Chapter 49: Actors and Stars Are Two Different Creatures
Wayne also wanted to be the kind of director who could just lie around at home while the assistant director and production manager handled all the pre-production—but that was basically a fantasy.
He knew from experience: if you don't personally keep track of everything during pre-production, even the tiniest oversight could snowball into a massive issue during filming. Best case, it delays the schedule. Worst case, it shuts the entire production down.
While he was glued to his phone, constantly coordinating with Luke and John over various logistics, his housekeeper, Hela, came to his side.
"Sir, lunch is ready," she said gently as Wayne ended the call, noticing his puzzled expression.
"Oh, I didn't even realize it was midday. Alright, let's go to the dining room."
He glanced at the time—it was already well past noon. When he got to the dining room, Naomi and Nina were already seated at the table.
"You didn't have to wait for me. I always lose track of time when I get busy."
Naomi rolled her eyes, picked up her knife and fork, and began cutting into her steak as she muttered to Nina, "Told you. He's always like this. You'll get used to it. On the last film, he was a complete workaholic—once we start shooting, it gets worse. Nina, you're gonna be swamped just keeping up with him."
Wayne sat down and listened to Naomi's "complaints." But she wasn't wrong. The moment a project kicks off, the pressure on the director becomes suffocating. It demands total focus—everything else fades into the background.
---
"My agent, Jenny, suggested that after this film, I take on two small-budget indie dramas," Naomi said between bites. "She thinks it'll help me avoid being typecast and also polish my acting skills. What do you think, Wayne?"
She wanted his opinion—badly. Naomi knew better than anyone how sharply this man saw through Hollywood's illusions.
"Indie dramas, huh?" Wayne chewed a piece of steak, then turned his head to glance at her.
"Yeah. My acting coach said the same thing. If I want to be recognized for my skills—maybe even win some awards—I should stick to indie films. She even suggested I walk away from this project."
Naomi set her utensils down, staring at him earnestly. She might be fuzzy on certain things, but Wayne never was—and his opinion carried real weight with her.
---
"Remember what I told you before?" Wayne said, raising an eyebrow. "Tell them: fxxk off."
He took a sip of water, then continued. "I can already recite their whole pitch to you—word for word:
'Start with indie films. Slowly build up your acting chops. Eventually get recognized as a "serious actress." Then transition to mainstream movies. Land bigger roles. But don't forget your indie roots. Balance box office success with critical acclaim. Voilà—Hollywood A-list star.'"
Naomi nodded vigorously. "Exactly! That's exactly what they said..."
"Fire them! Tell them to get lost!" Wayne declared, wiping his mouth and setting down his napkin. "If someone else told me that, I'd say it's a textbook strategy—and not even a bad one. But you? You've got better options."
---
"I knew it..." Naomi murmured. She remembered the words Wayne once told her outside Castle Rock's post-production studio. "Then tell me—what's the difference? Help me understand, so I stop getting confused."
"Come on. Let's go talk in the living room. Still waiting on a call from Luke anyway." Wayne stood and gestured for her to follow.
Once she sat across from him, her face serious and focused, he resumed.
"Listen, Naomi. What your coach told you is a seductive illusion."
Wayne, armed with both past-life knowledge and present-day Hollywood insight, had no doubt about one thing: some ideas sound smart—but are completely wrong.
---
"Naomi, look at yourself. Think hard—how many girls in Hollywood do you think are like you? Girls who are pretty talented at acting, and just plain pretty?"
Naomi gave it some thought. "Across all of Hollywood? Maybe... ten thousand? At least a few thousand."
She'd been in L.A. for two years. She had a good grasp of the scene.
"At least ten thousand," Wayne replied conservatively. "How many films get made in L.A. each year? How many have more than a handful of speaking roles? Most of those low-budget indie films never even make it into theaters. The few that do get released barely make a ripple—they're gone in a blink."
He lit a Marlboro, exhaled a slow puff of smoke, and continued, "And those few indie films that do win awards? That's marketing. Award campaigns are manufactured. Acting awards aren't handed out because of raw talent—they're bought with PR money."
"Watch carefully—every awards season is a battlefield for publicists. Winning an award requires a lot of money spent upfront—on media exposure, on schmoozing, on politics. It's a different kind of game. Honestly, it's more complicated than chasing box office success. It's not about being 'good enough.' It's about playing the game behind the curtain."
Naomi slowly nodded as Wayne spoke—she trusted he would never lie to her. Pointing at both of them, she said softly, "I get what you mean now. We don't have the capital to even enter that game yet."
"Exactly," Wayne replied. "Think about it, Naomi. How many indie art films are made each year? And how many actually get noticed? What are the odds of being part of one of those rare successes?
Even if you land such a role, without the backing of a powerful studio or investor, how are you going to lobby thousands of Academy voters? Most of the indie films that gain attention are designed as award vehicles for established stars. They have nothing to do with us."
"I remember you once said even a pretty face needs solid acting skills. Doesn't that mean I should hone my craft?" Naomi asked suddenly.
"You're not wrong," Wayne said, shaking his head as he stubbed out his cigarette. "Emotionally intense indie films do help sharpen acting chops. But ask yourself—how long would that take? And what's the shelf life of an actress...?"
He didn't need to finish the sentence. Naomi understood. In Hollywood, a female actor's prime years are fleeting. If you're not famous by 30, even getting cast as a supporting character becomes an uphill battle.
"Naomi, think about what you really want," Wayne said gently. "Do you want to become a skilled, respected actor, or a star that fans idolize and studios fight over? Because those are two very different creatures. You can't be both—not easily."
Naomi looked down, lost in thought. Seeing her hesitate, Wayne decided to lay out the rest of it clearly, out of respect for all she had invested in him.
"Naomi, if you choose the path of an actress—purely artistic—you'll probably spend the next five or even ten years being ignored. You might still be just an actor by age 35—unknown, underpaid."
Modern Hollywood wasn't what it used to be. Few actresses rose to fame purely through the indie circuit anymore. Those who made it to the A-list through that route were rare exceptions.
"Can you help me?" Naomi asked after a long pause, her eyes lifting to meet his. "I know that if I'm in a hit movie, even if I don't win any awards, I can still become globally famous, right? I mean... if I want to be a star—someone with both fame and fortune—can you help me get there?"
Wayne leaned back on the sofa, smiling. "Naomi, now you're getting it. You're smart. My films are made for the market—maybe I can't promise they'll all be blockbusters, but I can promise a wide release. You know what that means, right?"
"I do. Thanks. I'm going back to my room to prep for the audition." She picked up her ever-present script and headed upstairs.
She understood clearly now—Wayne didn't mind bringing her along for the ride, as long as her performance met the mark. Like he had once told her—they were partners, walking the same path.
Wayne remained by the phone, thinking over the same conversation. Everything he'd just said to Naomi also applied to himself.
He had deliberately chosen the harder path. Slow-paced art films were never his strength. Unlike many film school grads who leaned toward arthouse sensibilities, he had always known his direction.
From his freshman year onward, he'd been focused on dark, edgy stories—with bold, even provocative visuals. That's where his instinct and experience led him.
His style leaned naturally into cult aesthetics. But that also meant a narrower audience. It was exactly why he picked two already-proven stories to launch his directorial career—he couldn't afford to miss the mark.
He admitted it—yes, there was a divide between "art" films and "commercial" ones. But in today's world, that line was getting blurrier by the day.
Who could truly say a box office hit had no artistic merit? And plenty of award-winning films had excellent ticket sales too. The binary no longer applied.
When choosing what to make, Wayne always started with stories that left a strong impression on him. He didn't have access to analytics apps like Maoyan from his previous life, but the stories he remembered—the ones that stuck with him—had all been successful, artistically and commercially.
Right now, box office success mattered more than anything. Without commercial wins, there'd be no way to climb higher, to gain leverage with studios, to collect the resources needed for future award-chasing.
Compared to slogging through the indie circuit for years, praying for that one-in-a-million award breakthrough, Wayne believed this route—market-driven films with layered substance—was the true path to both fame and fortune.
---
While Wayne was busy preparing for his second film, elsewhere in the Universal Studios production office, a different story was unfolding.
Adam Goodman, freshly graduated and eager to begin his directorial career, sat beside his father, receiving a lecture.
"Adam, your first assignment is to assist on Far and Away. So put those little ambitions of yours on hold and just learn," his father instructed sternly. "Do you know how many favors I had to call in to get you an assistant director slot on a major project like this?
Far and Away is one of Universal's key films next year. Focus on helping the director do his job well. And forget about Wayne Garfield for now. His project's already in motion. Your job is to beat him—at the box office. Not by playing dirty. Understood?"
"No problem, Dad. He's making some low-budget thriller, right? No way it competes with Far and Away. I'll crush him at the box office, just wait and see."
Adam's fingers unconsciously touched his left cheek. The wound from the punch had long since healed, but the sting in his pride remained buried deep.