Jenny didn't know if Dave's friend was sitting behind the audition table. Four members were conducting the audition, all looking stern, as if they'd suffered through countless unprofessional interviewees. The woman in the middle glanced at her resume and then wore a look of obvious disapproval.
"Who put her on the list?" she asked, not bothering to lower her voice. Jenny didn't take offense; she knew her credentials weren't up to par.
A middle-aged man who bore some resemblance to Dave—perhaps his friend, Jenny guessed—spoke up. "Jenny, could you introduce yourself?"
Jenny gave a brief introduction. The man then asked her to smile for the camera and make some expressions.
Watching the finished footage, many people wouldn't think acting was anything special. Even the greatest actors are far from flawless in their performances. It's like the Chinese men's soccer team—everyone feels there's plenty of room for improvement, wishing they could take the field themselves. This is a major flaw of television broadcasts—on TV, everything looks easy. Even professionally trained athletes struggle with this, let alone someone simply reading lines to a camera.
Of course, almost everything looks easier than it is. Even smiling and making expressions for the camera takes most people considerable time to adjust to—to bare themselves before a strange, round piece of equipment and the scrutinizing gaze behind it. —Acting is a profession that demands immense confidence and courage.
A shy person can never appear natural before a crowd of strangers, and the camera magnifies every imperfection. Micro-expressions that vanish in real life become permanent flaws on film. If someone is merely 'slightly introverted' in daily life, they appear 'awkward and timid and nervous." Had Jenny remained the dreamy, awkward country girl she once was, even with Dave's backing, she would have failed miserably at this stage. —Countless great actors endured countless disastrous auditions early in their careers. Only through repeated auditions, failures, and more auditions—in the crucible of defeat—can truly gifted performers cultivate that polished, confident presence on camera. Even professional training cannot replace this real-world tempering.
During her four years in the acting program, Chen Zhen endured countless performance classes where she was forced to throw tantrums, roll on the floor, and cry or laugh hysterically in front of everyone. These exercises were designed to dismantle the natural defenses inherent in ordinary people—those who strive for decorum and composure. Yet acting demands precisely the opposite: a psychological release, commonly known as immersing oneself in the role and letting go. Yet even so, when she first stepped into the performance space, using the simulation function to appear in that surreal yet vividly real stage setting—facing the vast studio and the crew of at least a hundred people behind the cameras...
Chen Zhen genuinely scared herself to the point of wetting herself. She felt an urgent, overwhelming urge to urinate, compelling her to rush to the bathroom before resuming the simulation.
Those three months as a waitress proved invaluable. Not only did she slim down to a size 2—nearly her physical limit and the perfect figure for the camera—but she also simulated experiences across no fewer than thirty different film sets. Without exaggeration, this equaled the workload of a second-tier actor over five or six years.
—And all blockbusters, the kind with sets bustling with over a hundred people. After such baptism by fire, how could she possibly fear a mere audition?
She effortlessly flashed several expressions at the camera, her eyes locked on the lens as if peering through glass to the audience beyond. Yet her demeanor dismissed this small device, as though conversing directly with viewers—smiling at times, frowning at others, her expressions utterly natural. Her movements showed none of the self-consciousness common among non-professional actors—that "I'm being filmed" awareness.
A brief silence fell at the audition table before the female casting director picked up the script and handed it to Jenny. "Read this line."
Dialogue delivery is fundamental to acting—requiring clear enunciation and natural intonation. Ordinary speech rarely meets these standards. Though people may not notice, everyday speech often suffers from issues like excessive speed, regional accents, slurred words, inconsistent volume, and lackluster emotion— —This is perfectly normal. As biological beings, language is only one component of the information exchange system when two individuals communicate. For instance, in Chen Zhen and Dave's dialogue, eye contact, body language, and even micro-expressions are crucial means of communication between them. The vocal system carries less than half of the information load, so it doesn't need to be overly precise. But under the filtering and refinement of cameras and recording equipment, the same principle applies: flaws are magnified while strengths are obscured. If someone speaks with their usual casual habits, they'll appear horribly slurred on screen, making it difficult for audiences to even grasp their meaning.
This was, of course, a lesson Chen Zhen had mastered during her four years of college. Though she hadn't known English back then, as long as the memory of the pronunciation habits remained, it wasn't a problem. The character was American, and Jenny spoke Northern Standard English—thankfully, despite bouncing between foster homes, she hadn't picked up any peculiar regional accents.
But that wasn't the sole source of her confidence.
Jenny stood to take the script, then sat back down. She drew a breath and closed her eyes briefly—a perfectly normal adjustment that took less than five seconds, leaving no room for criticism.
But within that single second, she swiftly opened her performance space, rapidly selected a film, and began simulating the character's emotions.
The performance space operated on a time differential: five seconds outside could stretch to about fifteen seconds inside. Fifteen seconds was ample for her to immerse herself in the film's character, as if she'd lived through a lifetime of joys and sorrows, truly becoming this legendary woman who'd weathered storms and vicissitudes.
Then, with a flick of her mind, she exited the space. The traces of emotion lingered, yet to the outside world, only a few seconds had passed.
Jenny stared at the script for two seconds before setting it down.
Her voice suddenly shifted—the earlier sweetness turned hoarse, and the smile at her lips grew mocking, as if she understood everything and held all changes in her grasp.
Jenny spoke almost lazily, "Oh, I do hope you haven't ruined my wardrobe. You know, haute couture is a bitch—requires the most delicate care."
She glanced at the script, skipping her co-star's lines, and continued, "Yes, official business. I understand, Officer. You may help yourselves. I'm not one of those big stars who think a little success entitles them to privileges—to boss around respectable public servants and shout orders."
The mocking smile at her lips suddenly widened. Jenny turned her head and addressed an empty space behind her, "Though I'm sure evidence of a homicide won't be found in my underwear, you're just doing your duty, right?"
"Cut," the female casting director said, watching Jenny with a peculiar expression. "That's enough."
Jenny forced herself to snap out of character quickly. Clearing her throat and adjusting her expression, she reverted to the identity of waitress Jenny Jane. Standing up, she said, "Thank you for the opportunity."
"Yeah." Dave's friend stared intently at Jenny. "Don't leave yet. Wait outside."
No one objected to his decision.
Jenny knew she'd gotten the part.
This didn't surprise her. According to her plan, it was only natural.
Just as she'd imagined, the role was practically tailor-made for her—especially the "glamorous superstar" part. Even second-tier actors wouldn't stand a chance against her.
She had the glamour. As for the superstar part... While the acting space wouldn't let her directly mimic famous actors' performances or anything, that didn't mean Jenny couldn't find clever ways around it.
A Week with Marilyn, Monroe... These were films she had studied. After receiving the audition notice, Jenny had rehearsed multiple times. Selecting either of these films allowed her to access the same hazy emotional memory—if she hadn't misread it, perhaps this was the genuine recollection and insight of the historical Marilyn Monroe herself.
Imitating one superstar to audition for another superstar... Honestly, for a minor guest role in a single episode of an American TV series, Chen Zhen deeply felt that deploying Monroe was overkill. If Monroe knew it in the afterlife, she might feel deeply insulted.
But regardless, this was an opportunity she couldn't pass up. From the start, Chen Zhen had to go all in, staking everything on this one shot. There was little room for reserve or caution.
After waiting an hour, the female casting director approached and told her she'd gotten the part.
"My name is Emma Swan." She seemed less stern now, and Jenny realized she was actually quite young—no more than thirty—and was making a genuine effort to be friendly. "I'm looking forward to seeing you perform again. Honestly, it was your performance that impressed me enough to fight for this role for you... My colleagues were hesitant based on your resume."
This was her way of doing her a favor, Chen Zhen understood.
Emma Swan believed in her.