{1st Person POV}
Sunday, 8th June, 2008
In the peculiar atmospheric conditions that embraced Southern California on this particular day, an uncommon chill descended, weaving its tendrils through the air. The once familiar warmth that usually graced Los Angeles was replaced by a cold, biting wind that whispered tales of a different season. Above, the expansive sky was blanketed by foreboding clouds, their dark presence casting a shadow over the sprawling city.
In response to this unexpected weather shift, I found myself draped in layers of attire, a scarf snugly wound around my neck, serving as a barrier against the penetrating cold. Each breath I took seemed to nearly crystallise in the brisk air, and the ensemble of my clothing reflected the need for warmth and protection. My lower half was adorned with grey pants, offering a muted contrast to the navy blue shirt that covered my upper body.
Amidst the chill, my hands, exposed to the elements, sought refuge in fingerless gloves—a pragmatic choice that balanced the necessity of warmth with the practicality of maintaining dexterity. The attire encapsulated not only a shield against the cold but also a sartorial reflection of adapting to the unexpected mood of the day.
As I navigated the streets of Los Angeles under the sombre sky, the wind carried with it a sense of mystery, blending with the city's usual hustle and bustle to create a unique symphony of urban life set against an unusual climatic backdrop. Each step I took felt deliberate, a rhythmic response to the changing cadence of the weather. The scarf wrapped around my neck swayed gently with the wind, a silent accomplice in this weather-induced journey through the urban landscape.
The cool breeze played with loose strands of my hair, creating a sensory experience that immersed me in the atmospheric shift. And as the grey clouds continued their silent parade overhead, I couldn't help but marvel at the unexpected beauty that unfolded in the intersection of nature's capriciousness and the bustling vibrancy of the city below.
With deliberate and ponderous steps, I ventured further into the tranquil embrace of the Graveyard, an enclave situated on the eastern fringes of the city. The ethereal hush of the wind whispered among the gravestones, carrying tales of lives that once intertwined with the pulse of the city. The enigmatic dance of shadows played upon the weathered tombstones, each telling its own silent story of departed souls.
Navigating through the labyrinthine paths that meandered through this solemn sanctuary, I found solace in the presence of vibrant greenery that adorned the surroundings. Bright green trees and meticulously tended plants created a striking juxtaposition against the sombre ambiance of the graveyard. The delicate balance between life and its inevitable end painted a poignant picture, one that grabbed my gaze and invited contemplation.
As the muted sunlight filtered through clouds and the branches, casting dappled patterns on the ground, I ambled on, the gravity of the place seeping into my every step. It was a picturesque scene that belied the weighty atmosphere of the resting ground. A paradoxical blend of tranquillity and melancholy lingered in the air.
After a considerable passage of time spent traversing the winding paths, I found myself halting before two particular gravestones. The chiseled inscriptions bore the names "Malcolm Denis Knight, 1959-2007" and "Claire Alison Brooks, 1961-1994." The weight of those dates pressed upon me, a silent acknowledgment of the temporal nature of existence.
"Father, mother," I murmured, my voice a mere whisper in the hallowed stillness. A surge of memories cascaded, an involuntary reminiscence of a life once lived. The gravestones stood as silent sentinels, marking the passage of time and preserving the legacy of those who had come before.
In this tranquil corner of eternity, I felt the threads of my past interweaving with the present. The graveyard, once a symbol of finality, now held a nuanced significance, a bridge between realms of existence and a testament to the enduring nature of memory.
It might appear as a surprise that I had grown accustomed to living in this alternate world, this life, and, most significantly, to living as Oliver Knight.
In the grand tapestry of my existence as Oliver Knight, the recent orphanhood I had inherited was a thread that wove through the fabric of my everyday life, sometimes subtly, other times more prominently. The newfound chill in the Southern California air seemed to echo the quiet solitude that had settled within me since the passing of my father. In navigating this intricate emotional landscape, my attire, now carefully chosen for its practical warmth, mirrored the layers of identity I was unwrapping in the wake of this unexpected life shift.
While my primary focus had been consumed by the alluring promises of the Entertainment System and my ambitious cinematic endeavors, a deeper current flowed beneath the surface of my aspirations. The relationships I had unwittingly stepped into, entwined with those who had known and cared for Oliver, had quietly burgeoned into something meaningful. These connections, once merely peripheral, had now grown into a special tapestry of their own, offering both solace and a sense of belonging in the face of life's uncertainties.
In the midst of crafting film scripts and envisioning a trajectory that would catapult me to the zenith of the entertainment industry, I found myself grappling with the duality of my existence. Was I solely the aspiring director fueled by cinematic dreams, or did I, too, bear the weight of Oliver's orphaned reality? The layers of identity, much like the layers of clothing that shielded me from the unanticipated cold, demanded acknowledgment.
The realization slowly unfolded, a quiet epiphany in the midst of my cinematic pursuits. Oliver Knight, the newly orphaned soul navigating the labyrinth of grief, and Oliver Knight, the fledgling director with dreams that reached for the stars, were not mutually exclusive. They were harmonious notes in the same symphony of life, each contributing to the unique melody that resonated within me.
Acceptance became the natural progression, a gentle surrender to the amalgamation of roles that defined this chapter of my existence. To embrace Oliver Knight, not just as a director shaping narratives on the silver screen, but as the individual shouldering the weight of loss and the newfound journey of self-discovery. The scarf around my neck, a symbol of warmth and resilience against the cold winds, mirrored the layers of acceptance I was wrapping around my evolving identity.
In the quiet stillness, with a smile on my face, I spoke words of gratitude to the ethereal souls of my parents who lingered in memory. "Thank you for taking care of me, raising me, and sculpting me into the man I am now. I swear that I'll become a great person who you can be proud of."
With those solemn words hanging in the air, I turned away from the gravestone, my steps echoing against the backdrop of the quiet graveyard. Each footfall marked a stride towards self-acceptance, a departure from the graveside contemplation.
As I strolled through the city streets, the dichotomy of my reality blended seamlessly with the urban rhythm, creating a poignant symphony of self-awareness. The wind, now more of a companion than an adversary, whispered the cadence of acceptance as I allowed the city to embrace the multifaceted persona of Oliver Knight—both orphan and burgeoning director. In this delicate dance between past and future, loss and ambition, I found a resonance that transcended the immediate pursuit of cinematic glory, weaving a narrative that echoed the complexities of life's unfolding script.
***
Friday, 13th June, 2008
A week had gracefully unfolded its wings since the solemn moment at the gravestone, and now, under the Southern California sky, a vibrant celebration was underway. The setting sun cast a warm glow over the Hollywood Hills, as if bestowing its blessing upon the gathering that marked the completion of 'The Prestige's filming—a cinematic endeavor that had become a focal point of my newfound identity.
As I stepped into the lively venue, the air pulsated with the rhythm of animated conversations. The clinking of glasses and the melodic laughter of industry insiders echoed through the space, creating a symphony of celebration that resonated with the vitality of the entertainment world. The bustling crowd, adorned in a kaleidoscope of glamorous attire, mingled beneath the luminescent glow of twinkling lights.
In this dynamic tapestry of festivities, conversations flowed like a river of industry tales, gossip, and shared secrets. Each anecdote, a currency traded in the bustling marketplace of Hollywood, wove a narrative that both united and divided the attendees. Whispers of ambitions, rivalries, and the intricate dance of power permeated the air, creating an atmosphere ripe with both camaraderie and subtle competition.
Observing the lively scene, I found myself navigating through the throng, catching glimpses of familiar faces. The ambiance of celebration had a magnetic pull, drawing everyone into its embrace. Amidst the lively chatter, I caught snippets of conversations, some saturated with the nuances of filmmaking intricacies, while others were drowned in the jovial haze of alcohol-induced camaraderie.
A contemplative smile lingered on my lips as I observed the varied expressions etched on the faces of those around me—some animatedly discussing the intricacies of their latest projects, others lost in the euphoria of celebration. The layers of my dual identity, both as Oliver Knight and the emerging director, interwoven seamlessly in this eclectic gathering.
The celebratory atmosphere, charged with the vibrancy of achievement, hinted at the intricate web of relationships that stitched together the fabric of the entertainment world.
As the revelry continued, I found a quiet corner, away from the boisterous centre of the party. The subdued glow of the Hollywood Hills framed the silhouette of the city, offering a backdrop for reflection amidst the festivity. Here, beneath the celestial canvas, I contemplated the journey that had led me to this point—a week after standing at the gravestone, now immersed in the lively celebration of a well-made film.
The night held promise, each moment unfolding with deliberate grace, as if echoing the intricate choreography of a cinematic masterpiece. And in the heart of this celebration, I embraced the duality of my existence, navigating the intersection of personal history and the pulsating rhythm of an industry alive with dreams and ambitions.
In the midst of the bustling celebration, I found myself holding a delicate glass brimming with cider. It wasn't an affectation to appear trendy; rather, it was a conscious choice steering clear of the boisterous revelry that unfolded around me.
Taking a measured sip from the cider, I relished its crisp taste. It wasn't an indulgence aimed at affecting an air of sophistication, but a strategic decision rooted in a desire to maintain sobriety amid the chaotic jubilation. As the effervescent bubbles danced against my palate, I couldn't help but remark, "Not bad. Certainly way better than that wine I drank."
The cider, a nuanced choice tailored to my preference, proved to be a refreshing departure from the typical indulgences that permeated such gatherings. It held the promise of enjoyment without the risk of succumbing to the intoxicating allure of stronger spirits. In this curated selection of libations, I found solace, appreciating the delicate balance between revelry and restraint.
In the gentle glow of Hollywood's night, I revelled in the interplay of light and shadow, reflection and celebration. Each sip of cider marked a moment of appreciation for the journey undertaken—the week that bridged solemn contemplation at a gravestone to the effervescent crescendo of a film completion party. And amidst the vibrant chaos, the subtle taste of cider became a testament to the delicate art of navigating dualities, both in libations and in life's intricate tapestry.
As I was quietly enjoying myself, I heard a few footsteps making their merry way towards me. I glanced in the direction of the footsteps, and found it to be Mr. King.
"Not going to join them?" He asked, glancing at the cast and crew having fun while talking with each other.
"No. I like the quietness here. Makes the atmosphere feel better." I replied.
Mr. King pulled out a chair and sat opposite of me. He adjusted himself in the chair, and then faced me. "So, tell me. What's your plan?"
"Plan? You think I have a plan?" I asked.
"Well, from the films that you've created, it surely seems like a strategic order meant to create fame more than anything. So yes, I do think you have a plan."
My eyebrows raised in shock. I stared at him for a while, and then chuckled. "You're half-right. Yes, I do have a plan of sorts, but it's not that grand or meticulously thought out. But why do you ask?"
Mr. King leaned backwards, and said, "It's just that now you're done filming 'The Prestige', I was hoping that you'll start working on another project."
"I see." I nodded slowly. "In other words, you want to know what I'll do next?"
"Yep."
"Even though 'The Prestige' has barely entered post-production?"
"Indeed."
"Don't you think that it's too early for me to be starting pre-production on my next film?"
"Who said anything about pre-production?" Mr. King said with a grin. "All I asked from you was to tell me what your next film is."
"My bad." I sighed. "Well, my film is going to be… a war film! And the title is '1917'" I excitedly revealed.
"A war film? In this day and age?" Mr. King asked sceptically.
"Yeah? What's the problem?"
"Look Oliver, war films do have a high floor for how money they can make, but in return, their ceilings are quite low. There hasn't been any war film that has made half a billion worldwide, or more than three hundred million domestically. To top it off, they are quite expensive too."
I closed my eyes, thinking about how to convince Mr. King, and then opened them again. "Look Mr. King, I agree that it's quite a risky move financially, but I promise you that '1917' will not be a financial shortfall."
"Promises do not mean anything, Oliver. What matters is the financial perspective of a film, and from its name, I'm assuming '1917' will be a World War 1 film, an era which has very few films made about it."
"And that's one of the positives for '1917'. Because there are very few films about World War 1 and so many World War 2 films have saturated the market, people will go and watch '1917' because it would be a refreshing and emotionally charged film in the sea of so many World War 2 films." I tried to convince Mr. King, who now looked a bit more hesitant to reject my idea.
"While that does sound nice, it'll still be a financial risk for us."
"If you're concerned about the financial loss '1917' would bring to you if it flops, then why not split the budget with more production companies? That way, I'll get my film and your risk will also be lowered. How about it?"
Mr. King clasped his hand, an indescribable look adorned his face. "To be honest, while that does sound good, I'm still not fully convinced."
"Then let's hold a pitch meeting on Monday. There, I'll explain the whole film to you, and you can decide to either can it or greenlight it." I proposed.
"Fair enough, I suppose."
~~~
A/N: Wee woo wee woo
Yeah, I tried to be more descriptive and philosophical. Praise me!
On a more serious note, I think this tirned out quite well. The graveyard sequence was going to be longer, with David being there too, and talking to Oliver about what he had done in one year (hence the title). In the end, I had to cut it because I felt that it didn't work as well as I had thought it would.
But it still became the 2nd longest chapter at 2.68k words.
Anyways, daily chapters (HOPEFULLY) till Wednesday.
Oh, and I forgot to say this last chapter, but here it is!
See ya later alligator!