Chapter 121 – Two Jokers Across Time
After his apology, Nicolas Cage glanced toward the director with a dark expression, his jaw clenched tightly. Admitting his mistake in front of over a hundred people felt like a brutal assault on his pride and dignity.
The set instantly buzzed with hushed voices—like someone had kicked a hornet's nest. People whispered in clusters, glancing at Cage with disbelief and curiosity.
"Back to work, everyone! We're rolling on Scene One!"
Wayne didn't even spare Cage another look. He took the megaphone from him and barked the order with sharp finality. As the crowd dispersed, Wayne pointed at the trailer without changing expression.
"Mr. Cage, you'd better head in and get into costume. Makeup too."
Without waiting for a response, he turned and headed back behind the monitors, flipping open the production schedule on the small table and drawing a firm checkmark next to the day's first scene.
The shoot had already been delayed by an entire day—he didn't have the luxury of babysitting the leading man's feelings. Cage was an adult, and adults faced consequences when they messed up. That was a lesson he should've learned a long time ago.
The whole mess left a bitter taste in Wayne's mouth. If he'd known things would go this way, he would've rather taken his time reshaping Jack Nicholson's acting style than deal with this headache of a man.
Sure, Nicolas Cage was a gifted actor—his immersion into character and intensity were almost unmatched—but his immature personality was a ticking time bomb. In Hollywood, there were plenty of dedicated professionals. Even someone like Tom Cruise, a mega-star in his 50s, still scaled skyscrapers himself.
"Everyone ready?"
Wayne looked up as Zack Snyder approached. Glancing past him, he saw the crew already in position at the foot of the steps, waiting for his cue.
"Alright then. Let's get to work."
He left Zack with those instructions and stepped toward the camera unit. Giving cinematographer Robert a nod, Wayne motioned the camera assistants over and began outlining his vision.
This was the first official shot of Joker, a scene they'd spent months preparing for. And Wayne had decided to man the camera himself.
After dismissing a few of the assistants, he waved Zack over and gestured at the director's monitor.
"Go on. Here's your chance to get a taste of the director's high—it's addictive."
"You sure you're alright with that?" Zack asked, hesitant as he stepped forward.
Before Wayne could respond, gaffer Steve chimed in with exaggerated disbelief.
"Are you kidding me, Zack? Didn't you read your boss's resume before you signed up? Wayne's a USC polymath—a real one. He shot Happy Death Day by himself, camera and all!"
Steve gave Zack a push toward the monitor.
"Even Robert's cool with it. Your predecessor, Luke Simmons, did this too. Now it's your turn."
Wayne, now crouched behind the camera, began adjusting it with practiced ease. As the viewfinder came into focus, that familiar sense of control settled over him. He wasn't just the director—he was a technician, a visual storyteller.
Plenty of top-tier directors handled key shots themselves; this wasn't uncommon. And while it wouldn't be sustainable to act as both director and cinematographer throughout the whole production, taking control for a crucial opening scene? Absolutely within reason.
Carefully adjusting the frame, Wayne studied the weathered old steps through the lens. He checked the lighting, framing, and movement.
Then, glancing at his watch, he called out casually:
"Is the lead ready yet?"
"Still needs a few more minutes. He's in makeup."
Ignoring assistant director Karen beside him, Wayne slowly made his way up the steps alone. When he reached the center, he stopped, closed his eyes, and gently extended both arms outward.
Down below, Robert seemed to realize something. His eyes widened and he quickly gestured to Karen to move away from Wayne. Then, rushing to the camera himself, he signaled to the nearby assistants to adjust the shot.
In Wayne's mind, a melody began to play. At the top of the staircase behind him, two blurry figures seemed to emerge. He paid no attention to the real world around him—as if a mask had fallen over his face.
Behind the monitor, Zack Snyder nearly jumped out of his seat. On-screen, Wayne's full figure—especially his face—was captured in crisp detail. He was smiling.
Nicolas Cage, now in full makeup, stood silently on the sidelines watching the man he had grown to resent.
Wayne began to move slowly, raising his right foot in time with the rhythm in his head. His arms swayed. It was as if another presence—Joaquin Phoenix from another timeline—was guiding him. Teaching him. A Joker from another world leading this one in a synchronistic dance through time.
The dozens of crew members all stopped what they were doing. Most couldn't make sense of what was happening, but no one dared interrupt. They all just watched.
In just a dozen seconds, Wayne suddenly "snapped out" of it. Still smiling, he placed his right hand over his abdomen, left hand behind his back, and bowed slightly to the silent crowd below.
"Alright, show's over. Time to work. Everyone back to your posts!"
He descended the stairs briskly, voice sharp and commanding. People snapped out of their stupor and scattered back to their stations.
"Wayne, you're a damn genius," Robert said, stepping away from the camera, eyes full of awe and complexity.
Maybe the rest of the crew didn't understand what just happened, but those who had read the script in full—and understood the soul of the story—were beginning to realize why Wayne could write a scene like this. This wasn't just direction. It was embodiment.
"Nicolas," Wayne called out, turning toward Cage, "don't get thrown off by what I just did. Stick to your training. Sink into Arthur. Think about what he's about to do next."
After Cage gave a subtle nod of acknowledgment, Wayne returned behind the camera. With a wave, he gave the signal.
As the two background actors took their places at the top of the stairs and Nicolas Cage rehearsed a few motions, the clapperboard operator approached and placed the slate in front of the main camera.
"Joker, Scene One, Take One—action!"
Nicolas Cage, now in full clown makeup and a bright red costume, began to dance—smiling, his movements fluid and eerie.
There are seven dance sequences for the Joker in the film. But this one—this opening moment—was the most unforgettable for Wayne. Like a mirror of Joaquin Phoenix in his mind, Nicolas Cage contorted himself into something almost inhuman. His performance exceeded all expectations.
"Cut!"
The shout broke the focus. Everyone turned toward the voice.
Zack Snyder, red-faced with frustration, grabbed the megaphone and screamed up at the two background actors.
"What the hell are you doing? Why can't you follow the blocking we rehearsed? Hit your marks, gentlemen!"
He stormed back to the monitor and slumped into his seat, visibly annoyed. The lighting, the camera work, Cage's flawless performance—it had all been ruined by two extras.
Wayne sighed. He already knew what went wrong. Only the director, with a full grasp of the scene, could have noticed—the background actors had missed their marks, throwing off the composition.
"Reset. Everyone back to one. We're going again!"
As Zack's voice echoed, the crew quickly reset. Cage, looking confused, turned back briefly before stepping into position once more.
"Joker, Scene One, Take Two—action!"
Clack. The slate clapped. The set went still. Cage began again—but only a few seconds in—
"Steve! The lighting is off. What's your assistant doing? Is he moonlighting in an ER? Tell him to turn off that goddamn surgical lighting!"
Wayne was now seriously starting to question whether Zack Snyder might turn into a ticking time bomb. This was his first time managing a production of this scale, and clearly, the pressure was getting to him.
"Joker, Scene—"
It was like the shoot was cursed. One thing after another. Technical issues, bad timing, background errors—the scene kept failing for one reason or another.
By the time lunch rolled around, they had gone through rolls of film without a single usable take. Everyone's patience was wearing thin—even Wayne's calm demeanor began to crack. He knew from experience: negative energy like this was contagious.
"Zack, let's take a break," Wayne finally said, nodding toward Nicolas Cage.
Zack turned and followed his gaze—Cage looked utterly exhausted, drenched in sweat. His performance was suffering from sheer overwork.
Zack's face turned red again, this time not from anger, but guilt. He knew Wayne had given him this chance out of respect—and hadn't called him out in front of the crew.