Sunday, May 21, 2023
8:45 p.m.
"Finally, we're free…" Owen said, closing the door to the room.
At last.
The silence returned almost instantly, as if someone had flipped an invisible switch. For over two hours, the suite had been a constant parade of people coming in and out, voices, instructions, and hands adjusting details he hadn't even known existed.
Now, only the owners of the room remained.
Owen looked impeccable. The suit they had prepared for him days in advance fit like a second skin, tailored, not a single crease, not a speck of lint out of place. The fall of the jacket was perfect, aligned with his shoulders. His hair, lightly set with a soft spray, looked natural, though it had been styled with meticulous care.
His skin had also been handled by experts, though he wouldn't even call it makeup. It was more like touch-ups: removing shine, softening dark circles, and erasing small imperfections that the Cannes red carpet cameras wouldn't forgive.
Jenna was no less striking.
Her dress that night had nothing to do with the one from the previous premiere. It was more elegant. She had put much more thought into it, knowing it was Owen's night. She was sitting on a low, round chair in front of the vanity, looking at herself in the mirror.
Jenna let out a soft laugh at Owen's complaints as he muttered under his breath after closing the door and seeing off the last member of the team.
"It wasn't that bad," Jenna said, standing up carefully, measuring each step in her heels.
Owen raised an eyebrow.
"Not that bad? They've been here for two hours and…" he glanced at his watch, "…twenty-one minutes, and they're only just leaving now."
He wasn't exaggerating.
Around six sharp, the room had filled up. Stylists, people from Neon going over premiere details, an in-house photographer capturing every angle of the look for social media later, and assistants moving around while Owen wasn't entirely sure what each of them was doing.
He and Jenna had been left sitting like mannequins while they were prepped.
It wasn't like Owen wasn't used to it. As an actor, wardrobe and makeup before shooting scenes were normal. Same with interviews or other premieres. But at a festival, he had imagined something more relaxed.
He had forgotten this was Cannes.
Nothing like Sundance, far more relaxed. This was sophisticated and, controlled.
Yesterday, he had seen Scorsese in the bathroom, wearing a white shirt, just hours before his own premiere, and for a moment he had thought today might be similar.
Clearly not.
Neon was taking this very seriously and didn't want to leave anything to chance.
"The Met Gala was worse," Jenna said, stopping just inches away from him.
Owen couldn't help but nod. It was true. When they arrived in New York, the brands representing them had placed entire teams around them, stylists, assistants, and people focused on every single detail. Everything had been far more intense.
"Good point," he said.
Jenna extended her hands and placed her fingers on Owen's jacket, adjusting it slightly, as if it were already perfect, yet she still wanted to touch it. "You look really sexy."
Owen smiled faintly. "Thanks," he replied, as he brought his hands to her waist.
"You look perfect," he added.
Jenna smiled softly. "Thanks," she murmured. Then she lifted her chin slightly, stretching her neck so the necklace would be more visible. "How does it look on me?"
Owen lowered his gaze to the necklace, the same one he had given her not long ago. He hadn't spent a fortune; he wasn't trying to impress with the price, but it wasn't cheap either. It hit the right balance: a reasonable cost for him and, more importantly, something he had chosen carefully, thinking of her.
"It looks beautiful on you," he said, gently running his fingers along the necklace.
Then he lifted his gaze back to her. Jenna was already looking at him. They stayed like that for a few seconds, in silence, close enough to feel each other's breath, until Owen leaned in slightly and kissed her.
The kiss deepened, but before it could go any further, Jenna raised her hand and placed her index finger on Owen's lips, stopping him.
"Stop, we can't," she murmured.
Owen pulled back slightly, still close.
They hadn't just spent over two hours getting ready to ruin it now. And not only that, they didn't have the time.
Owen glanced down at his watch.
In ten minutes, they would have to go downstairs and get into the car Neon had arranged to take them to the theater. No delays.
"Nervous?" Jenna asked, seeing him sit down and run a hand over his face, something unusual for him.
"Yes, pretty nervous," Owen admitted honestly.
Jenna raised an eyebrow, "That's new… why? It's not like you're taking a risk with something unusual."
It wasn't that Owen was made of stone, Jenna knew that. But she also knew he hadn't been nervous throughout the entire process: not when he showed the film to distributors, nor when it got accepted into Cannes. In fact, he had been quite confident about all of that.
More than three studios had been interested in the film, practically competing for it. And the festival had selected it directly for Official Competition.
That alone was already a clear sign that the reception wouldn't be bad and that the film had a high level.
That's why she said it.
It wasn't like with Paranormal Activity, when it was accepted into the Palm Springs Film Festival in the midnight section, a much more flexible process, without a distributor behind it.
"I know…" Owen said, "but this is the premiere, and the theater has two thousand three hundred and nine seats, to be exact."
It was an immense number of people watching a film. His film. Where he was the lead. Thousands of eyes watching him on a massive screen.
A normal movie theater usually has between 150 and 300 seats. This was nothing like that.
And it would be completely full. At an Official Competition premiere, there were no empty seats. Everything was invited and assigned.
Jenna realized that, and also that it wasn't just two thousand three hundred "regular" people. This wasn't an audience going to see a movie with friends, some paying attention and others distracted or waiting for it to end.
This was different.
Most of them were people who knew exactly what they were watching. Critics, industry figures, directors, and press. People who didn't just watch the film, but how it was made. And of course, celebrities like DiCaprio, Natalie Portman, among many others.
Many already came in with expectations built over the previous months around Owen.
Seeing it that way, Jenna frowned slightly, as if she were only just grasping the full scale of it.
It was a different kind of premiere from any she had attended before. Even though she wasn't acting in the film, she would accompany him, red carpet, entering the theater, and then sitting just behind him.
Because in the central section, the film's team always sits together. It's not typical to sit with your partner if they're not part of the film, it slightly breaks the team image.
"Now I'm nervous too…" Jenna murmured.
Owen let out a soft laugh. They tried to talk about something else, though never straying too far from the topic, until they finally left the room.
They took the elevator down, and when they reached the lobby, there were already people from Neon waiting for them.
Without wasting time, they were guided toward their assigned car: a black Mercedes-Benz S-Class, discreet yet very elegant.
They both got into the back seat, and as soon as the door closed, the car pulled away. They had left an hour early, just as planned.
As they moved forward, leaving the hotel behind, the atmosphere outside felt different, far more people, more security, and cars heading in the same direction.
"Ready to watch your boyfriend kissing another girl on a giant screen in front of more than two thousand people?" Owen asked, breaking the silence. Only the muted noise from outside filtered through the closed windows.
Jenna, who had been looking out the window, turned her head toward him, raising an eyebrow.
"Did you really just say that?" she asked, unsure whether to laugh or kick him.
Owen shrugged, "I'm using humor as a defense mechanism to deal with a stressful situation."
He raised a finger, as if giving a formal explanation. "According to Sigmund Freud and psychiatrist George Vaillant, it's one of the healthiest defenses. It makes the situation less overwhelming."
"You really have been studying," Jenna said, though she quickly added, "but I don't think that's the best thing to say to your girlfriend. You're lucky it's me, and that we've already talked about it."
They had already discussed that topic and how they would handle those kinds of scenes, kissing and intimacy.
They were actors. It was part of the job, and both of them understood it better than anyone outside that world.
Even so, it didn't stop being uncomfortable.
Since they had started dating, Owen would be the first to have a scene like that.
"That's why I said it," Owen replied.
"Mm," Jenna murmured. She shifted slightly and rested her head on his shoulder, intertwining her hand with his in a calm gesture that still hinted she wasn't completely indifferent.
Owen noticed. "Are you sure you're going to be okay?" he asked, glancing at her.
"Yes," she said, without much hesitation. "I'll handle it."
Owen had told her what those scenes were like, just enough so she'd know what to expect. Jenna had asked for that, mainly to prepare herself mentally.
Because even though she was an actress, this was the first time she would experience something like this from that side. Her boyfriend's premiere in Cannes Film Festival, with more than two thousand people watching the film, including those scenes.
As much as she understood it, seeing it there, in that context, she wasn't entirely sure how it would affect her.
What reassured her, though, was something else.
Owen had no intention of doing the typical promance, a blend of PR (Public Relations) and romance. A strategy where actors playing a couple carry that closeness off-screen during promotion, leaving the audience guessing and generating buzz around the film.
It's quite common, especially in romantic films, more so during the interview circuit and later premieres than at Cannes, where the focus tends to stay more on the film itself.
But Owen wasn't going that route.
He had no intention of doing that with Emma to promote Good Will Hunting. Not now, and not when the U.S. promotion began.
Besides, he could afford not to. He had enough control for Neon not to push in that direction.
He simply didn't like it. He didn't want to play with that while being in a relationship. He preferred something more direct: letting the film stand on its own. If it was good, it would work.
At exactly 9:00 p.m., they arrived at the Palais des Festivals et des Congrès, the building that hosts the Cannes Film Festival. At night, it looked unlike anything else, the illuminated façade, the staircase covered in the red carpet, and in front of it, a mass of people and nonstop flashes.
But the car didn't head there.
It veered off and stopped at the rear entrance. They got out, and as soon as they did, festival staff were already waiting for them.
They weren't the only ones.
Almost at the same time, other cars arrived carrying Derek, Bryan, Jacob, Ethan, Lianne, and more members of the film. They exchanged glances, a few quick gestures. They had already seen each other earlier that day, so there were no long greetings or unnecessary pauses.
Everything was tightly scheduled.
They went through a quick credential check, no more than ten minutes, and were led inside through an internal area of the Palais. From there, they were guided to a waiting room.
A closed space, away from the direct noise of the red carpet. Festival staff and members of the Neon team were working, coordinating timing, checking their watches, it reminded Owen of Wall Street agents. Maybe not quite that intense, but close.
Meanwhile, they waited for the signal to step out.
"How are you feeling, guys?" asked Daniel Reeves, a creative executive at Neon, as he looked over the group.
He had been one of the first to see the initial cut at Owen's studio. From that moment, he was convinced and pushed internally for Neon to secure the film. Fortunately, they listened.
"Nervous… my palms are sweating," Emma said, raising her hands as if to show it.
Even though she already had experience in film, most of it had been indie. This was something else entirely.
"Well, look at that, you nervous," Jacob quipped with a grin, glancing at her.
"You're nervous too," Emma shot back without hesitation.
"Me? Do I look nervous?" he said, pointing at himself, as if he were completely calm.
"You're an actor. You hide it," Emma replied, and they kept going back and forth in that tone, already comfortable with each other.
"Anxious," said Bryan, adjusting his bow tie slightly, flawless. "But I'll be fine."
It had been a while since he'd had a feature premiere at this level. In a way, it was a return to that stage, and he knew his role was one of the strongest in the film, alongside Owen's.
"Good," Owen said, nodding. "I've already accepted there'll be people like Martin Scorsese, Leonardo DiCaprio, Robert De Niro… and of course Brendan Fraser, the current Oscar winner, and Michelle Yeoh, also an Oscar winner. Quentin Tarantino probably too, am I forgetting anyone?"
Emma looked at him, frowning, no longer paying attention to Jacob, "Are you doing that on purpose?"
Several people laughed.
Ethan joined in, in the same tone. "You're missing a few: Johnny Depp, Ruben Östlund, Harrison Ford… I could keep going for a while."
"Shut up already!" Emma said, annoyed now that they were making her even more nervous by listing all those prominent names.
Everyone laughed and kept talking, waiting for the signal.
Meanwhile, Owen listened, but he was also lost in his own thoughts.
Depp had been attending the festival since day one, presenting Jeanne du Barry, the film that marked his return after all the controversies, in which he plays King Louis XV of France.
Jeanne du Barry had officially opened the Cannes Film Festival on Tuesday, May 16.
Owen hadn't been able to see it, he had arrived on the 20th. But he had read about its reception: when the screening ended, the film received a standing ovation of around seven minutes, which left Depp visibly emotional, even breaking into tears.
It was curious. Owen had once considered Depp for the role of Sean, and now he was at Cannes with another project. In retrospect, not casting him had been the best decision for several reasons.
The first, the most obvious: if Owen had gone forward with that idea, Depp likely would have turned the project down. Even though he had already finished shooting Jeanne du Barry, his schedule was focused on that comeback.
And even if he had accepted, it would have created another issue, it would have been strange to see him promoting two films at the same Cannes. Most likely, if Depp had signed with them, Good Will Hunting wouldn't have been at Cannes.
The second was salary. It would have been high. This wasn't his definitive comeback, since the French film had beaten Owen to that, being the first to give him that space after the controversies.
The third was simpler: Bryan fit better. Seeing it now, the role suited him far more naturally.
And the fourth, the most delicate, was the controversy itself.
At the time, Owen had even considered it as a potential advantage, something that could generate extra attention. Free marketing. But it also had a downside, which he was now seeing clearly.
Jeanne du Barry hadn't been free of noise. Part of the public and social media had reacted strongly to his presence. Supporters of Amber Heard had pushed criticism against Depp's participation in the festival. Even voices like journalist Eve Barlow had posted direct messages opposing it.
In the end, with some distance, it wouldn't have been a good decision.
Not just because of the cost or the potential ego of a star like that, but because of everything surrounding him. And something harder to measure: the personal state he would have arrived in. After everything that had been publicly exposed, it was impossible to ignore the level of wear there.
'I dodged a bullet…' Owen thought. Thanks to Lianne and Derek.
Finally, the moment came.
They began to move, heading toward the red carpet, the iconic staircase of the Palais des Festivals et des Congrès: long steps covered in red, photographers on both sides, security lined up, and crowds gathered further back.
As soon as they appeared, the shouting began, names, directions, and constant flashes.
"Wow, this is on another level," Jenna murmured, barely hiding a slight grimace at the number of photographers, tightening her grip on Owen's arm.
Owen smiled faintly. "Prepare your eyes."
They made their initial entrance together, turning slightly for the photos without lingering too long.
Then Owen split off and joined the cast. Individual shots, then group photos on the staircase.
Jenna stepped aside a bit, staying out of that block, though it didn't stop photographers from calling her name for solo pictures.
Everything moved fast, intense, without pauses. A burst of pure flashes that lasted around twenty minutes.
When it was over, the staff guided them inside, leading them into the Grand Théâtre Lumière through one of the side doors.
Owen finally saw the theater.
Completely full. Rows and rows of red seats, all occupied, stretching downward and to the sides, with the upper levels filled as well. Too many heads. He recognized a few, scattered faces in the crowd, but there were too many to focus on. The atmosphere was entirely different from outside: quiet, just a contained murmur filling the space.
Tom Quinn, head of Neon, gave him a light push on the shoulder and leaned in. "Come on, kid… tonight's going to be a great night."
Owen started walking, leading with Jenna, while the cast and Neon team followed behind, guided by a festival staff member.
As they moved forward, people began turning their heads. Then someone started clapping, and others joined in.
It was a welcome applause. Brief, not exaggerated.
They didn't stop. It was all about moving and taking their seats.
Owen sat in the central section, next to Derek, Bryan Cranston, and the rest. Jenna ended up just behind him, where Matt, Sarah, Elizabeth, Eric, Gaten, and the others were already seated. They gave a small wave, restrained smiles, greeting without making noise.
Once seated, the applause faded and the room settled.
The lights dimmed.
Silence.
'Here we go…' Owen thought, as the first logos appeared on screen, including Second Take Films and Neon.
A few rows down, not far from center, sat Martin Scorsese.
Simply dressed. White shirt, dark trousers. No visible makeup, nothing excessive. Even at his own premiere the day before, he hadn't looked much different. He wasn't someone who concerned himself too much with that, especially at his age.
To his right was his daughter, Francesca Scorsese, 24. Actress and content creator, known for her work in We Are Who We Are and for the videos she posted with him, where their dynamic felt much more relaxed.
In part, she was the reason Scorsese knew about Owen.
She had watched nearly all of his videos. She was subscribed. She liked the vlogs, the tone somewhere between casual and chaotic, moments like the post-Oscars McDonald's scene, the arguments with his group, all while showing the world of filmmaking. She had shown them to her father more than once.
To Scorsese's left sat Robert De Niro, reclined in his seat with an almost lazy posture, resting his face on his arm. Beside him, Leonardo DiCaprio sat more upright, focused on the screen from the very beginning, waiting for something to catch his attention.
The film moved forward, and then the scene arrived, the one that truly shifted the room's attention.
It wasn't the first strong scene. The film had already been working, good rhythm, solid dialogue, and engaging moments. But this was different.
Will, Owen's character, was sitting on a bench in front of a lake. Second session with Sean.
Once again, the same pattern: sarcasm, provocation, and remarks meant to unsettle.
[You've never left Boston,] Sean said.
[Nope,] Will replied. The camera stayed on Sean, in close-up.
[If I asked you about art, you'd probably quote every book ever written,] Sean continued. [Michelangelo. You know a lot about him, his work, his political ambitions, him and the Pope. His sexual orientation. Everything, right?]
Will didn't answer. And Sean wasn't expecting him to.
[But I bet you can't tell me what it smells like in the Sistine Chapel,] he said, looking at him. He left a small pause before adding: [You've never actually stood there and looked up at that beautiful ceiling.]
For a moment, he lifted his gaze, as if remembering it.
[If I asked you about women, you'd probably give me a list of your favorites. Maybe you've even had sex a couple of times…]
The room was completely locked in.
Scorsese straightened slightly in his seat, almost without realizing it.
Beside him, De Niro dropped his relaxed posture, lowering his arm and leaning forward.
DiCaprio didn't move, but his focus sharpened.
[But you can't know what it's like to wake up next to a woman and feel true happiness. You're tough, kid,] Sean said, barely looking at him before turning his gaze toward the lake.
[If I asked you about war, you'd probably quote Shakespeare. But you've never been near one. You've never held your best friend's head in your lap and watched him take his last breath, hoping you could help him.]
The camera slowly began to widen, now including Will's face as well.
There was no trace of mockery left.
[If I asked you about love, you'd probably quote a sonnet. But you've never looked at a woman who's completely vulnerable. You've never known someone who could understand you just by looking at you.]
Will's face remained still. No response.
And Sean wasn't finished.
[Someone who could rescue you from the depths of hell. And you wouldn't know what it's like to be her angel, and to love her that way forever, through anything… even through cancer.]
[And you wouldn't know what it's like to sit in a hospital room for two months, holding her hand, because the doctors see it in your eyes that visiting hours don't apply to you.]
At some point, the entire room had stopped breathing normally.
No one moved.
Then Sean said, without raising his voice:
[You don't know about real loss, because it only occurs when you love something more than you love yourself.]
The camera fully centered on Will.
His eyes. Empty of any response.
[I doubt you've ever dared to love someone that much,] Sean continued, looking at him directly. [I see you, and I don't see a confident, intelligent man. I see a cocky, scared kid. But you're a genius, Will. No one denies that.]
He paused briefly.
[But you presume to know everything about me because you saw my painting. You tore my fucking life apart. You're an orphan, right?]
Will reacted. His eyes blinked. He looked toward the lake, then lowered his gaze. He didn't answer.
[Do you think I have the slightest idea how hard your life has been, what you feel, who you are, just because I read some fucking book about orphans?]
Scorsese barely frowned, very slightly. He didn't look away. He felt the quiet impact of a scene that wasn't trying to impress. The dialogue was long, but it didn't feel like it. That doesn't happen unless it's well sustained, and every line from Bryan Cranston stayed with him.
'You don't know about real loss, because it only occurs when you love something more than you love yourself,' Scorsese repeated in his head.
For a moment, he glanced toward the seats where Owen was. He could only see the back of his head. Did he really manage to write something like that?
De Niro was no longer as before. No relaxed posture. Now he was completely absorbed in the film. He had already been interested, but that scene sealed it.
DiCaprio didn't look away. 'Bryan Cranston… huh?' he thought.
From that point on, Will began to open up. Not all at once, but enough. And the dynamic with Sean started to grow, scene by scene, naturally. Closer, and more honest.
Several scenes made it clear there was a very strong chemistry between Owen and Bryan. It wasn't forced or exaggerated, it flowed. The dialogue felt alive, and the acting level stayed high on both sides. Neither tried to overpower the other. They worked as a unit.
Will had taken Sean's advice: to try with Skylar, not to be afraid of ruining it. To give it a real chance. Because otherwise, he would never truly know anyone.
At first, it worked. The connection with Skylar grew quickly, until it reached the point where everything broke.
The conversation in the apartment. Skylar suggesting he go to California, and Will shutting down.
[Help me!?] Will repeated, incredulous. [What the fuck? Do I have a sign on my back that says "save me"!?]
He looked at her, fixed.
[Do I look like I need that?]
[No!] Skylar replied, her voice breaking. [I just want to be with you.]
She stepped closer and placed her hands on his face, trying to hold him.
[Don't lie to me!] he said, roughly pushing her hands away.
[I love you!]
[Don't lie to me!] he repeated, now completely losing control.
He grabbed her by the arms and shoved her back until she hit the wall.
[It's not a lie! I love you!]
[Don't lie to me!]
His fist slammed against the wall, right next to Skylar's face. He didn't touch her, by inches.
There was a brief silence, and Skylar began to cry.
Will's expression softened slightly, his breathing began to steady, and the fury started to fade.
[I love you…] Skylar repeated for the third time, slowly stepping closer, managing to place her hands back on his face. This time, Will didn't push them away.
[I want to hear you say you don't love me,] she whispered. [Because if you say that… I won't call you. I won't be part of your life.]
Will let her move closer, but he didn't look at her.
Until finally, he lifted his gaze and met hers, his eyes cold now, the anger gone.
[I don't love you,] he said in a low, cutting tone.
The shift was brutal. From explosion to ice.
Skylar stood still for a second, as if the words took time to reach her.
Will pulled away from her hands, walked past her without looking, opened the door, and left the room.
The camera didn't cut. It stayed on Skylar. She slowly backed up to the bed, sat down, and broke into tears, no longer holding anything back.
Jenna held her breath through the entire scene and finally let it out slowly. She lowered her gaze for a moment, then lifted it toward Owen, seated just in front of her.
It surprised her to see him like that.
So overwhelmed. The outburst, the vein marked on his forehead and neck, and then that sudden shift into cold calm. It had nothing to do with anything she had seen from him before.
In The Spectacular Now she had already thought he was good.
This was something else.
The script helped too, it was better than The Spectacular Now. But even so, there was a clear leap.
Beside her, Sarah had her eyes wide open, barely blinking. 'Will I ever be able to act like that?' was one of the thoughts that crossed her mind.
At times she looked at him like a brother, trying to understand how he did it.
At others, she simply followed the story, upset with Will for doing that to Skylar, wondering what would happen to her.
Elizabeth, next to her, had teary eyes, unsure if it was because of the story itself or because she was watching her son lead something like this.
'Wow,' thought DiCaprio.
That performance went from zero to a hundred very quickly, and it impressed him. It reminded him of roles of his own where he had similar outbursts, when no one expected them.
'Oscar-level performances, one after another…' thought one of the most recognized critics. It surprised him.
Did he have expectations for the film? Yes. But at this level? Not even close.
This was serious.
For Cannes Film Festival, a clear contender. And even more so for awards beyond. That kind of more classical drama tends to connect strongly outside the festival. Still, here it was working.
It wasn't just the performances. No one expected something like this from Owen. Not even from Bryan Cranston, whom many still associated with lighter roles. But the scenes and the dialogue carried everything. That was what made the difference.
You could have good actors, but without a solid script, it wouldn't be enough.
Here, it was.
He thought it would drop off toward the end.
It didn't.
Then came the scene between Will and Chuckie, played by Jacob Elordi. It started simple and ended up being deeper than it seemed.
Then came what, for him, was the best one: It's not your fault.
A line repeated. Several times. More than eight. And yet, it worked.
When Will finally broke down and started crying, embracing Sean, something shifted in the room.
Natalie Portman, in an impeccable dress, felt a chill run up her spine. She stayed still, not blinking for a few seconds.
Then she blinked, slowly. Turned her head slightly, as if trying to confirm it wasn't just her.
In her row, a bit further down, a girl had several tears running down her face.
'It's been a long time since a film made me feel this…' Natalie thought, looking back at the screen.
And it wasn't just her.
After that, Will left a letter for Sean, telling him he was going to California to find Skylar.
The final scene showed the car driving away down the road, growing smaller and smaller as the camera slowly rose.
Until the screen faded to black.
For a few seconds, the theater remained completely dark.
In silence.
A total, heavy silence, as if the more than two thousand people had forgotten to breathe. No one moved or spoke. It almost seemed like the lighting technician had deliberately waited a moment longer.
Then the lights came back on.
The room returned all at once.
DiCaprio was the first to stand. He began applauding, loudly, without stopping.
Scorsese, beside him, stood and followed. The same with De Niro.
The applause spread across the entire theater.
Whole rows rising, first some, then others, until the entire venue was on its feet. More than two thousand people clapping at once. The sound filled the space, echoing off the walls, constant, never losing strength.
Owen stood along with the rest of the cast. He raised his hands in thanks. Beside him, Derek, Bryan Cranston, Emma… all the same.
The applause continued, strong and sustained.
As the seconds passed, Owen began to look around, almost out of curiosity. That need to read the room. To see faces. To understand whether it was real enthusiasm or simple inertia.
It didn't seem like it.
People remained standing, clapping without slowing down.
He lifted his gaze toward the upper levels.
Among the rows, he caught sight of Quentin Tarantino, also on his feet, applauding. At one point, their eyes met. Tarantino gave a short nod, clear, approving.
Owen returned it with a slight movement. It still felt a bit surreal.
Then he looked lower. His gaze settled on Scorsese. The gesture was similar, but different, softer. With a faint smile. Like a quiet well done.
For a second, Scorsese recalled that conversation in the bathroom the day before. That definition Owen had given about cinema.
'You did it,' Scorsese thought. 'You made cinema, kid.'
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