Media And Critic Screening (1)

…..

After signing the contracts, the later proceedings were a smooth ride for Regal.

The only major tasks left were finalizing the release date and structuring their promotional strategy around it.

Admittedly, releasing an indie film directly into theaters was a rare move. Most independent films typically went through festival circuits, earning awards and recognition before catching the attention of distributors.

Awards could serve as a crucial marketing tool, giving films credibility and something tangible to promote.

However, [Following] had neither - no festival appearances, no prestigious honors.

Luckily, Regal proposed something to the promotion team to compensate for it in an entirely different way - one that proved just as, if not more, effective.

With there help he crafted a tagline that immediately caught the industry's attention:

"The Legendary Stephen Hawking makes his grand comeback as a Presenter - this time, alongside the brilliant mind behind [Harry Potter]."

And just like that, the film had its hook.

….

[June 14th, 2010]

....

Soon, weeks passed, and the film [Following] was scheduled to hit theaters in two days.

The trailer, a brief one minute and twenty-three seconds, had already made its way to MeTube.

It didn't give away much.

Instead, it teased just enough - a character's internal monologue revealing how a single day turned his life upside down.

The protagonist, Bill, played by Andrew, spoke of his peculiar hobby of following strangers, leaving the audience curious and intrigued about the film's title and its deeper meaning.

Promotions were modest, constrained by the film's limited budget - every move had to count.

And today, the stakes were high.

Critics, journalists, bloggers, and influencers had been invited to a special media screening.

These were the people whose opinions could either breathe life into the film's release or snuff it out before it had a chance.

Today it was decided to conduct a special screening for the critic and media.

Regal, along with a small team introduced by Deonte, identifies key critics, journalists, bloggers, and also influencers who align with the film's genre and target audience.

They made sure to highlight the most interesting aspect:

[Following] - Presented By Stephen Hawking Sr.

For an indie project with no recognizable faces or mainstream backing, this was huge - and decisions like this could shift the tides entirely, sparking some valuable initial interest and garnering reviews before the official release.

Nonetheless, it can be considered a risky move.

In today's world of instant reactions and trending hashtags, word of mouth spreads fast - too fast.

If the response was negative, the fallout could bury the film before it even hit theaters.

But what choice did they have? Without a hook, an indie film couldn't afford to dream of drawing attention.

Luckily, Stephen Hawking's name was already doing some heavy lifting.

People were curious, if not compelled, to give the movie a chance.

Even this screening might not have happened at all if not for that name - and most probably critics wouldn't have spared it a glance.

….

As the clock hit the scheduled time, the private theater buzzed quietly as the attendees settled into their seats.

Stephen Sr. stepped onto the small stage at the front, his presence attracting attention without effort.

"Thank you all for joining us on such short notice." He said. "I value your time, so let's not waste it. Please, enjoy the film."

The lights dimmed.

The projector flickered to life.

A still hush blanketed the room as the film began.

….

The film opens on a striking close-up of a young man.

His gaunt face is framed by unruly hair, and his hollow eyes seem to bore through the detective sitting opposite him.

His shirt, wrinkled and stained, hangs loosely on his frame, and his fingers twitch as if unable to settle.

The detective leans forward, his voice steady but probing.

"You're connected to a series of crimes - burglary, murder. Start talking."

The young man flinches. His voice falters, teetering between desperation and dread in denials. "I didn't... I wouldn't…"

….

Moving forward, for minutes, the interrogation loops in a frustrating cycle - questions met with fragile denials.

"Fine. Sit here and think about how deep you are in." - the detective sighs and leaves the man.

Alone in the haunting silence, the frame lingers on the young man, now identified as Bill. "It started as curiosity…" His voice breaks the quiet, soft but chilling. "Then it became a habit. And then... it became me."

The camera zoomed in on his eyes - blank, unseeing, yet holding a weight that unsettles.

The people watching the movie shifted in their seats, the oppressive quiet of the theater amplifying the tension. Then, seamlessly, the scene morphs into a flashback.

Bill sits hunched over a corner table in a bustling café, a battered notebook open before him.

The room pans through the room in a few series of rapid cuts - couples chat animatedly, laughter spills from groups of friends, baristas shout orders over the hum of espresso machines.

Yet Bill is apart, still, isolated, untethered.

His pen taps against the table in a mindless rhythm as his gaze flits between the strangers around him. Each glance lingers a moment too long, his eyes locking on details the casual observer would miss - the flick of a wrist, a shared glance, the fleeting twitch of a smile.

His voiceover resumes, breaking the veneer of normalcy. "I was a writer, or at least, that's what I told myself. But writing... it was just an excuse to watch."

The camera zooms out, showing Bill's corner of the café as a world within itself, an invisible barrier separating him from the people he so intently observes.

He shifts in his seat, his notebook scrawled with erratic, half-finished thoughts.

Around him, the world moves, but he remains motionless, a solitary observer.

A shared realization spreads through the theater - his loneliness isn't just visible. It's palpable, invasive, and unavoidable.

The café dissolves into a montage, the shift jarring yet deliberate, pulling the audience deeper into Bill's world.

Bill follows strangers through streets thick with noise and alleys cloaked in shadows. The voyeuristic shots are unsettling, the camera positioned from his perspective, mirroring self-imposed rules.

Never too close. Never the same person twice.

"It started small." He narrates, the timbre of his voice darkening. "A detail here. A quirk there. I was collecting pieces of their lives to fill the gaps in mine."

The montage grows more erratic, footsteps echoing in narrow alleys, strangers' faces turning briefly toward the lens, unwitting participants in Bill's escalating obsession.

His journal appears again, now filled with cramped handwriting and sketches. His entries are meticulous, almost clinical - habits, routines, relationships.

The audience, transfixed, sees the shift - what began as a peculiar habit has become something darker, an obsession inching toward a precipice.

The voiceover continues, now tinged with regret. "At first, they were just subjects. Names didn't matter. Their lives didn't matter. They were stories, and I was just an observer."

The final flash cuts to Bill's trembling hands, the notebook clutched tightly as he scribbles frantically.

His face is illuminated by the dim light of a desk lamp, his hollow eyes fixed on the pages as if possessed. The screen lingers on his journal, lines upon lines of intimate details, strangers reduced to ink and paper, until the words blur into chaos.

"But the line between observing and becoming." His whisper breaks the scene like a sharp intake of breath. "It was thinner than I ever imagined."

The screen cuts to black, plunging the theater into silence. For a heartbeat, the audience sits suspended, breaths held, minds racing.

Then the tone shifts abruptly.

The scene erupts with vibrant noise, a bustling marketplace alive with chatter, clinking coins, and vendors shouting over one another. The camera tracks Bill as he weaves through the crowd, his eyes fixed on a sharply dressed man ahead.

A man, Cobb, walks with deliberate confidence, his tailored suit and charismatic demeanor a stark contrast to Bill's hunched, awkward presence.

Bill lingers at a distance, captivated. The audience doesn't need dialogue to sense his fascination - Cobb is unlike anyone Bill has ever observed.

That day marks the breach of Bill's cardinal rule - never the same person twice.

The next scene is laced with dread as Bill follows Cobb again.

Cobb walks with the same deliberate stride, but there's a shift, his movements feel too smooth, too aware.

Without warning, when he reaches the turn, Cobb halts. He turns, his sharp eyes locking onto Bill's.

The theater collectively jolts.

Cobb's lips curl into a smirk, a mixture of amusement and something more dangerous.

….

The moment lingers, thick with tense lines between them, before cutting to the next scene - they sit across from each other in a quiet café.

Cobb's charisma is magnetic, his laughter disarming as Bill stammers through his explanation for following him.

Surprisingly, Cobb isn't angry.

"You are… writing?" Cobb repeats, his grin widening with disbelief. "That's the lamest excuse I have ever heard."

The audience chuckles uneasily, sharing Bill's discomfort, but Cobb's light-hearted demeanor suddenly shifts.

With a casual charm that feels rehearsed, Cobb leans back and introduces himself. Freelance Philosopher - he says with a shrug.

"I break into people's homes to observe their lives. Better than a library, don't you think?"

Bill stares, stunned. Cobb's audacity is both unsettling and magnetic, a combination that leaves the audience equally transfixed.

"You want stories, don't you?" Cobb leans in, his voice low but enticing. "Come with me. I will give you the story of a lifetime."

Lonely and desperate for purpose, Bill hesitates only briefly before nodding - the decision feels inevitable, a crossing of another invisible line.

….

The screen cuts to their first burglary.

The apartment is modestly furnished, and Cobb moves as if it were a gallery - the camera follows him, emphasizing his deliberate, almost artistic actions.

Cobb beckoned Bill forward with a flick of his hand. "It's your first time, so let me show you a few things."

Bill hesitated, awkward in his inexperience, but followed as instructed.

Under Cobb's watchful eye, Bill began rifling through drawers and rearranging furniture. Each act felt strange, his hands betraying his nervousness as he moved.

Following Cobb's direction, he placed lingerie in the kitchen and an incriminating photo in the desk drawer.

"Why this?" Bill asked, his voice tight as he worked.

"Ripples." Cobb replied with a smirk. "Every detail is a strike, not random but precise, designed to unsettle, to disturb."

The camera focuses on Bill's growing unease as Cobb explains his philosophy. "We don't steal things. We steal peace. We are artists of chaos."

The camera lingers on Bill's face, his unease growing with each word. His grip on his notebook tightens, his knuckles whitening as he rationalizes the scene unfolding before him.

This is research, he tells himself. Just research.

But the audience sees the cracks forming. Each glance, each subtle flinch, betrays his internal conflict, a struggle between his fascination with Cobb and the gnawing realization of the darkness he is stepping into.

The scene ends with Bill trailing Cobb out of the apartment, the door closing softly behind them. The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating, leaving the audience braced for what's to come next.

.

….

[To be continued…]

★─────⇌•★•⇋─────★

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