Hell's Actor-Chapter 231: Veritably Unflinching

"Why would you allow such a thing?"

It was the same place, the same table, and the same tea.

Director Groux turned to his actor. Meaningful or otherwise, it was yet another conversation.

"What do you mean?" he asked, wiping his glasses.

"The characters—the rest of them." Averie flipped a coin in the air. "They don’t have enough screentime."

The director nearly scoffed. "Since when did you begin caring about the other actors?"

"Since they began affecting the story."

The coin, though it rotated precariously, very graciously landed on the tip of his toes. It was tails.

"There aren’t many scenes without The Photographer in them."

It had been bugging him for a while.

"Mr. Auclair," the director began with a sigh, "you often seem to forget that this is not a commercial film. This movie isn’t about anybody other than The Lady and The Photographer."

Only when the lenses were spotless did he put his spectacles back on.

"This is the direction of the film. It would be odd to shift the focus when artistically—"

"That" — Averie pointed sharply — "is the issue. Why does everything come down to that?"

Artistry.

She was his mistress, his soulmate.

She never gifted, always lent.

And though he loved her, he knew she was a promiscuous whore.

She loved many and fucked too many.

The former became servants to her whims, and the latter grew accustomed to misery.

Either way, she always left a hole where inspiration should be.

’Funny.’

"It’s the story of The Photographer, I suppose," he whispered.

"Sorry?"

Averie shook his head. "Nothing."

He was acting differently today; the director couldn’t help but notice.

"You want the attention taken away from you?"

Averie didn’t like how he put it. It felt like he was being challenged, as if he were at fault.

"It will end up stale—the story, the plot, the acting," he argued.

He rubbed his face. "I don’t want the audience to grow tired of my face."

’Unlikely, as I am handsome,’ he wanted to add.

"It’s inevitable." He shrugged his shoulders. "No matter how good an actor I am, it’s unavoidable."

Those were valid concerns. The director would be more likely to heed them if he didn’t think everything was appropriately arranged. He liked it, his design.

"There are enough distractions in key moments to provide your performance the needed" — He searched the air for the right word — "respite."

His face contained the sort of confidence that was hard to replicate.

"There shouldn’t be an issue."

Averie didn’t say anything. He flipped the coin and hoped the director was right.

Doubt plagued him.

Was there a place for one-man shows in modern filmography? Or did the art of cinema outgrow it?

He didn’t have an answer.

There was a time when people would fill venues to catch a glimpse of a single actor. One name, that was all it took to draw out crowds of cheering women.

The old and the infirm romanticized those times. Nostalgic, they would sing of it.

Star power was a gospel, one that Averie questioned.

He was, after all, a non-believer.

Months had gone by since that conversation. Sitting in the same room as each other, watching the same scene, those two found themselves contemplating the same question.

’How far can you take a one-man show?’

The answer was on the big screen.

It was pouring so hard that it felt like the ceiling was threatening to collapse.

How was rain possible indoors? Did the ceiling come with sprinklers attached? What could possibly contain so much water?

Such thoughts wouldn’t be out of place, but they didn’t cross The Photographer’s mind.

He watched the purple of the flashing lights as it reflected on his watery pupils.

It drew incomplete images on his retinas.

The camera slowly backed up, revealing his ajar mouth and engrossed expression.

It was the same square, the same stage, and the same instruments.

Nobody was there to watch the performance but him.

Nobody was there to deliver the performance but her.

The sticks hit the drums, bouncing off the tense material. Jolted and shaken with millions of little vibrations, the droplets jumped and danced.

Like a serpent hunting its prey, her hands moved with great speed and dexterity.

They were in their element—the performer and the audience. Soaking wet from head to toe, they fulfilled their roles.

The siren sound, the EDM beat, the accompaniments—they all returned. But the drums wouldn’t quiet down.

They shook the very air and sent ripples through the cold droplets.

It was all very clear to The Photographer, as if he were seeing through a specialized lens.

The song got louder and louder.

The stage lights, shining brightly on her, swung precariously. They shook, circled, and ended up on him.

It blinded him. Behind that glare, he could still see the silhouette of her.

The lights flashed.

The momentary darkness allowed for a seamless transition.

The music was still playing. The Photographer was still in a trance. And the droplets still pelted the skin.

But there was no stage, no performer.

He was in a bathroom—a tiny one covered in white tiles.

The flickering of the light bulb didn’t faze him, nor did the cold shower.

Veritably unflinching, he continued eye contact with his reflection in the mirror.

His enlarged pupils indicated a clear disconnect with reality.

’A simple, soft-spoken protagonist is well worth it if the objective is to allow the audience to experience the film through his eyes.’

Minutes ago, The Photographer was just that—an avatar of the spectator.

’He introduced us to The City and its many characters.’

He spoke through his gaze.

’But no more.’ Averie spared the audience a glance. ’They can feel it, the difference.’

The half-naked man held a nail file clutched in his right hand. He used it to reduce a small part of the washbasin into powder.

If listened to carefully, the sound it made could be heard alongside the siren in the loud song.

Through the slightly ajar door, a shot of the kitchen was captured. It was marred by a purplish glint coming from the neon signboard outside.

Glistening in the light, the faucet leaked.

Two drops per second.