The Best Actor in the Vase of Meiyu

Chapter 1805 Pretending
When I arrived in London, a light rain was falling over the city. The gray sky had a bluish tinge, and the haze completely hid the sun. The damp, sticky air, mixed with a slight chill, clung to my skin, and goosebumps immediately started to appear.

Every single time! Every single time, literally every single time he came to London, it was the same. This made Eddie somewhat gloomy, even a little annoyed. His listless expression revealed a hint of sadness, as if he might drop everything at any moment, turn around, and disappear into the gloomy street corner, never to be seen again.

Then, Eddie saw Anson.

Lazy, casual, gloomy, with a stubble beard and messy hair, he appears slightly decadent and unruly, his droopy eyelids listless, as if everything is unimportant; however, his aura, somewhere between blue and gray, possesses a fatal attraction, vaguely revealing a hint of sadness and brokenness.

He sat quietly in a corner of the sofa, his hands and feet relaxed, as if telling a story that no one cared about in a corner unknown to anyone.

Yet it easily captured attention and focus. Eddie gently plucked the strings of inspiration in his mind, and the pattering rain outside the window ceased to be bothersome. The damp, chilly air seemed to be silently invading the memories deep within his mind, and loneliness and solitude lingered at his fingertips like the scent of cigarettes.

This is what's called charisma, the aura of someone with a story.

No words or glances are needed; the gestures and movements speak volumes.

This is a side of Anson I've never seen before, a far cry from the sunny, cheerful, and youthful image of Spider-Man. His mature and weathered demeanor goes even further on the basis of "The Sun Shines in My Heart" and "The Butterfly Effect," revealing another side of Anson that is both familiar and unfamiliar.

Without thinking, Eddie stopped in his tracks, cupping his hands to frame the scene before him, imprinting it into his mind. Inspirations, thoughts, and lines began to grow wildly—

Sure enough, Anson is still the same Anson, his muse.

Anson, engrossed in his reading, didn't notice Eddie immediately. After a short while, he realized that there was another person in the apartment room.

Anson looked away from the book and saw Eddie taking pictures. A smile involuntarily crept onto his lips. "I thought this was a pose reserved for pretentious artsy young people in arthouse movies. This affected way of doing things is so unlike you."

He started his day with a rant.

But clearly, these complaints had no effect on Eddie. "Isn't that what some American is doing, sitting on a sofa with a view of the Thames River outside his window reading a book? When it comes to pretense, I can admit defeat. Everything here is set up, just waiting for the reporters to come knocking."

"However, I didn't see any reporters. To avoid wasting your efforts, I'm cooperating with the performance. You should thank me."

Sharp, incisive, and forceful.

Anson burst out laughing. "Haha, it's a pity the viewfinder doesn't have film. It's such a shame. I prepared for so long, and it's all wasted like this."

Jokes, banter, teasing—it's all so simple.

Anson didn't care at all.

Eddie walked forward and glanced at the book Anson had placed on the coffee table, "Children of Mankind." Clearly, Anson had genuinely been reading it, not just posing for a photo; but Anson didn't seem inclined to explain, which piqued Eddie's interest. "Is this the project you're working on?"

Anson followed Eddie's gaze and quipped self-deprecatingly, "Yeah, I'm joining the crew next week, and I'm cramming right now."

Eddie looked them up and down. "These looks...are they for the role? Or are they just plain lazy?"

Anson glanced at himself, a slight smile playing on his lips. "So, what do you think?"

Eddie considered it carefully, "You still have your own charm, and you seem like someone with a story."

Anson's lips curved into a wide smile. "Thank you. I have some confidence now, God. The complexity of this role is beyond imagination."

In fact, Anson has already read the original novel "Children of Men" five times—it's definitely not a last-minute cramming session; he has been studying the details and the characters' psychology all along.

One key difference here is that Anson wasn't researching the psychology of the characters in the original novel, nor was he working on the author's creative intentions. Instead, he was creating characters based on his own understanding of the characters, building upon the original work and the script. This process was clearly not so simple.

In his past life, Clive Owen delivered a brilliant performance; now, Anson has no intention of surpassing Clive Owen, nor of breaking the image Clive Owen created, nor of accomplishing what Clive Owen failed to achieve, because all of this is no longer related to Clive Owen. Anson intends to construct the character according to his own conception, his own understanding, and his own ideas, and to complete his own performance, creating a character of his own.

Now, all these looks and states are part of an exploration process. Anson is going down the rabbit hole and into the world of the character.

Eddie raised an eyebrow slightly. "You? Anson Wood? Lack of confidence? Is this some new kind of joke?"

The complaints hidden in the words were almost undisguised.

Anson couldn't help but burst out laughing. "Eddie, you should read those comments attacking my acting skills. They're more vicious than you can imagine."

Eddie's expression didn't change. "Don't say you care."

Anson raised his hands. "Damn it, we've been found out."

Clearly, Anson doesn't care; he lets those criticisms and attacks continue to succumb to envy, jealousy, and rot and stink in the darkness of hatred.

Eddie, "You're still Anson Wood, they can't hurt you."

Anson slightly raised his chin, a hint of scrutiny in his eyes. "That's the confidence we need, isn't it?"

Eddie gently shook his head. "That's the kind of determination I need. Always believe in yourself."

Anson's lips curled up. "So, what do you need help with?"

Eddie blinked. "What? What's wrong? I don't need any help."

Anson: "Oh. That's good. I was hesitant because I'm about to join the film crew, and now it seems I have to refuse my friend's request, but I still have to do it. My conscience is tormenting me, but it seems there's no problem now. Everything is fine."

Eddie: ...

With a look of utter despair, he stared at Anson with dead fish eyes, "When did you realize it?"

Anson's eyes gradually filled with a smile. "You've been praising me the whole time, ever since I walked in. The praise hasn't stopped."

Eddie, “I always have. And it’s all from the heart.” This is the truth; Eddie is indeed bursting with inspiration right now and can’t stop.

Anson said, "But his eyes and expression were tense. Even when he was telling the truth, he was constantly weighing his options and calculating. Oh no, this favor is probably very tricky, otherwise why would Eddie Slimane be so humble?"

Eddie: "...I didn't lower myself."

Anson simply laughed.

Eddie let out a soft breath. "Anson, I need you to shoot a promotional photo catalog for Dior."

Anson was stunned; he hadn't expected this at all.

Eddie continued, "Also, I need you to make a guest appearance on the runway for Paris Fashion Week in February."

One bombshell after another was thrown out, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat and then a pigeon.

(End of this chapter)