Hell's Actor

It was Saturday, 8:40 am.

A couple of days had passed since the festival began.

As it only allowed films from directors who had previously impressed at the big five film festivals, the movies shown at Serenes were all of high quality.

This particular year had produced great films. It had been pure ecstasy for cinephiles.

'Today is the day.'

With that thought in mind, Averie walked towards the entrance of the venue, hands in his pants pockets.

Min-Ha had insisted on a suit, but he had refused.

He was dressed lighter than on the opening day. Adorned with chains and earrings, his attire consisted of only a black shirt and dress pants.

"Ready?" Josephine, who had been waiting for him, asked.

She linked arms with him and ushered him in.

Unlike the first day, there were scarcely any photographers to trouble them.

"Are you nervous at all?"

Averie shook his head. "I am fine, but my agent couldn't sleep the whole night."

"Oh, her?" Josephine smiled. "She's cute. Where's she?"

"With some of the crew. Shouldn't you know this? Your manager is also there."

"Oh, yeah. They are going to a theatre on the outskirts."

She took him to the second-floor seats.

"We have the balcony seats."

He inspected the thousand-seater slope Josephine called a balcony. "Thank goodness, we don't have the front seats. I was dreading for my neck."

"There's a sound pit, so it wouldn't have been so bad; the distance from the screen is good enough."

They sat in the front seats of the balcony that was allocated to them by the committee.

Slowly, the audience members—a mix of industry bigwigs and VIPs from other industries—trickled into the theatre.

Within fifteen minutes, the venue was full, every seat occupied.

Surrounded by the cast of Lady Ethereal, it really dawned on Averie that he was the only one dressed lazily.

'No wonder Min-Ha was mad.'

"There's the director."

At Josephine's whisper, Averie's gaze moved towards the entrance of the first floor.

Entering through the door was the director, followed by a bunch of ceremoniously dressed men and women.

"The judges."

Averie had seen them at every screening for the past few days.

There were six of them. Three were influential directors. Two were semi-retired actors. And the last one was an active actor, slightly younger than the others.

After sharing a few words with the director, the judges took their seats at the front.

Director Groux, dressed in a blazer, stood next to the sound pit.

In his hand was a mic provided by the organizers.

"I wanted to address this assembly with the words 'It is a pleasure to be here.' But what is pleasure?"

His amplified voice was solemn.

"In our industry, we chase and create. And in the end, every experience becomes relevant to each other. I believe pleasure is defined by how much of it you've previously experienced."

The speech was too philosophical for Averie's tastes, yet it resonated with him.

"And still, I don't know what pleasure is."

The man drifted a listless glance towards the thousands gathered.

"My picture—" He gestured towards the screen behind him. "—does not answer that question."

Averie glanced around at the spectators. It was just any other day for them.

'An art film is like a coin toss. You either witness greatness or drown in mediocrity.'

For that man, who once had a hopeless glimmer in his eyes, it was an event of utmost importance.

'This is where your craft's worth will be judged.'

In a sense, it was a cruel industry.

"It does not answer that question," the director repeated. "It complicates it."

He lowered the mic, and a light applause broke out.

Averie was the only one who did not clap. He listlessly watched as Director Groux sat in the empty seat near the judges.

The lights in the hall dimmed.

A minute later, the digital projector came to life.

De Salon Presents

Not even a whisper could be heard in the dark room as words appeared on the white screen.

Lady Ethereal

Like a wisp of smoke, the title faded, replaced by a flashing streetlight curved in the shape of a grapevine.

The wide shot showed it was in the middle of nowhere, surrounded only by sand.

The large, looming moon in the top left of the frame sat in stark contrast to the barely-burning streetlight in the bottom right.

The former was a cold blob in the distance, and the latter was a flickering spot of heat.

There was barely any depth to the prolonged shot, and the night sky looked a few shades off.

In any other film, any of it would've been poor direction. But in an art film, the combination worked well.

It looked like a drawing.

The sound of a stressed motor emanated from the speakers. It grew louder, synchronized with the rapid blinking of the streetlight.

Something stirred in the shadows.

It was a small blot. It moved from the middle of the frame to the right, under the flashing lights.

It was a black cat.

Averie nearly scoffed.

This scenario wasn't originally a part of the film, but the arrival of Miss Meow had inspired the director to improvise. He had insisted on integrating her into the film somehow.

Under the blinking lights, on the big screen, she sat magnificently.

The sound of the motor drew closer, and from the left entered a passenger bus.

Instead of a film, the scene looked like a level from a 2D platformer.

Vibrating loudly, the bus stopped at the streetlight.

A second later, it departed, rounding the flickering lights and fading into the distance as nothing more than a dark spot.

Left behind was a man with a satchel hanging from his shoulder.

He was dressed in a faded, yellowish-white shirt with brown suspenders. Golden-rimmed spectacles rested on his nose.

His hair was parted in the middle and tied at the nape.

Loose strands of wavy hair scraped against his cheeks as he turned to face the camera.

He looked sickly, his breath laboured.

A full shot showed the man in greater detail, alongside the cat at his feet.

Looking at his face on the big screen, Averie smiled. It was truly different from seeing it on television.

There was weight to his every action, to the slightest twitch.

As the cat curled against the cold of the night, The Photographer exited the frame.