Hollywood: Lights, Ink, Entertainment!-Chapter 352: Mr. White

....

LIE Studios, Third Floor | The Reading Room | Late Morning.

The brass nameplate outside read simply:

[Script Evaluation Team]

Inside, three people sat around a cluttered table covered in manuscripts, coffee cups, and color-coded folders.

This was the filter - first line of defense between the thousands of scripts that flooded LIE Studios each year and Regal Seraphsail’s desk.

Elara Vance led the team.

Kieran Thorne and Jace Merritt served as her team managers - both equally experienced.

Their job was simple in theory, complex in execution: read every script that came through, evaluate it according to LIE Studios’ tier system, and decide what made it to the next level.

The tier system was straightforward:

....

TIER ONE: Automatic Pass

| Plagiarism, catastrophic formatting issues, or incomprehensible logic.

| Action: Form rejection; no notes required

TIER TWO: Competent but Unremarkable

| Technically sound but derivative; weak characters or predictable plotting.

| Action: Brief rejection with specific feedback.

TIER THREE: Shows Promise

| Strong voice or unique perspective, but with significant execution issues.

| Action: Detailed notes; request for resubmission after revisions

TIER FOUR: The Regal Standard

| Exceptional concept with clear commercial potential.

| Action: Full report prepared for Regal’s immediate review.

....

In almost a half a year, they had sent exactly eleven scripts to Regal’s desk.

...and he greenlit almost none of them.

So the pressure was real.

Now they faced a script that defied easy categorization - something that felt like it existed in the uncomfortable space between Tier Three and Tier Four.

And it was weird.

Not just a little weird but a lot.

"I am telling you, this won’t work." Jace said, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed. "My vote is no. We’re wasting his time."

Elara said nothing, her eyes moving between the script on the table and Kieran, who hadn’t spoken yet.

This was their system: all three voted.

The majority ruled. Only when at least two of them agreed would a script move forward to Regal’s desk.

Democratic, but weighted with responsibility.

"It’s not that simple." Kieran said carefully, tapping his pen against the manuscript. "There’s something here. I just can’t quite articulate what."

"Then that’s your answer right there." Jace countered. "If you can’t articulate it, how do you expect Regal to see it? We’re not sending up maybes. We’re sending up certainties."

Elara picked up the script again, studying the title page: "Mr. White" by Rowan Atkinson.

Fourteen episodes of a live-action series.

The logline was deceptively simple: A child in a grown man’s body navigates the modern world with disastrous, hilarious results.

But the execution was anything but simple.

"It’s unique." Jace admitted, his tone softening slightly. "I will give it that. The physical comedy is genuinely witty. But there’s almost no dialogue, Elara. It’s all visual gags and facial expressions. How do you even pitch that? ’Trust us, it will be funny when you see it performed?’"

"Charlie Chaplin didn’t need dialogue." Kieran pointed out.

"Charlie Chaplin worked in silent films because that’s all they had. We’re in 2016. People expect words, stories and character development beyond funny faces."

"There is character development." Kieran argued. "It’s just expressed through action rather than dialogue. That’s not a flaw - it’s a choice. And it’s a bold one."

Elara flipped through the script again, reading descriptions of scenes rather than dialogue.

Mr. White attempts to paint his apartment, but gets paint everywhere except the walls.

Ends up glued to his chair by his own hand and the chair tips over.

He crawls across the floor, still attached, pursued by his own paintbrush...

On paper, it read like chaos. But in her mind’s eye, she could see it, the timing escalation and physical poetry of disaster.

"Who wrote this?" Jace asked, though he already knew. "Like, who is Rowan Atkinson?"

"Graduate student at Oxford." Elara replied, checking the cover letter. "Master’s degree. Apparently developed this concept over the past few years while studying. Some experience in theatrical comedy, university productions, but nothing professional with no agent backing he submitted directly."

"So he’s a complete unknown."

"Everyone’s unknown until they’re not."

Jace sighed, recognizing the logic but not liking it. "What does he want? For us to produce this? For him to star in it?"

"Both, presumably." Elara said. "The script makes it clear that Mr. White is envisioned for him to perform. Which is unusual - normally we would cast after acquiring the script. But I don’t think this works with anyone else."

"That’s exactly my point." Jace said, leaning forward now. "This isn’t a script. It’s a vehicle for one specific performer. What if Regal doesn’t think he’s right for it? What if he wants someone with more experience? Then the whole thing falls apart."

"Or." Kieran said slowly. "What if that specificity is precisely what makes it work? How many scripts have we read that could be performed by anyone? Dozens. Hundreds. This one can’t. That makes it unique."

Elara set the script down and looked at both of them.

"Regal’s instructions were clear when we started this team." she said. "He told us not to doubt ourselves. If we believe something has potential - even if we can’t fully articulate why - we should send it to his desk. He would rather look at ten interesting failures than miss one hidden gem."

"He also said he trusts our judgment." Jace countered. "And my judgment says this is risky, weird and too dependent on one unproven performer."

"Your judgment." Elara corrected gently. "Not ours. We need a vote."

The room fell silent.

This was the moment that mattered - not the reading, discussion, but the decision.

"Kieran?" Elara asked.

Kieran studied the script one more time, then nodded slowly. "I vote yes, send it up. There’s something here... I can feel it even if I can’t explain it. And I think Regal needs to see the performer, not just the script. This only works if he meets Rowan Atkinson."

Jace shook his head.

Elara took a deep breath. "Then it comes down to me."

She picked up the script one more time, feeling the weight of it...

Ten seconds passed, twenty, then she set it down firmly in the center of the table.

"I vote yes." she said. "But with a condition."

"What condition?" Kieran asked.

"We don’t just send the script. We bring Rowan Atkinson with us. If this lives or dies based on his performance, then Regal needs to see him perform. Even if it’s just a few scenes or moments. Otherwise, we’re asking him to imagine something that only works when executed."

Jace groaned. "You know that’s not protocol. We evaluate scripts, not performers. That’s casting’s job."

"This isn’t a normal script." Elara said firmly. "Normal rules don’t apply. If we’re going to take this risk, we do it properly. Agreed?"

Kieran nodded immediately. "Agreed."

Jace hesitated, then threw up his hands. "Fine. But when this blows up in our faces, I am reminding you both that I voted no."

"Noted." Elara said, already standing. "I will bring him to Regal’s office."

"Wait... now?" Jace looked startled. "You’re doing this now?"

"Why wait? He’s outside in the reception area and has been for two hours."

Kieran raised an eyebrow. "He’s been waiting this whole time?"

"He knew this was his shot." Elara said. "The least we can do is not make him wait any longer."

She gathered the script and her notes, then headed for the door.

"Elara." Kieran called after her.

She paused, looking back.

"Good luck." he said simply.

She nodded, then stepped out into the hallway.

....

Rowan Atkinson sat in one of the plastic chairs that lined LIE Studios’ third-floor reception area, his knee bouncing with nervous energy.

He had been waiting for two hours and seventeen minutes.

Not that he was counting.... Actually he was absolutely counting.

The script sat in his lap - his copy, marked up with notes and performance ideas.

Beside him was a small leather satchel containing photographs from his university performances, a rough showreel on VHS tape, and a backup plan if they rejected him outright.

The backup plan involved begging.

He wasn’t proud of it, but he was prepared.

This was his shot - possibly his only shot.

He had submitted to twelve studios over the past eight months.

LIE Studios was the first to actually call him in for a meeting.

The door opened, and a woman stepped out - sharp features, professional but not unkind.

"Mr. Atkinson?"

He stood immediately, nearly dropping his satchel. "Yes. That’s me. Rowan. Rowan Atkinson."

"I am Elara Vance, team leader for LIE Studios’ script evaluation team." She offered her hand, and he shook it perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "Thank you for waiting. I know it’s been a while."

"No, no, it’s fine. Completely fine. I appreciate you taking the time to—"

"We’ve read your script." she interrupted gently. "Mr. White."

His heart stopped. "And?"

Her expression was carefully neutral. "We would like you to meet with Regal Seraphsail."

The world tilted slightly.

"I am sorry, what?"

"Regal Seraphsail, our director. We’re taking you to his office now."

"Now? As in right now?"

"Is that a problem?"

"No! No, absolutely not. I just..." He grabbed his satchel, fumbling with the strap. "I didn’t expect–that is, I thought this was just a preliminary meeting to–"

"Mr. Atkinson." Her voice was kind but firm. "Breathe. This is a good thing."

He nodded, trying to regulate his breathing. "Right. Yes. Good thing. Breathing. I can do that."

She smiled slightly. "Follow me. And bring your script - the marked-up one. He will want to see how you’ve been thinking about the performance."

They walked through the hallway, Rowan’s mind racing.

The Regal Seraphsail.

The man who had written and adapted [Harry Potter], and introduced what an authentic superhero’s look like.

And the man who built LIE Studios from nothing, worked with the best actors and directors in the industry.

And he was about to meet him with a script about a man-child who gets his head stuck in a turkey.

This was either brilliant or catastrophic, and he genuinely couldn’t tell which.

"Quick question." Rowan said as they approached another set of doors. "Is there a particular way I should... should I address him Mr. Seraphsail? Or Regal? Or sir? What’s the protocol?"

"Just be yourself." Elara said. "He appreciates authenticity."

"Yeah. I can do authenticity." He paused. "What if my authentic self is currently terrified?"

"...chuckle, then be authentically terrified." she said, stopping outside a door. "But also be ready to show him why this script matters."

She knocked once, then opened the door to speak with someone inside - a woman, professional, clearly Regal’s assistant.

Rowan couldn’t hear the conversation, but he saw the assistant nod and disappear back into the office.

Thirty seconds later, she emerged.

"Mr. Seraphsail will see you now." she said. "But he is currently in the middle of a session with two actors. He asks that you wait just inside - he will be with you in a few minutes."

Elara glanced at Rowan. "Ready?"

No, he thought.

"No actually." he said.

She opened the door.

....

.

[To be continued...]

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