Simon first learned of Kathryn Bigelow, the Hollywood director, after The Hurt Locker won the Oscar in 2010.
Thinking back, his initial impression of her was her appearance.
At the 2010 Oscars, in a long linen-colored silk gown, the tall Kathryn Bigelow looked only thirty, her figure and poise outshining most of the female stars on the red carpet that year.
But in reality, Kathryn Bigelow was born in 1951. Even now, in 1986, she was already thirty-five.
Simon could only sigh that the world never lacked for those enchantresses who could defy the ravages of time.
Then there were her films.
After the Oscars that year, Simon made a point to watch several of hers.
To be fair, most of Kathryn Bigelow's movies were just average, but the raw, chiseled quality in her work—like ancient stone totems hacked with an axe—left a deep impression. It was as if this woman used every frame brimming with masculine energy to tell the audience: Whatever a man can do, I can do too—and what he can't, I still can.
Simon even felt that the gender dominance she projected through her films bordered on obsession.
The bus started up again, heading south along California Highway 1.
After her brief nod earlier, Kathryn Bigelow focused entirely on the manuscript in front of her. Simon glanced over curiously; judging by the text format on the pages, it had to be a script. He didn't disturb her.
More than an hour passed like that, until Kathryn finished the last page. Only then did Simon speak up at just the right moment: "Is that a script?"
A woman's sixth sense is always sharp. While reading, Kathryn had felt the young man beside her glancing her way now and then. As an attractive woman, she was no stranger to guys trying to chat her up.
But he hadn't bothered her for that whole hour, waiting until she'd finished. It inexplicably gave her a bit more goodwill toward him. She smiled faintly and nodded. "Yeah."
Though she'd responded, Kathryn had no real interest in chatting more.
The young man in front of her had a sharply handsome face and a maturity beyond his years, but no matter what, he was clearly just a big kid under twenty. If her friends knew she'd been hit on by a boy like this, they'd laugh themselves silly.
She was about to turn her gaze to the window as a subtle hint of disinterest when she heard him continue: "Actually, I have a script too. How about we swap and read to pass the time? It's still a few hours to L.A."
As he spoke, Simon stood up smoothly, grabbed his backpack from the overhead rack, and pulled out one of the two manuscripts, showing it to her.
Kathryn was surprised he'd just pull out a script like that, but she still chalked it up to a pickup line. She was ready to refuse outright, but glancing at the title, curiosity got the better of her. She asked instinctively, "Butterfly Effect—what does that mean?"
"It's a hypothetical Edward Lorenz, the MIT meteorology professor, used to illustrate his theory," Simon said, handing her the script casually. He went on: "Professor Lorenz imagined a butterfly in the Amazon basin of South America flapping its wings once. The effect on the surrounding airflow spreads, triggering a chain reaction that eventually forms a terrifying tornado in Texas."
Kathryn listened attentively, then shook her head. "A butterfly flapping its wings causing a tornado? How's that possible?"
Simon replied, "Lorenz was using it to describe how a tiny variable can have a massive impact on the whole system. And I think it's entirely possible—we just can't prove it."
Kathryn murmured in agreement, not arguing. She wasn't one for debates. Realizing she'd unconsciously taken the script titled Butterfly Effect, she flipped it open out of curiosity.
Then, feeling the young man still watching her, she remembered what he'd said.
After a moment's hesitation, she handed over her own script.
Anyway, like he said, it was just to kill time.
She skimmed the first page of his, then flipped ahead a few more, finally confirming it.
The entire script, including the cover title, was handwritten in neat, print-like English lettering. It made her glance again at the young man beside her, now focused on her script.
In this era, typewriters were common office tools. It was rare to find a young person patient enough to handwrite over a hundred pages so beautifully.
Simon had no idea what she was thinking. Handwriting the script had been out of necessity—living in a mental hospital, even if the doctors allowed a typewriter, he couldn't afford one.
He opened Kathryn's script on his lap and started reading. He soon recognized it as what must be her first theatrical feature, Near Dark. When The Hurt Locker won, he'd looked up her bio out of curiosity and read the synopsis, but never bothered watching the film.
As he delved deeper, Simon quickly grasped the story's outline.
Caleb, a young farmhand from Oklahoma, meets a girl named Mae and falls for her at first sight. But Mae is actually a vampire, and in a moment of impulse, she turns Caleb too.
Caleb is then kidnapped by Mae's vampire companions and forced to wander with them.
Though he gains immortality, after several twists, Caleb realizes this isn't the life he wants and tries to escape the group. Meanwhile, his father and sister, after his disappearance, tirelessly search for him.
On the other side, after who knows how long, Kathryn finished the last page and looked up. Simon was still methodically turning pages in her script. Suddenly, she felt a small urge to snatch it back.
Though she didn't much like the overly pessimistic, dark tone of Butterfly Effect, after reading the whole thing, she had to admit its ingenious concept and tightly interlocking plot far outshone Near Dark.
At its core, Near Dark was just a simple romance wrapped in vampire lore, with some plot holes even she couldn't fix.
She waited quietly for Simon to finish, then couldn't help asking in a tone of unwitting deference: "Well?"
Simon thought for a moment. "I really like the scene where Caleb kneels before Mae, drinking blood from her wrist—it's got this taboo, boundary-crossing feel. Probably inspired by a lamb nursing. It'll be incredibly moving on screen."
Kathryn hadn't expected him to zero in on that specific scene from the script. Though Near Dark wasn't entirely her writing, that particular image was her own addition.
Many fans overanalyze films beyond the director's intent, but Simon's take aligned perfectly with her vision. With her art background, she habitually added symbolic shots to scripts.
"So," she hesitated, then asked bluntly, "do you think there's anything that could be improved in the script?"
Surprised by her question, Simon quickly replied, "Maybe change the farm to a ranch. There are a lot of farm scenes, but no matter the condition, a farm never has the visual punch of a lush, grassy ranch."
Kathryn considered it and nodded. Then she asked, "What about the ending—the part where Caleb and Mae turn back human? Any better way to handle that?"
In the script, the leads revert to human by transfusing human blood—a pretty contrived setup.
But Simon shook his head. "You've probably revised this script a bunch already, right? If it could be changed, I wouldn't be seeing this version. It's unfixable without overhauling the whole second half, which would make it a different story."
Kathryn nodded, knowing he was right, but her expression showed disappointment.
Seeing that, Simon added, "Actually, there's one more thing you could tweak."
Kathryn looked over. "Yeah?"
"The male lead's name," Simon said with a smile curling his lips. "You know, Caleb comes from Hebrew—it means 'fierce dog.' It's too earthy; better to change it."
From his grin, Kathryn could tell he was joking. She smiled back and teased, "You know Hebrew too?"
"Yeah, fairly fluent. So I'll do just fine in Hollywood someday."
Hebrew was the Jewish people's language, and everyone knew Hollywood was Jewish turf. Speaking it fluently would earn Simon favor with many there.
In truth, from the inherited memories of those twelve others, Simon now knew not just Hebrew, but even more fluent English and Chinese, plus German, French, and Spanish—covering the world's major languages. He could be a top-tier translator if he wanted.
Hearing his tone, Kathryn felt a slight urge to roll her eyes. She also sensed he was dodging deeper critique of her script. Maybe compared to Butterfly Effect, Near Dark really wasn't worth much discussion.
It wasn't that Simon didn't want to offer more advice—he knew the strengths and weaknesses of her filmography inside out.
The issue was, they were still basically strangers. Should he tell her to tone down the gender-blurring violence in her work and encourage showing her feminine delicacy instead?
How would he know a beautiful woman like her made films that lacked finesse?
A guess?
Say too much, and it'd give him away.
But Kathryn wasn't one to push. So she followed his lead, chatting casually: "What name do you think would sound better for Caleb?"
"How about Simon?"
Kathryn looked puzzled. "Simon—anything special about it?"
Simon extended a hand with a laugh. "Simon Westeros. Miss, may I know your name?"
Kathryn realized that was his name.
"I'm Kathryn Bigelow," she said, shaking his hand lightly with a smile as she introduced herself. Then, curious: "Westeros—rare surname. You know Hebrew, so is it Jewish?"
"No," Simon shook his head. "It's my surname."
Westeros was a made-up word by George R.R. Martin, not due for a decade. So right now, Simon was undoubtedly the world's only "Westeros."
Kathryn sensed a subtle superiority in his words but felt no resentment.
He'd written something like Butterfly Effect, could casually discuss an MIT professor's theory, and knew a niche language like Hebrew. It was only natural for such a talented young man to be a bit proud.