921-925

Chapter 921: Busy Times

"So, do you like him?"

A straightforward question.

Carl froze, almost choking on his own saliva. He widened his eyes in disbelief, "Cough, cough... W-what?" Then he lost control and began to cough violently as air rushed down his windpipe, making it impossible to stop.

But the man in sunglasses remained calm and unfazed, repeating the question, "I asked, do you like him?"

Carl blinked, utterly bewildered, unable to hide his confusion.

The man in sunglasses shook his head with an air of seriousness. "I don't like him."

"I think he's too handsome. All the women just stare at that face. I'm so disappointed in this world where people only care about looks and ignore talent and ability. What's the point of being so handsome? I'd love to scratch up that face."

Carl: Cough, cough! Cough!

After a brief pause, Carl said, "Actually, I think he's pretty good... really good. Don’t you like 'Spider-Man'?"

The man in sunglasses shrugged slightly. "That depends on how you look at it. Is it a superhero movie or a coming-of-age story?"

Carl swallowed nervously, still recovering from the shock, but now his gaze toward the man had a spark of curiosity.

As a rookie film blogger, this was Carl's first time attending the Cannes Film Festival. He was eager to dive into the festival and its fan parties, filled with excitement and anticipation. But the reality was quite different—running from one screening to another, rushing to meet deadlines for articles, it felt like he was trapped in a never-ending loop of chaos.

Perhaps the only time he could truly relax and talk was while waiting in line.

After all, with his low-level yellow pass, the wait for popular films often stretched over two hours, sometimes even three. What else could you do during that long wait besides strike up a conversation?

But there was one downside:

The chances of finding like-minded individuals were slim. Everyone had their own opinions and preferences, and disagreements were inevitable.

At this moment, excitement and eagerness took over, and Carl, attending Cannes for the first time, couldn't hold back. His voice trembled slightly.

"Do you also think that 'Spider-Man' is, at its core, a coming-of-age story?"

The man in sunglasses neither confirmed nor denied, "If we're discussing the essence, then so is 'Catch Me If You Can,' so is 'Elephant.' Anson still hasn't escaped the comfort zone of coming-of-age films. He hasn't truly grown up."

Carl's eyes lit up. His chest swelled with enthusiasm, and he nodded eagerly, stammering.

"Y-yes, exactly!"

"I said the same thing on my blog. Anson hasn't been able to shake off the struggles of adolescence. Of course, I'm not saying these films are bad. Quite the opposite, the fact that he can extract a similar core from such different genres and themes shows that Anson is an actor."

"No, what I mean is, he's not just a pretty face—he's an actor with his own thoughts."

"I imagine everyone talks about his looks, and that must bother him. In his next project, if he gets the chance, he needs to step out of that adolescent shadow and take the next step, showing more of his range in different roles."

"Honestly, I think that's why he chose Charlie Kaufman."

"I think he's an interesting actor, and those media outlets who keep treating him like a pretty boy should really reflect on that. There's no need to follow the crowd."

The man in sunglasses gave a faint smile. "I thought you didn't like him."

Cough, cough.

Carl choked on his own saliva again. "No, I never said that. But to be honest, with so many people going crazy over him, I doubt he cares about the opinion of a small-time movie lover like me."

"No, trust me. You matter. Really," the man in sunglasses said meaningfully. "Hope you have a great day and enjoy the screening."

Carl stood frozen, watching the man in sunglasses walk away, circling around the line to find the VIP entrance.

Something felt off. Carl kept his eyes on the man as he moved through the crowd, standing out despite being in a sea of people. His ordinary attire still carried a distinct style.

Wait a second...

Suddenly, Carl remembered something. If the man in sunglasses had just arrived at Cannes today and hadn't had time to watch "Elephant," then how did he know that "Elephant" could also be interpreted as a painful coming-of-age story?

Wait, sunglasses, "Elephant," Anson—

Hiccup.

The surprise was too much. Carl let out an involuntary hiccup.

The next second, he clamped his mouth shut, wide-eyed and filled with shock. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might burst, and he barely noticed his eyes almost popping out of his head. His mind buzzed endlessly, frozen in place.

No way.

No way...

No way!

Carl felt like he couldn't breathe.

But when he looked again, the man was gone from the VIP entrance.

Reluctantly, Carl tore his gaze away, feeling restless.

His mind buzzed with chaotic thoughts. The two-hour wait in line didn’t seem so unbearable anymore, and before he knew it, the loud, fevered screams from the red carpet pulled him back to reality.

The cast of "Dogville" had arrived.

As expected, the film, one of the most highly anticipated in the main competition, had drawn a massive crowd. The red carpet was surrounded by three layers of fans, and the queue to enter the Lumière Theatre was record-breaking—

A sea of people, with no end in sight.

But!

Carl’s luck was on fire today. He made it in, leaving a long tail of disappointed attendees stuck outside the Lumière Theatre. While others sighed in frustration, Carl didn’t notice, his feet already carrying him into the screening hall.

Instinctively, Carl scanned the crowd in the Lumière Theatre.

Maybe he'd see that man in sunglasses again?

Unfortunately, no.

Taking a deep breath, Carl forced himself to calm down and focus on the film.

"Dogville"—he had been waiting for this moment for a long, long time. Ever since the list of main competition films had been announced, Carl had been eagerly anticipating this one.

What new madness would Lars von Trier come up with this time?

The movie ended—

The audience rose to their feet, applause thunderous. The entire Lumière Theatre was swept into a storm, the faces of the crowd lit up with shock and excitement.

Carl stood up too.

There was no doubt, Lars von Trier was one of the most provocative, rebellious directors of our time. Once again, he had delivered his views with force, baring the brutality and evil of human nature in a raw and confrontational way, almost daring the audience to feel assaulted, every punch landing right in your face, menacing and relentless.

Yet, maybe because his expectations had been so high, Carl felt a little disappointed.

But one thing was certain: the film was dense with information, and it left both psychological and physical discomfort. It was going to take Carl some time to digest it all and gather his thoughts.

The Lumière Theatre was in a frenzy again.

A full fifteen minutes of standing ovation greeted Lars von Trier and Nicole Kidman. It was clear that Cannes was about to be shaken up once again.

Finally, the applause died down, and the audience began to exit in an orderly fashion.

Next was the post-screening press conference. The crowd started moving toward the press hall, but a tall figure darted swiftly through the throng.

Carl's eyes followed it, wait, was that—

Chapter 922: Rookie Mistake

It was too late.

This was the only thought in Anson's mind. He had to reach the Riviera Palace within five minutes, or he’d miss the final screening of A Glorious Life at Cannes. He had to sprint.

Thump, thump, thump.

Running full speed, he could feel his lungs burning, tasting blood in his breath. But he made it just in time, rushing in and finding his seat before the lights went out.

Panting, drenched in sweat.

Now, this felt like a film festival: dashing from screening to screening, jumping between movies, grabbing lunch and dinner in three to five minutes, often too rushed to even eat the sandwich he’d packed, forced to slowly dissolve a cracker in his mouth instead—

This was when chocolate and candy came in handy.

There was no time for food, let alone processing the films.

Slowly, slowly, his eyelids started to droop. Even pinching his thigh no longer worked, and the surrounding darkness engulfed him.

Slap.

A sharp knock on his forehead, like someone tapping a watermelon. Judging by the sound, it was ripe. Anson jolted upright, trying to focus.

Half asleep, eyes barely open, utterly disoriented—

Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?

He was a beat slow, realizing he’d nearly slumped onto the woman next to him. He quickly lowered his head and whispered.

"Sorry."

The woman nodded slightly but didn’t speak, staying immersed in the movie on the big screen.

Anson let out a quiet breath, adjusted his posture, and patted his cheeks, trying to wake himself up and re-enter the world of the screen—

But it wasn’t easy.

No need to mention the past 72 hours of non-stop chaos and exhaustion. Just focusing on today's packed schedule:

Dogville, three hours.

A Glorious Life, six hours.

From morning till night, with no breaks. Lunch was still in his backpack, and dinner was a burger he wolfed down in two minutes. After finishing everything, Anson rushed to catch a third screening.

Fathers and Sons, the one Nicholas had recommended.

And of course, it turned out to be an artsy, surreal film, more about emotions than story. The camera lingered in a dreamy, ambiguous atmosphere, with the pacing slow enough to feel like a lullaby.

Now, Anson finally understood that joke film buffs made:

"Every year at the festival, there’s always one or two films perfect for a nap."

On the one hand, some art films are indeed sleep-inducing, much like Olympic math or quantum mechanics.

On the other hand, watching films is a mental and physical test. If you’re too greedy, like Anson, an amateur who overbooks his schedule, no matter how good the movie is, your brain can’t handle it all. You end up sitting in the theater, getting insomnia treatment.

It was obvious: Anson was a festival newbie—

His schedule had no strategy. He just crammed in whatever fit the timetable, without considering genre or length. With boundless enthusiasm, he dove in headfirst. It’s a mistake easy to make in theory, but after the first day, he was already running on empty.

And then… nothing. He drifted off.

Despite all his efforts, enthusiasm, and energy, he couldn’t resist the gentle lull of the film’s surreal flow and soon found himself… asleep again.

Until—

Cold.

The air conditioning was freezing, and Anson woke up, shivering, his arms and back covered in goosebumps. Groggy, he glanced at the screen. The movie wasn’t over yet, but somehow, the emotions on-screen still made sense. Napping hadn’t thrown him off at all.

Except, there was a slight weight on his left shoulder.

A beat late, Anson noticed the head resting there. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one the film had hypnotized.

Should he wake her?

Maybe not. Who knew how many screenings she’d been through today? She was probably just as exhausted as he was.

Before long, the movie ended—less than 90 minutes. But it felt like three hours, with its dreamy, trance-like flow.

One by one, the audience began to stand up and leave, the faint rustling mingling with the chilly air.

Anson glanced again at the woman resting on his shoulder, still motionless. But wait—her face… The sharp features were strikingly familiar. He had been so focused on the movie—and hiding his exhaustion—that he hadn’t paid any attention to the people around him. But now, things were different.

Anson froze. He didn’t expect to run into her here.

After a moment’s thought, Anson stayed seated, not getting up. He had no other films lined up tonight.

Plenty of time to wait.

Just then, the woman jerked upright, hurriedly rubbing her eyes, trying to compose herself. She looked at the screen as if nothing had happened, like a student pretending to pay attention after dozing off in class.

But when she saw the blank, dark screen, she froze.

It’s over... the movie’s over?

Instinctively, she glanced around, then saw Anson, sitting beside her, intently studying the festival program as if he hadn’t noticed her nap.

But—

She froze, stunned to see this face, taking a deep breath. "You saw everything, didn’t you?"

Anson turned to her, "A secret for a secret. We saw nothing, right?"

After a pause, he pointed to the corner of his mouth. "But we should destroy the evidence before anyone else sees."

She blinked, hastily wiping the corner of her mouth. Only after a beat did she realize—there was nothing there. She stiffened. "You were joking, weren’t you?"

Anson nodded earnestly. "Marks of someone fully immersed in the film."

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a smile. "Looks like I scored high then. I never got high scores in school. This calls for a celebration, I guess. Ha. Haha."

Her awkward laugh was completely joyless.

Anson turned to face her fully. "No need to be so hard on yourself. It’s been a long day, you’re tired, it’s normal to nod off. How many films have you seen today?"

She took a deep breath, looking at him, eyes filled with resignation. Not saying a word.

Anson blinked. "Wait... don’t tell me—"

She nodded. "This was my first one today..."

Before she could finish, Scarlett Johansson buried her face in her hands with a frustrated groan.

*Chapter 923: Differences in Levels*

Scarlett Johansson, feeling utterly dejected, buried her face in her hands, unable to believe what had just happened. She felt like she had embarrassed herself all the way across the Atlantic.

Someone who always prided herself on enjoying and delving deep into art films had actually fallen asleep while watching one?

This... this was just amateurish and absurd.

She felt deeply ashamed.

What surprised her a little was the silence beside her, which made Scarlett even more nervous. A muffled voice emerged from between her hands.

“You can laugh. I’m mentally prepared.”

Looking at Scarlett, Anson's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Why laugh? Did you forget? I just fell asleep too. We're in the same boat."

Scarlett was stunned for a moment, then she lifted her head to look at Anson, feeling slightly relieved. But then she had a thought. "You must have watched more than one movie today, right?"

Anson: …

Scarlett spread her hands. "See, I knew it. I’m just a clueless vase full of nothing but pop culture fluff.”

Anson couldn’t hold back anymore. “Haha.”

Scarlett gave Anson a look of mock despair.

Anson, however, didn’t hide his amusement and shrugged lightly. “You’ve got to admit, what you just said was hilarious. And please, don’t compare yourself to a cow. What’s this about eating grass and producing milk?”

Scarlett couldn’t help herself: Pfft.

A smile crept back onto her face.

Anson brought the conversation back to the main point. “There’s no need, really, there’s no need for any of that. Art doesn’t have levels. No one is superior, and no one is vulgar. Sure, some people try to rank art, but think about it — we already have enough hierarchy in real life. Why put shackles on art?”

“Shakespeare’s plays were originally performed on market streets. Did they suddenly become noble just because they moved to a formal theater?”

“Genre films have their brilliance too. Imagine the thrill of seeing Jaws for the first time, or the emotion from The Sixth Sense — those are unique experiences that so-called high-brow art films can’t provide. And art films have their own exploration, like the provocation of Dogville or the experimentation in Elephant, which offer another way to delve into social realities and artistic inquiry.”

“Hey, some art films just can’t be understood.”

“I won’t deny it. To this day, I still don’t get Wild Strawberries or The Seventh Seal. Bergman’s not my cup of tea.”

His tone was calm and sincere.

Scarlett didn’t hide her surprise. Clearly, the wisdom and composure Anson displayed were far beyond his years.

No wonder!

No wonder the media often labeled Anson a “pretty face,” taking every chance to mock and attack him. But Anson never defended himself, let alone retaliated.

In fact, Anson often embraced the mockery, even joking about the “pretty face” label himself, causing the media to repeatedly lose ground.

People always speculated that this was the brilliance of Anson’s PR team. Who knew? Maybe behind the scenes, he cursed every day, trying to shake off these labels, acting in films like Elephant and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind as part of his struggle as an actor.

After all, who would want to be called a “pretty face”?

But now, it seemed Anson didn’t mind.

Scarlett couldn’t help but admire him, but as she looked at Anson’s relaxed demeanor, any praise or admiration felt unnecessary. The words that had been on the tip of her tongue faded away as a smile tugged at her lips. “Jaws? The Sixth Sense? Those are the first movies that came to your mind?”

There are countless genre films, yet Anson chose those two?

Anson spread his hands. “Alright, so which ones would you choose?”

Scarlett thought for a moment. “Titanic…”

Anson responded, “Hey, James Cameron might not want to classify that as a genre film.”

Scarlett chuckled. “And When Harry Met Sally.”

Anson widened his eyes. “Honestly, I don’t really consider that a genre film.”

“If it’s not, then what is it? An art film?”

“No, it’s more of a film for intellectual romantics.”

“Ha! What does that even mean?”

“My point is that the division between genre films and art films is just a concept. It’s a label Hollywood puts on movies. Look at Titanic and When Harry Met Sally. Both could be considered genre films because of their box office success, but they’re not typical genre films, since Hollywood has never really been able to replicate their success.”

“No, I think there’s been some success. Isn’t Sleepless in Seattle a continuation of When Harry Met Sally?”

They chatted back and forth, thoughts flowing freely as Anson and Scarlett left the screening room and began walking down the boardwalk by the sea.

Night had fallen. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and the small town of Cannes wasn’t brightly lit as if it were daytime. Soft, amber streetlights supported the night sky, casting a dim, romantic glow over the town. The air carried a lazy and relaxed vibe.

It was the kind of night perfect for sipping wine and chatting over cigarettes at an outdoor café, with the shimmering night flowing through your fingers.

As soon as they stepped outside, a wave of heat mixed with the salty smell of the sea hit them, opening up their pores as if they had walked into a ball of hot air.

At the same time, a soft murmur of noise enveloped them. Looking around, they could see small groups of people standing in the cinema lobby and on the street outside, chatting. Even though they were all reporters, critics, and other industry professionals, here at the film festival, they were simply movie lovers.

When people look at actors and directors, the spotlight often places them on a pedestal, but in reality, they’re just ordinary people.

Journalists, critics, distributors, and the like are no different, especially at a film festival.

“... Anson?”

A surprised voice came from the side, filled with disbelief.

The thing was, Anson’s striking presence, his tall and slender frame, made him hard to miss. Plus, since night had fallen, Anson had taken off his sunglasses, dropping his disguise, making him even more recognizable.

After the voice called out, it couldn’t help but repeat itself.

“Anson Wood?”

Whoosh.

Eyes began to turn in their direction.

Before Anson could respond, murmurs started spreading around them.

“Who’s that?”

“Seems like an actor.”

“I think she looks familiar too.”

Anson helplessly looked at Scarlett. “Sorry, I’ve become a burden now.”

If not for him, they probably wouldn’t have been recognized.

Scarlett nodded. “I was prepared for this, but the speed was faster than I expected. So, you’re buying dinner later?”

Anson laughed, “No problem.”

Then, Anson turned to the curious stares with a playful expression. “You’re not the first to say I look like him. So, do I really resemble him that much?”

Chapter 924: Street Chatter

"...So, do I really look that much like him?"

Anson asked sincerely, confidently meeting the gazes of the crowd around him.

For a moment, everyone froze, unsure of how to respond.

Or more accurately, they didn’t know how to respond.

Scarlett, standing to the side, was dumbfounded. She glanced at Anson in disbelief, struggling to suppress the grin threatening to take over her face. She lowered her head, shoulders trembling as she tried to contain her laughter.

One second, two seconds—

“No, no, no. You’re definitely Anson Wood, you can’t fool me.”

Someone in the crowd finally snapped out of it, unwilling to be tricked. He glanced around, seeking support to back up his claim. But to his surprise, Anson simply spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

“Well, you got me.”

Wait... that’s it?

“So, do you need an autograph? Just ‘Anson Wood’ will do, right?”

There was a brief moment of hesitation from the crowd. Anson was so calm and confident that they began to second-guess themselves.

After all, stories of random people being mistaken for celebrities were urban legends. Even superstars like Michael Jackson or Elvis Presley had been misidentified by passersby.

Could the man standing in front of them really be just some random person who happened to resemble Anson?

In the next moment, Anson spread his hands again.

“Oh, how disappointing. I thought you’d keep up the act a bit longer.”

Crowd: ???

Pfft.

Scarlett couldn’t hold it in any longer. She burst out laughing.

Noticing all eyes on her, Scarlett waved her hands apologetically, trying to explain, but the laughter was uncontrollable. Her shoulders shook, and she was clearly having the time of her life.

Finally, the crowd caught on.

“Oh, it really is Anson.”

“Almost fell for it.”

“Ha ha, I knew it! It’s definitely Anson.”

“Wow, he looks even better in person—his face is so small!”

Chatter buzzed through the group, unstoppable.

Usually, this would be the moment when the crowd would swarm him, leaving no room to breathe.

In fact, the crowd did begin to gather around him, but they remained calm, keeping a respectful distance.

“Anson, are you here to watch the movie too?”

“Do you like it?”

“What did you think of the film?”

Suddenly, it turned into an impromptu Q&A, the atmosphere lively.

Anson paused for a moment, then smiled. After all, the unique energy of a film festival was shining through. “Yes, I’m here to watch a movie. A friend recommended I check out this competition entry.”

“But unfortunately, I fell asleep... for most of it.”

“So, I don’t think I’m in a position to give a review.”

He was frank, honest.

The crowd was stunned, and the scene fell into an eerie silence.

Generally, actors worry about revealing any ignorance of the arts. They fear being labeled as just another "pretty face," and being seen as lacking in artistic appreciation is even worse.

Actors, much like those self-proclaimed intellectuals, often list off a plethora of artistic directors and classic films to prove their taste and depth.

But true depth doesn’t come from how many classics one has seen but from cultivating one’s own aesthetic and perspective through these works. Liking or disliking something is personal, and while classics become revered for a reason, they don’t have to align with everyone’s taste. Having a grounded opinion, even in the face of artistic masterpieces, demonstrates true refinement.

No matter how many classic movies one watches or how many literary masterpieces one reads, a barren mind cannot suddenly flourish with richness.

In fact, those who proudly flaunt their knowledge of "classics" often reveal a lack of personal taste, character, or thought.

The same applies to actors.

That’s why many so-called "pretty faces" pretend to understand things they don’t, inadvertently exposing their superficiality.

But on the other hand, countless "pretty faces" know nothing about films, even lacking basic knowledge, and that too can come off as foolish.

So what about Anson?

A "pretty face" openly admitting he fell asleep during a movie—was that really okay? Could he be so candid about it?

Scarlett, having forgotten her laughter for a moment, looked at Anson instinctively. To her surprise, she saw only calmness and composure on his face. He didn’t look foolish or flustered. Instead, he radiated confidence and conviction, taking the situation in a completely unexpected direction.

It was because of his confidence that he could be so open about it.

It was because of his inner depth that he didn’t fear revealing his shortcomings.

Unconsciously, Scarlett thought about her own reaction earlier—

The contrast was clear, and the truth became evident.

And then—

"Actually... I fell asleep too. It wasn’t really my cup of tea.”

“Ha ha, how honest!”

“So, you didn’t like it?”

The conversation grew lighthearted and filled with laughter.

When they looked back at Anson, he didn’t shy away. “It’s not about liking or disliking. I’m sure the director knew what they were doing, and the atmosphere and texture of the film were indeed unique.”

“Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the right frame of mind today to appreciate it properly.”

“Maybe I’ll give it another shot next time. But here in Cannes, I don’t think I’ll be seeing it again.”

The crowd burst into laughter again.

Slowly, Scarlett felt herself relaxing. Admitting she didn’t enjoy a film or even dozed off during an art film screening wasn’t as difficult or terrible as she’d imagined.

Then, someone in the crowd asked, “So, this wasn’t your first movie of the day?”

“No, this morning I saw Dogville...”

“Oh!” came a collective gasp.

“I know, I used a bit of my connections to get into the premiere. Don’t be too jealous.”

The crowd laughed.

“Then in the afternoon, I saw The Best of Youth.”

“Wow!”

“Yes, I know. Rookie mistake. I shouldn’t have scheduled it that way, so by the time I watched The Best of Youth, I was practically collapsing in the theater. By the time I was in the Riviera, my soul had dried up, like it had been kissed by a Dementor.”

Roars of laughter erupted.

Anson hadn’t made excuses for himself earlier, honestly admitting that he dozed off during the movie. Now, everyone understood the context.

It was perfectly understandable.

Moreover, the mistake was relatable—something every first-time festival-goer, in their excitement, was likely to make.

The atmosphere lightened significantly.

Scarlett found it fascinating. She had expected the crowd to immediately ask Anson about The Elephant, the hot topic of the past few days.

But they didn’t.

The first question had nothing to do with The Elephant, which made sense since they were standing outside the theater after Fathers and Sons.

But to her surprise, the second question wasn’t about The Elephant either.

“Anson, did you like Dogville? That was your first film of the day, right?”

The unspoken subtext: There’s no excuse for this one. You were awake and alert, so what’s your opinion?

Chapter 925: The Fan Gathering

All eyes were intensely fixed on Anson's shoulders, making the air feel thick and tense.

"I don’t like it."

Straightforward and composed, Anson clearly expressed his thoughts.

"First of all, I don’t like this kind of stage-play style of presentation."

"Of course, I understand Lars von Trier isn’t actually making a stage play. The film's framing and direction break free from the constraints of a stage. This is a movie. But still, Lars von Trier chose to present it in a theatrical way, which reveals the director's intention."

"A test lab."

"He’s presenting this absurd yet brutal, but somehow realistic story in a small village. Is he guiding humanity toward evil? Is he questioning if human nature is inherently wicked? Is he showcasing pure evil?"

"No, none of that."

"By presenting it this way, he's playing God. He sees humans as insignificant. He believes human nature is like this— that good and evil are one and the same. He provokes the audience's sensitivities, taking pleasure in watching their anger and pain. He looks down on them and says—"

"'Look, this is who you are.'"

"The movie talks about arrogance."

"I can’t remember the exact line, but it goes something like, 'I forgive others, so I’m arrogant?’ ‘When people make mistakes, you have to punish them. If you don’t, you deny them the chance to realize their errors. Forgiving them means you think your morals are superior to theirs. That’s arrogance.’"

"Does that make sense?"

"Of course. Not just in the movie—there are many real-life situations like this."

"But Lars von Trier creates this extreme scenario in a kind of experimental setup on the big screen. It comes off as confrontational, forcibly pushing his views, not only crushing the audience but also immersing himself in his preaching."

"Everything, like a divine revelation, carries its own arrogance."

"But you know what?"

"The most interesting part is the structure of the film. It's like an essay, dissecting the problem, thesis, evidence, and conclusion. You can tell Lars von Trier spent a lot of time working on the script."

"Yet, the camera work doesn’t show the same calmness or patience. The camera is constantly shaking. It’s not just about composition; it’s shaky as if you can sense the creator’s uncertainty."

"Maybe, deep down, Lars von Trier isn’t fully convinced himself, or he’s not confident that he can persuade the audience."

"That’s the fundamental difference between the director’s arrogance and a divine oracle."

His speech flowed confidently, his voice steady but sharp, hinting at the power of his thought process.

Scarlett couldn’t help but glance at Anson again and found herself unable to look away. She quietly observed his face.

She wasn’t like others—she had always known Anson was a smart guy. Judging him by his looks would only lead to underestimating him.

Their last encounter in Vancouver had left a deep impression on her, serving as important inspiration for her growth as an actress.

Yet, today, he managed to surprise her again.

Just moments ago, she was worried about dozing off during the movie and being judged for her lack of artistic insight. But now, Anson confidently shared his thoughts, showing grace and depth.

This, Scarlett thought, was true substance.

She hadn’t seen Dogville yet. It had just premiered, and tickets were nearly impossible to get without some connections.

However, Anson’s words intrigued her. Maybe she should watch the film and see for herself, even though Anson admitted he didn’t like it. Who knows? She might like it, or maybe she wouldn’t. Only seeing it would tell.

Her thoughts lingered in her mind for a brief moment—

"No, I disagree."

A voice from the crowd snapped Scarlett out of her thoughts, pulling them all into a debate.

"Of course, that's an interesting take, but my view is a little different. I think it’s a formalistic experiment. Even Lars von Trier himself couldn’t control how the final product would turn out. It’s an act of provocation, an attempt. That’s the essence of experimentation."

"So the uncertainty you sense in his shots isn’t doubt about his ideas but uncertainty about human nature itself."

"Here, we could approach it like Haneke, with cold, restrained shots. But we could also follow von Trier's path, exposing oneself and pulling the audience along to experience it together."

"I believe that true masterpieces can turn uncomfortable, controversial topics into an artistic confrontation and aren’t afraid to stir debate."

"That’s what makes them iconic."

"As you said, you didn’t like it, but it made you think, right? It made you realize the film’s parallels with reality."

The voice, youthful and carrying a slight accent—perhaps Germanic—held its ground firmly, challenging Anson’s opinion.

And then—the crowd erupted.

One by one, people started to voice their opinions. Some patiently waited their turn, while others, brimming with excitement, couldn’t wait to jump in. The conversation ebbed and flowed, with everyone trying to balance the back-and-forth, but no one wanted to be left out.

The entire scene was ablaze with heated debate.

As Karl Rivette finished his long day of work and walked past the Riviera Palace, this was the scene he stumbled upon, leaving him momentarily stunned.

To be honest, Karl was exhausted.

All he wanted now was to return to his hotel, collapse on the couch, and shut his brain off. He didn’t want to think about anything, let alone work on his article. Not even dinner sounded appealing; he just wanted to lie down in silence.

Film festivals were draining, leaving him feeling completely emptied.

He caught sight of the crowd near the Riviera Palace but had no desire to stop or investigate further. This was Cannes, after all, where film buffs gathered to passionately debate in every corner at any given moment. It was nothing out of the ordinary.

Three days ago, Karl would have eagerly joined in, listening to his peers' opinions and noting the trending topics in Cannes. After all, this was how word of mouth spread at the festival.

But now, he was just too tired.

Then, something caught his eye.

Standing tall, rising above the crowd.

Even in his weary state, that figure easily drew his attention.

Anson?

Wait, is that really Anson?

He watched Dogville this morning, and now tonight...

Karl glanced up at the Riviera Palace—could it be for Father and Son in the main competition?