There was no doubt—Anson was a master of subtlety.
No aggression, no insistence on reasoning, no overwhelming aura. Instead, he maintained a calm and composed demeanor throughout, dismantling his opponent silently and effortlessly gaining the upper hand without showing his cards.
When Rissie found herself cornered in an awkward predicament, she didn't even realize that Anson had turned the tables. All she knew was that she'd uncovered a blind spot.
Correct—if she didn't want to collaborate with Anson but couldn't let go of the project, then why had she followed him all this time?
Was it possible that, deep down, she already had her answer?
Now, what should she do?
If it were anyone else, they'd likely have panicked at this point. But not Rissie.
Instead, after a brief moment of disarray, she steadied herself. From the tangle of her thoughts, she grabbed hold of a key realization: she had been entirely swept into Anson's rhythm.
How did he manage this?
And did this mean that Anson wasn't just a pretty face after all?
As someone who resented the prejudice she faced due to her looks and work, had Rissie fallen into the same trap—judging Anson by his appearance and his projects?
Was she becoming the very kind of person she despised, projecting her own grievances onto Anson?
Rissie calmed herself, her thoughts churning. She decided it was time to reclaim the initiative.
"You've been carrying that guitar everywhere. Why? To get into character?"
For the past few days, Anson had been inseparable from his guitar. No matter where he went—to the store, to restaurants, even to the bathroom—the guitar never left his side.
Honestly, Rissie had been scoffing at the sight, dismissing it as nothing more than a superficial act.
To her, it was all for show—an attempt to look cool while utterly missing the essence of Johnny Cash.
Johnny Cash wouldn't have lugged a guitar to a grocery store, a restroom, or anywhere else unnecessary. Yet Anson seemed clumsily attached to it, as if he and the guitar were one.
It was over-the-top, performative, and ultimately ineffective.
In Rissie's view, it was just a staged spectacle.
When paparazzi captured Anson or passersby noticed him, they might marvel at his dedication to the role. But in reality, when it came time to act, no amount of carrying a guitar for three months could magically transform him into a music legend or an acting virtuoso.
Surface work like this was often a mark of the empty-headed.
Rissie had encountered this type before—students who clung to their books as if they were their lifeline, yet merely used them as props for naps. These students rarely passed exams.
And in Hollywood, such superficiality was even more widespread.
So Rissie had never paid Anson's antics much mind—until now.
She hesitated. Anson was too smart to stoop to such shallow tactics. So why was he doing it?
Following her gaze, Anson glanced down at his guitar and smiled. "Yes. To get into character."
Rissie: …
Her jaw nearly dropped.
He admitted it? Just like that?
Was this sheer naivety or profound wisdom?
For a moment, Rissie couldn't tell. Her thoughts tumbled out unfiltered. "But why? Why use such a blunt method?"
Anson noticed the edge in her voice—she was trying to regain control of the conversation. But this time, he chose not to interrupt.
"Simple," Anson replied. "Bluntness can mean crude, but it can also mean direct."
"In the '50s and '60s, music equipment wasn't advanced or accessible."
"Singers often performed with just a guitar. If they were lucky, they'd have a microphone. If not, the equipment might actually hinder their performance."
"For these artists, their guitar wasn't just an instrument—it was their partner, their lifeline."
"Country, folk, rock, pop—none were exceptions."
Anson spoke at an easy pace. He and Rissie stood in a supermarket parking lot, bathed in sunlight, their conversation as casual as that of old friends.
Occasionally, people walked by without sparing them a glance. Everyone was busy with their own lives, unaware of the two figures in the lot.
"In that era, countless artists dreamed of changing their lives, creating art, and making their voices heard through music. That's how Woodstock came to be."
"People believed music could change society—change the world."
"But countless dreams froze in obscurity due to a lack of exposure."
"Many of these artists didn't even have a place to stay. They'd crash on friends' couches, wandering from bar to bar, hoping for a gig."
"And when an opportunity arose, they had to be ready at a moment's notice."
"The guitar was their one constant companion—their tool for survival and hope."
"You ask why I carry my guitar everywhere, looking like a fool?"
"It's because I'm trying to feel what it was like to live in the 1950s, to understand what music meant to them. I want to grasp the weight of their dreams and their lives as they carried everything on their shoulders and drifted from place to place."
It all came back to a film Anson loved—"Inside Llewyn Davis."
In that movie, the Coen brothers painted a world of failures, where one fragile ember of a dream burned stubbornly against the harsh winter. It captured the '60s—a time when New York bred countless great musicians but buried just as many talents.
Words and visuals alone couldn't fully convey the struggles of that era. But the movie managed to channel the flow of despair and resilience from those souls.
In real life, Johnny Cash succeeded beyond measure. Yet even he lost himself in the whirlpool of fame.
Now, with echoes of the '60s, rock was fading, while pop and dance surged ahead. The music industry was waning, yet pop idols continued to thrive. Anson sought to feel the pulse of this shift—not just to portray Johnny Cash but to capture the collision of his essence with his time.
Acting isn't just imitation.
Without understanding the spirit and power of that era, no actor could truly resurrect Johnny Cash's presence.
So even in a supermarket, where the guitar had no practical use, Anson carried it.
Yes, it might look like a performance.
But it was more than just surface work.