Playing along—why take it seriously?
Though the analogy wasn't perfect, it was like The Emperor's New Clothes. Everyone understood this was all an act. They were merely the audience playing their roles, with no need to expose the lie. Let the performance continue.
Yet, there was always someone different. The Hayworth Theater, too, had its truth-telling child.
From a distance, the figure appeared young—early twenties at most, still green. Unable to smoothly switch expressions or adapt to the charade, their true emotions leaked through unintentionally.
Anson wondered: Would this person, like the child in The Emperor's New Clothes, speak the truth?
They did not.
After a stunned survey of the room, the figure gradually snapped out of it. Lowering their head and hunching slightly, they began a furtive retreat.
Clearly, they weren't here to disrupt the performance—nor to stay.
Anson found it fascinating—
It seemed Hollywood in 2000 still retained some vitality and edge. Not everyone had prostrated themselves at the altar of fame, selling their souls.
Edgar Cook was thinking that perhaps, maybe, possibly… it was time to leave.
As a junior agent, freshly promoted from assistant, he had no foundation, no connections, no clients—
Everything had to be built from scratch.
So Edgar relied on his own two feet, scouring Los Angeles—acting schools, indie theaters, TV sets, back alleys.
Even while walking or eating, he kept his eyes open.
Maybe he'd find an uncut gem. Maybe a struggling actor. Maybe a star whose relationship with their agent had soured.
Opportunities weren't waited for—they were discovered, unearthed, seized.
Possibility was something you created yourself.
This afternoon's The Hole was not something Edgar could miss—
Beyond James and Seth, the cast included promising actors without representation. Edgar had arrived with high hopes.
But… this?
Really?
Had his expectations blinded him to the play's merits, or was he simply incapable of appreciating it? Edgar faced a soul-searching question:
To leave or not to leave—that was the question.
His criteria?
Instinct.
A top agent had to trust their gut—judging clients, collaborators, projects, career trajectories. Without that conviction, even the careers of A-list directors and actors could crumble in their hands.
At least, that's what Edgar had learned during his five years at William Morris Endeavor (WME). He'd cultivated his own eye.
Though he had zero clients so far, Edgar believed in quality over quantity—and in himself.
After all, he'd beaten 20-to-1 odds to become March's only assistant promoted to full agent at WME.
At William Morris, everything hinged on ability. Even within the company, colleagues were rivals. Promotion wasn't luck.
Founded in 1898, WME was the only century-old veteran among Hollywood's top five agencies.
The other four agencies' combined lifespans couldn't match William Morris's.
It was no exaggeration to say WME had witnessed Hollywood's history—and shaped its modern agency landscape.
Though surpassed in the '80s by Creative Artists Agency (CAA), WME staged a comeback in the '90s. By the new millennium, the two stood as Hollywood's twin titans.
WME's most enduring legacy was inventing the mailroom—
A training ground for newcomers. CAA's five founders, former Disney CEO Michael Eisner, and DreamWorks co-founder Jeffrey Katzenberg all started there.
Now, every major agency had a mailroom.
Edgar was no exception.
From WME's mailroom to full agent, he'd climbed step by step on his own merit.
Even now, just starting out, the WME name gave him confidence.
As for The Hole? Edgar admitted—he was disappointed.
The play, the performances—all felt like student work: crude, pretentious, straining for depth where none existed.
James Franco had talent, but clearly hadn't yet found the right outlet.
Not that James needed a junior agent's concern. Edgar simply saw no reason to stay. He'd be better off grabbing afternoon tea.
He trusted his instincts.
Rising and bending low to avoid attention, he prepared to slip away unnoticed—
Then he felt it.
A gaze.
Like prey sensing a predator, the hairs on his neck stood up.
What?
Straightening slightly, Edgar scanned the room under cover of the crowd—
Every eye was on the stage, applauding the cast's curtain call amid cheers and whistles.
Chaos reigned.
Any outlier would stand out like a needle in a haystack.
Then he found it.
Presence.
That was Edgar's first impression. In the crowd, he couldn't make out features or even pinpoint the gaze—just a sensation.
Unassuming, yet magnetic enough to draw a second glance.
When Edgar's eyes met theirs, there was no evasion—just a slight chin lift and a glint of amusement.
Edgar flushed.
Only now did he realize how shifty his attempted exit must've looked. Getting caught mid-sneak was just rude.
Not that he couldn't leave. Even if James Franco himself spotted him, so what? Wasn't the show over?
But a thought struck him. Maybe staying held unexpected rewards.
The worst was already over. How much worse could it get?
One moment ready to bolt, the next reversing course—a ballerina's pirouette would've been put to shame. But Edgar felt no guilt.
Playing the part—wasn't that Hollywood's first rule of survival?
(End of chapter)