"Cut! No, that's not it. The emotion is off. I need more emotion, more intensity."
"Renly, Renly Hall, I did ask for more emotion, but not the soap opera-style exaggeration. It looks too cheap."
"Not enough! Not enough! I said, it's not enough!"
"Cut! Cut! Cut! These eyes don't look real, they lack any convincing power. It's like eye drops."
"Oh God, how can I put this? It's wrong, doesn't feel right, the emotion isn't right, the atmosphere isn't right."
"Start over, start over, start over."
...
This was the greatest challenge Renly had encountered since he began acting. Although the scene itself was indeed quite challenging, the main issue was Tony's unclear expectations for the scene. His interpretation of the scene was also lacking clarity. As a result, the performance presented in front of the camera lacked the desired texture and, even more so, the depth Renly wanted to convey.
On the third day of shooting, the scene came to a close amidst countless retakes. One scene had taken three full days to shoot, and there had been no progress. The crew was still stuck at square one, and the atmosphere on set was becoming increasingly oppressive. When the fourth day of work officially began, everyone's enthusiasm was waning.
Consecutive days spent shooting the same scene with no progress had left Renly feeling somewhat restless. This was only making matters worse in his already compromised state. However, he forced himself to remain calm, clear his mind, and meticulously prepare for the night's shoot. He aimed to avoid being affected by any negative emotions from the crew.
With the call of "action," Renly's scattered emotions settled. All his attention focused, and he took a deep breath, then another.
He slightly tilted his head back, his head pressing against the bus window. An uncontrollable sense of sadness surged within his chest. He opened his mouth wide and breathed heavily, as if he were a fish gasping for air after breaking the water's surface. But even so, oxygen seemed unable to pass through his throat. His throat felt constricted, and the accumulated air remained trapped in his mouth. The oppressive feeling didn't dissipate. In his ears, he heard the gushing sound of a spring. Before he could catch his breath, tears began to stream down his face.
He widened his eyes, struggling to look upward, but it was futile. Hot, abundant tears gathered rapidly and, without needing to blink, they flowed directly down, wetting his face. Soon, they began to escape continuously. Tears overflowed, and the deluge was unstoppable. His tears splashed, and some even made their way to his lips. Unexpectedly, he began to cough violently, as if his entire lung was about to be expelled.
Swallowing, he kept swallowing, making an effort to suppress the coughing fit. His brows were tightly knitted, and the piercing pain tortured his nerves. Profound sorrow began to slowly condense between his eyebrows, and he couldn't free himself from it. He felt like he was sinking in quicksand. He knew he was descending, but no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn't break free. Then, he watched helplessly as he was devoured bit by bit, hurtling toward doom.
Closing his eyes tightly, he attempted to regulate his breathing, suppressing the surging cries. But the sharp, bitter pain surfaced from the depths of his heart. It reached an unbearable peak. All his restraint and control were futile. The sounds of his sobbing leaked through the tightly clenched teeth, and the heavy oppression intensified to an extreme level, making it hard to bear. It was impossible to imagine the torment he was enduring.
He heard a series of moans, along with the sound of saliva being swallowed and hands rubbing together. He turned his head, tears blurring his vision, and watched the scene unfolding before him, an explicit scene unsuitable for children. Yet, he felt nothing but desolation and indifference. He observed everything with an icy detachment, then painfully lowered his head, his hands tightly tangled in his hair, unable to control his sobbing.
The moans in his ears grew louder, seemingly reaching a climax. The cacophonous clamor was so ironic. He cried uncontrollably, unable to breathe. He had to tilt his head back again, like a dying fish gasping for air. But even this kind of breathing was futile, barely keeping him alive. Each breath seemed to take him one step closer to death. But what was even more tragic was that he had no intention of resisting.
"Gimme the f*ckin' money!" A conversation reached his ears. It was hard to believe that from that slender and immature figure, such vulgar and offensive words could erupt. He closed his eyes, as if the person at the rear of the bus was a world-weary woman who had experienced the hardships of life. But in reality, she was a young prostitute, still underage.
Tears seemed to have run dry, and he just sat there, his eyes bloodshot, exposed without any disguise. There was no trace of emotion, not a ripple of movement or disturbance. It was silent, eerily silent, deathly quiet, as if his soul had vanished.
"You heard me! Gimme the f*ckin' money! Give me the f*cking money now! You think I like you? Give me the f*cking money!"
The harsh curses grew louder and more urgent with each utterance, like a demon clawing its way out of hell, demanding payment for debts.
He couldn't help but turn his head, staring blankly at the two figures—one old, one young—both in destitution and misery, yet equally powerless. He didn't know what this meant, just gazing at everything with indifference. Then, the drunkard viciously glared at the young prostitute and slapped her hard as he asked, "You want money?" The slap was so forceful that the frail figure staggered, nearly falling to the ground.
She raised her gaze and locked eyes with him. Her young eyes held resentment and worldliness, as well as coarseness and vulgarity. She scrutinized him up and down, and he turned away, lowering his eyelids. The remaining tears trickled down once more, but his eye sockets had already run dry. Tears had left their tracks on his cheeks, leaving him disheveled.
He continued to sit there with lowered eyelids, concealing all his emotions. However, the indifference and pain between his brows remained, slowly sinking away. The night outside the bus window was thick and oppressive, like a looming beast that could swallow them at any moment.
The sound of the bus engine humming filled the air, and then Tony's voice abruptly cut through, "Cut!"
All the crew members' eyes turned towards Tony, waiting for the director's judgment and decision, including Roy and Nathan. In the previous take, Renly's performance had been exceptionally impressive—his emotions were full, and the details vivid. The profound sadness and bitterness that flowed from the depths of his soul were so vividly portrayed on his face. It felt like an endless sea of suffering, ebbing and flowing, with no end in sight, no way to find the finish line.
Every person present could deeply and genuinely feel the surging and boiling emotions, like a volcano rumbling and dragging everyone into Henry's world. The heaviness, the intensity, the density of it all made it hard to breathe.
Was this Renly's best performance? It was hard to say, but for this scene, it was undoubtedly his most outstanding performance in the past three days. Moreover, Tony had not interrupted the shoot and continued smoothly. At least, it was a positive sign.
Tony didn't speak immediately, which was a significant improvement compared to yesterday's abrupt interruptions. So, what was Tony's perspective?
Renly felt incredibly tired. He hadn't gone too deep into character or become possessed by it, but the torrent of pain had consumed a significant amount of his energy and strength. It felt like he had just resurfaced from drowning, and the past few days had been filled with numerous "drownings". Both his body and mind were enduring severe tests.
Taking a deep breath, Renly looked at Tony and cast an inquiring glance. Typically, they wouldn't review the footage until later, but at this moment, he didn't rush it.
Tony pondered for a moment, then looked at Renly. Just when everyone thought he had made a decision, he raised his chin, sinking into a second round of contemplation. The rise and fall in his expressions tortured the crew, eliciting disappointed sighs.
Renly remained calm. He stood up and walked directly toward Tony. They were all inside the bus, with the actors, the driver, the director, the cinematographer, and the lighting crew. The rest of the crew members were outside, unable to hear or see what was happening. They could only monitor the situation inside the bus through the monitors, which made the situation even more agonizing.
Suddenly, Tony raised his head and called out, "Renly!" He was surprised to see Renly standing right in front of him, causing him to jump a bit. However, he quickly regained his composure and refocused on the matter at hand. He pondered and said, "I can't help but feel that something is missing in this scene. But I'm not entirely sure. Honestly, your performance just now was excellent, truly outstanding, but..."
The feeling was frustrating. It was as if everything was right, yet it somehow felt wrong, but the crux of the matter was that he couldn't put his finger on it. After thinking deeply for so long, Tony still couldn't find an answer. Thus, his expression remained hesitant.
Surprisingly, Renly nodded in agreement. "I have the same feeling," he admitted. As an actor, his own feelings were the most direct, and even though his performance had been quite fulfilling, there was always that nagging sense that something was missing. However, as the one directly involved, he couldn't judge his own performance since he couldn't see it. "Shall we review the playback?" he suggested.
After four days of shooting the same scene, they had finally achieved a breakthrough.