Wednesday, February 22, 2023
"Look… you got something none of us have," Jacob said, taking a drag from his cigarette while holding a can of beer in his other hand.
They were shooting one of the most important scenes between Will and Chuckie.
It was an exterior scene. The day was gray, the sky covered with the kind of clouds typical of a Boston winter. There was barely any snow, but the air felt cold and harsh.
Behind the two of them stretched an industrial lot full of debris: piles of broken concrete, rusted iron, and demolition remains. An orange excavator worked in the distance, moving slowly.
In the foreground there was an old pickup truck parked on stained asphalt. The hood served as an improvised table: a brown paper bag with Will and Chuckie's lunch resting on top, along with their two construction helmets.
Owen was leaning against the front side of the truck, slightly tilted, in a relaxed posture. He wore work clothes: a dark T-shirt, worn pants, and boots with dry dust on the soles. He took a sip from his can while listening to his friend. His expression was more restrained.
This scene took place shortly after the scene between Will and Skylar where they argued and Will told her he didn't love her.
Owen looked at him, already clearly tired of hearing the same thing for days. That constant idea that he was special, that he had something different, and that he was wasting it.
"Oh, come on, why is it always this?" Owen said in frustration. "I mean, I fucking owe it to myself to do this. What if I wan't to?"
Jacob interrupted him before he could keep building the excuse. He shook his head several times, firm, without raising his voice unnecessarily, but without backing down an inch.
"No, no, no. Fuck you. You don't owe it to yourself."
He stared at him for a few seconds.
"You owe it to me."
The line landed heavily.
"Tomorrow I'm gonna wake up and I'll be fifty, and I'll still be doing this shit."
He paused, his gaze drifting toward the worksite, toward the machines, the dust, and the other workers.
As he listened, Owen lowered his eyes. He no longer held eye contact with the same confidence as before.
"That's all right. That's fine," Jacob continued, already having accepted it and without envy toward the one he considered his brother. "You're sitting on a winning lottery ticket and you're too much of a pussy to cash it in. That's bullshit."
He paused briefly and continued.
"Because I'd do fucking anything to have what you got. And so would any of these fucking guys."
He looked around, gesturing with his head toward the workers crossing the lot.
"It'd be an insult to watch if you're still here in twenty years. Hanging around here is a fucking waste of your time."
Owen looked up again. His expression had changed, as if those words had finally reached him. Even so, he shook his head, almost out of inertia.
"You don't know that."
"I don't?" Jacob repeated, as a question, without raising his tone.
"No. You don't know," Owen replied, though his voice was already uncertain.
But Jacob wasn't finished. He leaned back against the truck and looked straight at him.
"Let me tell you what I do know."
He paused briefly.
"Every day I come by your house. I pick you up. We go out, we have a few drinks, a few laughs. And it's great."
Then he looked him straight in the eyes.
"You know what the best part of my day is?"
Owen didn't answer with evasions anymore. He just looked at him.
"For about ten seconds. From when I pull up to the curb… to when I get to your door."
Jacob lowered his gaze slightly toward the ground, as if he were seeing the scene in his head.
"And I think maybe I'll get up there and knock… and you won't be there."
There was no scolding in his voice now like before.
"No goodbye. No see you later. No nothing. Just… gone."
Owen looked at him steadily, his eyes moist but holding himself together. The defiant posture from before was gone.
"I don't know much. But I know that," Jacob concluded, looking forward again as he took a sip from his can.
"Cut!" Derek's voice rang out, rising to carry across the open lot.
Owen stopped being Will. He exhaled slowly and ran a hand over his shining eyes.
Jacob let out a breath as well, giving a small nod. He had felt that the take had come out perfectly, better than the previous ones.
"Great job, Jacob," said Derek, approaching with a slight smile.
He didn't say it out of politeness. He hadn't expected the Euphoria heartthrob to shed that image so completely and build something so grounded, so blue-collar Boston neighborhood. And the chemistry with Owen, the dynamic of friends who had known each other forever, had felt natural, effortless.
"Yeah, you were great," Owen added with a genuine smile. He knew that scene belonged to Jacob. Will had very few lines, the emotional weight rested entirely on Chuckie.
And it was one of his favorite scenes in the entire film, along with the one where Chuckie goes to pick Will up at his house and finds the door closed, looks through the window, an empty house, and smiles to the side as he understands everything.
Jacob smiled a little shyly at the recognition. "Thanks."
"You've been incredible throughout the whole shoot, Jacob. It was a pleasure working with you," Derek added, stepping in front of him and giving him a firm pat on the shoulder.
He said it because it was Jacob's last day on set. Exactly three weeks. All his scenes had been filmed.
Lianne, Bryan, and several crew members approached. Quick congratulations, handshakes, brief comments. Then someone started clapping and the rest joined in.
A general round of applause, not exaggerated, but warm.
"Thanks, thanks," Jacob said, raising his hand several times toward everyone.
Emma didn't miss the opportunity. "Oh, look… who would've thought Nate Jacobs is shy?"
Many burst out laughing at the comment.
"Shut up," Jacob replied with a faint smile, keeping his composure.
Owen stepped forward and extended his hand. "Good work. It was great having you as Chuckie."
Jacob smiled, clearly satisfied. He knew Owen wasn't the type to flatter out of politeness. "Thanks. Same to you."
"What a beautiful scene of brotherhood…" Emma said dramatically, placing a hand over her chest.
"Yeah, give each other a hug!" Gaten shouted from behind.
"Hug! Hug!" Caleb repeated, and several crew members joined the chant, even Bryan, smiling and clapping calmly.
"These guys…" Owen muttered, shaking his head.
Even so, he and Jacob shared a quick embrace, giving each other firm pats on the back. The typical male hug, brief and without drama.
When they separated, Owen looked around. More than fifty people: technicians, assistants, production staff, actors…
"Well," he said, raising his voice slightly, "since Jacob officially leaves tomorrow…"
Some people made mock protest sounds.
"Tonight it's on me. Everyone. We're going to a real restaurant, no hotel food."
There was a second of silence while people processed what he had said, and then an explosion of cheers, whistles, and applause.
Everyone knew what that meant. Much better than dinner at the hotel restaurant, no matter how good it was.
Jacob smiled, but raised a hand.
"I'm grateful, but…" he paused, "I'll stay until the shoot wraps."
"Like them," he added, pointing at Emma, Gaten, and Caleb.
Emma had finished her filming the day before. Gaten and Caleb several days earlier. They had wanted to stay to accompany the rest of the process, and Owen had not only accepted it, he had even covered the extra hotel days without hesitation. His image as a boss right now was impeccable.
Owen looked at him, feigning disbelief. "Oh, so… you're joining the parasite club?"
Laughter erupted.
"We are not parasites!" Emma protested indignantly.
"We're emotional support," Gaten added.
"Expensive support," Caleb muttered, since all their expenses were still being covered as if they were working.
"Alright, I'll arrange things with the hotel so you can stay the remaining week. Fully covered, of course," Owen said naturally.
Lianne stepped forward almost immediately. "I'll take care of it."
Owen nodded, grateful. He knew she would have that solved in ten minutes.
Jacob raised a hand, "I appreciate it, but I can pay for it myself. Covering those days wasn't in the contract."
Owen shook his head. "It doesn't matter. I insist. I need to maintain my impeccable image as a generous boss."
The laughter came quickly.
Jacob smiled slightly and nodded. He knew it would be difficult to change Owen's mind. Besides, he had already made the same gesture with Emma, Caleb, and Gaten.
Owen looked around when he noticed several people were still paying attention.
"Anyway, dinner is still on!" he clarified, raising his voice. "Six fifty, everyone in the lobby."
There were cheers when they realized the paid dinner was still happening.
And just like that, the shooting day came to an end.
They went to a good restaurant, not extravagantly luxurious, but still high quality. A spacious place, private enough for large groups, solid food, and efficient service. More than fifty people between cast and crew.
It wasn't a night of excess. It was a weekday and they had filming the next day. No one wanted a hangover. Some tables ordered wine, others beers, a few cocktails, but nothing out of control.
Even so, between appetizers, main courses, desserts, drinks, tax, and tip, the bill came close to eleven thousand dollars.
Owen signed without blinking. Not out of ostentation. He did it because the atmosphere deserved it and everyone was doing an excellent job.
When he returned to the hotel he had his call with Jenna, and after that he went to sleep to get his eight hours.
When he woke up early in the morning, Owen followed his usual routine. He showered, got dressed, brushed his teeth, and got everything ready to head down to the lobby, grab a quick breakfast, and then go.
Before leaving, he looked at his phone.
It was exploding with notifications. That wasn't unusual. But this time it seemed different. There were too many tags and comments in a short amount of time.
He frowned.
'Did they try to cancel Erik again?' he thought with a mix of resignation and amusement.
He unlocked the phone and opened Twitter, or X, as it was officially called now, although no one really called it that.
Owen sat on the edge of the bed.
'The Academy…?' he thought as he read the first notifications.
And then he remembered.
The day before, the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences had done the official broadcast announcing the nominations in every category for the 95th Academy Awards, which would be held on March 12.
Two actors had read the nominations category by category in a live broadcast lasting about thirty or forty minutes.
And of course, among them were the short films.
Owen had completely forgotten, but that meant...
He looked again at the tweet he had open. The most important one.
@TheAcademy · 18:34 PM · Feb 22, 2023
The nominees for Best Live Action Short Film are:
• An Irish Goodbye
• Ivalu
• Le Pupille
• Night Ride
• Paperman
#OscarNoms #Oscars95
"Shit… I forgot," he murmured, bringing a hand to his mouth as he reread the tweet.
Then he opened others. Variety. Deadline. The Hollywood Reporter. All covering the news.
There were three short film categories: Live Action, Animated, and Documentary. Five nominees in each. Fifteen total.
Paperman had made it into Live Action.
In his previous life, he remembered that Paperman had won Best Animated Short at the Oscars. But that was animated. And it was Disney. Here it was live action. With no giant studio backing it.
When he made it, he had never imagined it could go this far. Getting into Sundance had already been a huge achievement. This was another level.
Academy Award Nominee.
There were hundreds of comments. Surprise. Congratulations. People talking about how at twenty-one he already had an Oscar nomination. Others mentioning that in less than a year he had built a résumé that actors take years to achieve, becoming a millionaire, premiering at Sundance, and now this.
Owen didn't dwell on them too much. He skimmed a few and then wrote a simple tweet:
@owenashford:
Are we getting a vlog at the Oscars?
It was a direct reference to the vlog he had made at Sundance, which had already surpassed 25 million views.
He pressed send, and in less than a minute the notifications began exploding.
Likes climbing at an absurd speed. Retweets. Quote tweets. Fans tagging friends. Media outlets replying, even actors and actresses. People saying they needed that vlog.
Owen locked his phone. He stood up and left the room.
But the tweet kept growing.
And so Saturday, February 25 arrived.
Only that half day remained, then Sunday off, and after that the final two days of filming: Monday and Tuesday. The end was close.
As had become customary with Derek, Saturdays were reserved for demanding scenes. Half a day, yes, but emotionally intense ones.
And there was only one truly important scene left.
The most important one.
The "It's not your fault" scene.
The set that had been built was the therapist's office. A sober, warm room with light wood and neutral tones. Nothing ostentatious.
There was a large bookshelf behind the desk, filled with books. Files arranged neatly, though not perfectly aligned. A solid wooden desk with scattered papers, a modern warm-light lamp, and a small plant in one corner softening the space.
In front of the desk were two individual armchairs. Between them, a low table with a few books stacked on it.
Light entered through a side window with beige curtains.
"Cut!" Derek exclaimed.
It was the second take and, honestly, he felt it had been a little better than the first.
His voice, normally firm, was slightly affected by the emotional weight of the scene.
Owen and Bryan, who had been hugging, separated. Owen wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand, his breathing still uneven. Bryan exhaled slowly, took off his glasses, and cleaned them carefully, as if he needed that small gesture to regain his composure.
"That was emotional," Derek said.
He didn't consider himself a tough man. He loved cinema that hit you straight in the chest. But even so, it wasn't easy for something to move him like that in the middle of a set.
"Was it a good take?" Bryan asked, still adjusting his glasses.
"Yes, it was better," Patrick, the director of photography, answered from behind the monitor.
Derek nodded. "The difference is small, but in a scene like this, a nuance changes everything."
"You've done great work today. Really. With this we're covered," he added.
Some members of the crew let out the breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
But Owen shook his head.
"Derek, let's do one more."
There was silence, and Derek looked at him.
"Another? I don't know… It's a very heavy scene. Sometimes the third take doesn't have the same truth."
"I can do it better," Owen insisted, calm but firm. "I promise. I just need to get into the right headspace a bit more."
Derek didn't answer immediately. He looked at Bryan.
Bryan held his gaze for a second and then nodded. "I'm good for another."
Derek looked back at Owen. He saw conviction.
"Alright," he said at last. "Ten minutes. Get your energy back."
Then he turned toward the crew.
"Back to positions in ten. Check focus and sound. I want everything ready when they return."
The set came back to life, but in a low murmur, almost respectful.
Owen sat on one of the couches, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped in front of his mouth, staring at the floor.
'Guilt… my fault,' he thought.
He searched through his memories.
Bryan watched him for a moment before sitting in the single armchair across from him. He didn't say anything. He also needed to get into the right place.
Some members of the crew watched in silence. Especially Owen.
Jacob, Emma, Caleb, and Gaten exchanged discreet glances. They were just observers, and throughout the whole day they hadn't made a single joke, the way Gaten or Emma usually would.
Ethan, standing near the monitor, observed carefully, 'Is he going somewhere personal?' he thought as he looked at Owen. He knew that method.
Ten minutes later, everything was ready.
"Action!"
Bryan slipped into character immediately.
"Hey, Will."
His tone was the one he had already built for Sean: calm, contained, and without unnecessary drama. He wore a dark cardigan over a light shirt, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose, with that quiet expression that doesn't judge, but also doesn't yield.
Owen was leaning against the desk, slightly hunched, his posture lower. His gaze was lost somewhere on the floor.
He slowly lifted his eyes.
Bryan held the file in his hand. He raised it slightly, moving it with a minimal gesture.
"See this?" he said, shaking the folder lightly. "All this shit…"
He stepped forward.
There was a brief silence, and he dropped the file onto the desk.
And then he said it, without raising his voice.
"It's not your fault."
Owen blinked. His jaw tightened slightly.
Bryan repeated it, just as firm and calm.
"It's not your fault."
"Yeah, I know," Owen replied quietly, looking down.
Bryan took another step. "Look at me, son. It's not your fault."
There was no harshness. Only insistence.
Owen lifted his eyes. They were already beginning to shine.
Bryan held his gaze. "It's not your fault."
"I know," Owen repeated, this time looking at him.
Bryan shook his head gently and stepped closer, reducing the distance between them.
"No. You don't know. It's not your fault."
Owen straightened up, leaving the desk behind. Now he stood taller than him. He tried to hold a faint, defensive smile.
"I know."
"It's not your fault."
"Alright…" Will murmured.
"It's not your fault," Bryan said again.
There was a second of silence.
Owen lowered his gaze. Something in his expression shifted. It was no longer defiance. It was processing.
Bryan took advantage of that tiny crack.
"It's not your fault."
Owen shook his head forcefully.
"Don't fuck with me," he muttered, his voice breaking.
Tears began to gather, and one slowly fell.
Bryan looked at him more seriously now and raised his tone slightly.
"It's not your fault."
"Don't fuck with me! Not you!" Owen shouted, pushing him with both hands.
Bryan took a step back from the force, but immediately stepped forward again.
"It's not your fault."
Owen turned his face away, unable to maintain eye contact. His expression finally gave way. He brought his hands to his face, trying to contain what he could no longer contain.
The crying came out, first muffled, then more openly.
Bryan stepped forward and placed a firm hand on the back of Owen's neck, pulling him closer. And now, in the lowest tone he had used in the entire scene, almost a whisper:
"It's not your fault."
Owen broke completely. He hugged him tightly, almost clinging to him, as if Bryan's body were the only thing keeping him standing.
"Oh, God…" he let out through tears, his voice shattered. "It's not my fault… right?"
The line wasn't in the script. It was an improvisation that came out of Owen without him realizing it.
Bryan felt a moment of internal surprise, but he didn't leave the character. He responded without hesitation.
"Of course it's not your fault."
And that finished breaking him.
Owen began to cry more intensely. It wasn't exaggerated or cinematic crying. It was messy and uneven. His breathing was broken, his shoulders shaking, and his hands gripping Bryan's back tightly.
"Oh, God… I'm so sorry…" Owen murmured between sobs.
Each word seemed to come out with real effort.
The set was in absolute silence.
Some of the crew members had moist eyes. Emma wiped a tear with the back of her hand.
Owen kept crying for a few more seconds until the intensity began to fade. His breathing was still heavy, but it was no longer explosive. It was exhaustion.
Derek, behind the monitor, knew he had gold. He counted a couple more seconds in his head.
Then, his voice slightly strained, he said:
"Cut."
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