The set of Pulp Fiction.
They were shooting the most heart-stopping scene in the entire film: Mia's heart stops and Vincent has to inject her with adrenaline.
It had to be done in a single, unbroken shot—no second chances. The syringe had to be raised and plunged in perfectly.
Uma Thurman was lying on the floor, her breathing so shallow it was almost inaudible, beads of sweat tracing down her temples. John Travolta gripped the syringe, his palms slick with sweat, took a deep breath, and fixed his eyes on the target, as if facing a high-stakes gamble with death.
The camera, held by Emmanuel Lubezki, slowly inched closer. He was practically lying on the floor, just to capture the cold gleam reflecting off the needle's tip. His hand was covered in dust, but he didn't even notice.
"Emmanuel! Closer!"
"Uma! Fear! I need the abyss in your eyes!"
"John! You're not saving someone, you're racing the Grim Reaper!"
Quentin's voice was hoarse; he was a total tyrant, pushing the entire set to its absolute limit.
Link sat quietly behind the monitor, not saying a word. He knew genius needed room to breathe, and this scene... this was going to be an instant classic.
Just then, a massive figure, flanked by two assistants, rolled onto the set like a tank.
Harvey Weinstein.
He glanced at the chaotic scene, saw Lubezki making the crew wrangle for half an hour over one camera angle, and watched Quentin call "Cut!" for the umpteenth time because a background actor's expression wasn't right. The jiggle of the fat on his face showed his displeasure.
He walked over to Link, his voice low but thick with undeniable pressure.
"Link, I hear your shooting schedule is running 15% behind what we planned."
Link didn't even turn to look at him, his gaze still fixed on the monitor. "Art takes time, Harvey."
"I invested in a movie, not a goddamn art exhibit!" Harvey raised his voice, his finger jabbing the air. "Your Mexican cameraman is treating film stock like oil paint! Your director is burning my cash! I need efficiency, not this flashy waste!"
Link finally turned, looked at him, and smiled.
"You can pull your investment right now, then."
Harvey froze. He hadn't expected the reply to be so damn hard-hitting.
Link ignored him, signaling for a playback of the last take.
On the screen, Uma's pupils contracted in the agony of near-death, Travolta's hand holding the needle was visibly veined and trembling, the desperation and reckless gamble practically leaped off the screen. For a moment, the light and shadow seemed to freeze, and you could almost hear the sound of Death breathing.
"See that?" Link pointed at the screen, his tone as cool as ice.
"That's what's going to win you the Palme d'Or at Cannes next year."
"And you're arguing with me about a few thousand dollars' worth of film stock."
Harvey stared intently at the screen, his eyelid twitching violently. After thirty seconds, he took a sharp breath and abruptly changed the subject: "...I hear you're setting up another new film?"
Link gave a slight smile. Before he could answer, his phone rang.
It was Lawrence Bender.
"Link , I talked to Jim Carrey's agent. They were really cold. They said Jim is a TV star and isn't considering 'indie film projects like ours.' Plus... they think asking him to audition without sending a script first is insulting."
"He said no?"
"Not exactly." Bender hesitated. "He just said he'd pass it on to Jim himself, but... he doesn't have high hopes."
Link let out a soft laugh.
"Lawrence, you're missing the point."
"This invitation isn't for the agent; it's for Jim himself."
"A madman who's used to three-minute skits is suddenly being offered five minutes to conquer the big screen with just his face."
"Do you really think he'll say no?"
Two days later, a small audition studio in Hollywood.
Jim Carrey showed up.
He came alone, without his agent.
He was wearing a faded T-shirt and looked a little tired, but his eyes sparkled with a manic, ready-to-explode intensity.
He nodded to Bender, then looked directly into the camera.
No pleasantries, no questions.
Following Link's instructions, Bender said just one thing: "Mr. Ipkiss, please start your performance."
The camera rolled.
For the first minute, he was a timid, low-level office worker—shoulders hunched, voice trembling.
But by the second minute, it was as if he picked up that invisible mask. His mouth stretched into a grotesque grin, his eyebrows danced like independent creatures, and his eyes bulged as if ready to devour the world.
By the third minute, his face was no longer that of a human, but a piece of freely molded Silly Putty, his emotions wildly leaping: ecstasy, greed, arrogance, malice... ending with a final flicker of terror and confusion.
The audition room was dead silent.
The cameraman's hand hadn't moved from the camera, the lighting guy had stopped his initial chuckle and was now frozen, mouth slightly agape. Bender was so stunned he was sweating.
Jim Carrey gasped for breath, staring into the lens, and spoke hoarsely:
"...Was that enough?"
Bender swallowed hard. He finally understood why Link had insisted on this particular style of audition.
He slowly picked up the phone.
"Link ... I saw it."
"I saw a King of Comedy putting on his crown."
On the other end of the line, Link's voice was rock-solid.
"Tell him the role of Stanley Ipkiss is his."
"And tell Cameron Diaz—"
"It's time for the King to meet his Queen."