In 2002, Hollywood was still in the era of ga-stars.
By all accounts, the success and glory of the sumr box office had nothing to do with Anson; naturally, the bottlenecks and challenges of the holiday season were also unrelated to him.
Anson Wood, still a newcor, was rely a pretty face, an idol, a pawn.
That's why, when Anson took on a role in "The Elephant," it sparked a wave of mockery. The professionals saw through his ambition and advised him not to rush. When Anson produced "The Butterfly Effect," the ridicule resurfaced. Again, they saw his grand plans and warned him not to take such big leaps.
All of it was based on assumptions and prejudice.
Yet.
Just as circumstances create heroes, when ti, place, people, and events align like gears in a machine, opportunities are born.
Hollywood still believed in ga-stars and was still looking for one. The solution to any challenge or problem was always a star. The question, however, was: who would that star be? Could it be Anson? Was Anson at that level yet?
Anson and "Catch If You Can" beca a test for the holiday season—a test of Anson's potential and the box office's potential for success. It seed like a mutual trial, but in reality, neither side was truly willing.
Yet, things happened anyway.
Just a month ago, the dia had been criticizing Anson, calling him "ambitious beyond his ability," "calculating and manipulative," and "untalented with an insatiable appetite."
Then, in a quick turn of events, the question "Could the first ga-star of the new century be erging?" was being linked to Anson, stirring Hollywood with curiosity.
As for Anson himself, he remarked: "None of this has anything to do with ."
And so.
Anson. Anson. Anson.
When Anson returned from the quiet, remote Vancouver back to the spotlight of Los Angeles, this was the scene that greeted him:
A dazzling world, overwhelming with the sheer volu of attention, all revolving around his na. The whole world seed to be spinning, and yet he had no idea why.
Click. Click-click-click.
The flashbulbs burst like waterfalls, filling his ears with a constant roar. The arrival hall of the airport was jam-packed with crowds, barely any space left to move.
Clearly, Anson hadn't expected this.
Without a comparison, there's no way to fully grasp it—Vancouver, by contrast, truly felt like the end of the world.
His first and only thought: Wow, that's a lot of people.
Did they not have other things to do? Wasn't Ben Affleck and Jennifer Lopez still capturing attention? Didn't l Gibson have another DUI incident? Was there no new update on Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston's marriage? Had Leonardo DiCaprio stopped creating drama for himself?
Thoughts like that ran through his head.
Peering through his sunglasses at the sea of people, he hesitated for a mont. Finally, he understood why Edgar had insisted on picking him up.
But where was the captain?
Scanning the flashes of caras, Anson searched for Edgar among the chaos.
Then.
A tall, broad, pale figure erged from the crowd, grabbing his attention.
Dressed in a black suit that didn't quite fit—pants a bit too short, awkwardly revealing white socks. If it were Michael Jackson, this would be fashionable. But for an average person, it was simply codic.
The young man's baby face wore a nervous yet excited grin as he walked confidently toward Anson, brimming with self-assurance.
Wait, who was this?
At that mont, the guy's black shoes skidded across the glossy airport tiles like a spider on ice.
Screeech.
Suddenly, the baby-faced guy flailed his arms wildly, losing all sense of cool. The "n in Black" agent vibe he'd been going for collapsed instantly, and every eye in the airport was now on him, watching in shock as he careened toward Anson like a runaway train.
"Oh, no, no!"
The baby-faced guy wailed.
Anson didn't dodge. Instead, he took a step forward, spreading his arms, ready to catch this poor guy.
To his surprise, the baby-faced guy frantically waved his hands.
"No, no!"
He bent his knees, lowering his center of gravity, and at the last second, slid past Anson like a bowling ball.
The whole place fell silent.
A mont later, soone from the crowd shouted, "Safe!"
And with that, the entire hall burst into laughter.
Anson couldn't hold back his smile either—his eyes and mouth curving into an amused grin. But he quickly moved forward, extending a hand to help the guy up.
"God, are you okay?"
The guy's pale face flushed red with embarrassnt. He awkwardly rubbed his head, and Anson tried to stop him but was a second too late—the guy's perfectly styled hair, held up with gel, collapsed into a flat ss.
It was kind of funny.
The baby-faced guy noticed Anson's hesitation, blinking innocently as if completely unaware of his hairstyle disaster.
Anson swallowed his words and shifted the conversation, "Everything alright? You hurt?"
The guy glanced down at himself and shook his head with such enthusiasm that it looked like his head might fall off. His large, clumsy fra shook like a giant gorilla.
Only now did Anson notice the guy was actually taller and broader than him, standing there like a giant Paddington Bear. But with that baby face, it was impossible to tell how old he was.
"…No," the guy finally found his voice, blurting out a single word, "I'm fine. I'm okay. Don't worry, Mr. Wood."
Anson raised an eyebrow, "Mr. Wood?"
That title?
So, the guy wasn't a paparazzo?
The baby-faced guy didn't catch the subtext in Anson's voice, staring back at him, confused. "Is Mr. Wood trying to hide his identity? But Mr. Wood's face is like a calling card—no way anyone wouldn't recognize it. If Mr. Wood wants to go undercover, Jas Bond-style isn't going to cut it."
The serious way he made this leap in logic left Anson speechless.
Before Anson could decide whether to explain, the guy's phone buzzed in his pocket. He fumbled to pull it out.
"Mr. Cook," he said, standing at attention, and then handed the phone to Anson with both hands.
Anson took it.
"Anson, I see you two. I'm outside, at the main entrance. You'd better hurry up. That kid's there to help you."
It was Edgar on the other end, brief and to the point. He hung up imdiately after giving instructions.
Anson handed the phone back. "Your boss says we need to get going, or he might get a ticket."
Casually, Anson made a light joke at Edgar's expense.
But the baby-faced guy didn't get it, nodding seriously. "That would be bad. We should hurry."
Anson: …
He had a feeling that working with this guy was going to be... interesting.
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