome."

I hadn't raised my voice once. I didn't need to. When your words carry weight, there's no need to shout to establish dominance.

Caruso swallowed hard and gave a stiff nod before stepping away, but I caught the flash of resentment in his eyes. I didn't care. He could hate me all he wanted—I wasn't about to let him dictate my performance. No one would ever say that I didn't give my best, even if the film itself ended up being forgettable.

I made my way over to Landon and spoke just loud enough for him to hear.

"I want the dailies for everything we shoot."

Landon hesitated. "I don't think I should—"

"You will," I cut in firmly. "It's already in my contract. Talk to the production team and get them to me."

He nodded before I returned to my spot to resume the scene. Caruso still wasn't happy with the direction of the film, but thankfully, he didn't complain when I delivered my best performance of the day in the next take.

(Break)

"So why did you call me out of the blue?" Evan asked over Skype. We had set up these cross-continental calls for moments like this.

"Can't I call my own brother?" I said, feigning offense.

"You wouldn't—not when we just talked yesterday," he shot back. "So fess up. What did you do?"

I shook my head in mock disappointment. "I have such a terrible brother who doesn't even trust me." Then, in a more serious tone, I said, "Dad texted me. He said you got your results today and passed all your exams. Congrats."

Evan shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal. "I did okay, I guess. Not top of my class, but well enough. Graduating is more of an American thing. Over here, almost everyone in my class has already started uni or will in a few days."

"Except you," I pointed out.

"Except me," he admitted. "I don't want to do that. I already have enough money from [Echoes of You] that I don't have to worry about finances for the rest of my life."

"As long as you don't get careless," I reminded him. "So what's your plan now?"

His eyes lit up. "You know Lenny and Ash? The three of us, plus Nadia, are making a short film together."

"Still?" I asked in surprise. "Haven't you been doing exactly that for the last few years?"

He shrugged. "I need the experience before moving on to feature-length films."

Hearing him say that only confirmed that my idea was solid.

"Don't make the short film," I said. "Believe me, you have more than enough experience already. Instead, come to L.A. and help me with the film I'm shooting right now."

"That rip-off of [Rear Window]?" he asked curiously. He had, of course, read the script when I accepted the job.

"Yes, that one," I confirmed. "I need someone I trust to help me edit the footage and tell me if we need reshoots. And there's no one I trust more than you."

He was silent for a few moments, then finally said, "Does this count as nepotism if you gave me the job directly?"

"I don't care," I said seriously. "Come here. Ask Dad to send the jet—"

"No need," Evan interrupted. "I'll take a commercial flight. It's better for the environment."

I smiled. "So you're coming?"

"Of course I am," Evan nodded excitedly. "How could I miss the chance to edit your next film? But before I come, tell me—why do you need me on a studio project?"

I sighed before launching into the full story of what led me to this decision.

"And they're just… letting you do that?" Evan asked, still skeptical. "Paramount, I mean."

I smirked. "Of course they are. I'm the biggest star in the world."

"In your dreams, maybe," Evan shot back. "The biggest star is obviously Tom Cruise."

"My films have grossed more than his," I pointed out. "And I'm not even eighteen yet."

Evan rolled his eyes and got up from his seat. "I have to go pack if I'm staying with you for a few months."

"See you soon, bro."

He waved before the call cut off.

Truthfully, I would've preferred if Dad—or even Mum—could be here to help sort out this mess. Dad had years of experience working on films, and Mum had recently built her own reputation in British TV, thanks to her job at the BBC. But both were busy with their own projects.

Dad was tied up with [Harry Potter], while Mum had taken charge of two major TV productions—[The Night Of] and [Game of Thrones].

I had actually suggested [The Night Of] as a title. [Criminal Justice] felt too generic to me. [Game of Thrones] was still in the early stages of development and would take years to refine before HBO would greenlight the budget. A series that ambitious required serious investment, and no studio would just hand over that kind of money without a perfect script.

That left only Evan. And honestly, I knew he'd be perfect for this. He had already proven himself as an editor—he had cut the three music sequences he shot for [Echoes of You] himself, and they were good. This wasn't just nepotism. It was a smart move.

At least I hoped so.

_______________________________________

AN: I know Troy comes off a bit arrogant in this chapter, but I thought it was deserved given everything he has achieved at his age. What do you think?

Also, as far as I know DJ Caruso is a good, easygoing director. Everything in this story about his behavior or actions is fictional.