It was too late.
This was the only thought in Anson's mind. He had to reach the Riviera Palace within five minutes, or he'd miss the final screening of A Glorious Life at Cannes. He had to sprint.
Thump, thump, thump.
Running full speed, he could feel his lungs burning, tasting blood in his breath. But he made it just in ti, rushing in and finding his seat before the lights went out.
Panting, drenched in sweat.
Now, this felt like a film festival: dashing from screening to screening, jumping between movies, grabbing lunch and dinner in three to five minutes, often too rushed to even eat the sandwich he'd packed, forced to slowly dissolve a cracker in his mouth instead—
This was when chocolate and candy ca in handy.
There was no ti for food, let alone processing the films.
Slowly, slowly, his eyelids started to droop. Even pinching his thigh no longer worked, and the surrounding darkness engulfed him.
Slap.
A sharp knock on his forehead, like soone tapping a waterlon. Judging by the sound, it was ripe. Anson jolted upright, trying to focus.
Half asleep, eyes barely open, utterly disoriented—
Who am I? Where am I? What am I doing?
He was a beat slow, realizing he'd nearly slumped onto the woman next to him. He quickly lowered his head and whispered.
"Sorry."
The woman nodded slightly but didn't speak, staying imrsed in the movie on the big screen.
Anson let out a quiet breath, adjusted his posture, and patted his cheeks, trying to wake himself up and re-enter the world of the screen—
But it wasn't easy.
No need to ntion the past 72 hours of non-stop chaos and exhaustion. Just focusing on today's packed schedule:
Dogville, three hours.
A Glorious Life, six hours.
From morning till night, with no breaks. Lunch was still in his backpack, and dinner was a burger he wolfed down in two minutes. After finishing everything, Anson rushed to catch a third screening.
Fathers and Sons, the one Nicholas had recomnded.
And of course, it turned out to be an artsy, surreal film, more about emotions than story. The cara lingered in a dreamy, ambiguous atmosphere, with the pacing slow enough to feel like a lullaby.
Now, Anson finally understood that joke film buffs made:
"Every year at the festival, there's always one or two films perfect for a nap."
On the one hand, so art films are indeed sleep-inducing, much like Olympic math or quantum chanics.
On the other hand, watching films is a ntal and physical test. If you're too greedy, like Anson, an amateur who overbooks his schedule, no matter how good the movie is, your brain can't handle it all. You end up sitting in the theater, getting insomnia treatnt.
It was obvious: Anson was a festival newbie—
His schedule had no strategy. He just cramd in whatever fit the titable, without considering genre or length. With boundless enthusiasm, he dove in headfirst. It's a mistake easy to make in theory, but after the first day, he was already running on empty.
And then… nothing. He drifted off.
Despite all his efforts, enthusiasm, and energy, he couldn't resist the gentle lull of the film's surreal flow and soon found himself… asleep again.
Until—
Cold.
The air conditioning was freezing, and Anson woke up, shivering, his arms and back covered in goosebumps. Groggy, he glanced at the screen. The movie wasn't over yet, but sohow, the emotions on-screen still made sense. Napping hadn't thrown him off at all.
Except, there was a slight weight on his left shoulder.
A beat late, Anson noticed the head resting there. Apparently, he wasn't the only one the film had hypnotized.
Should he wake her?
Maybe not. Who knew how many screenings she'd been through today? She was probably just as exhausted as he was.
Before long, the movie ended—less than 90 minutes. But it felt like three hours, with its dreamy, trance-like flow.
One by one, the audience began to stand up and leave, the faint rustling mingling with the chilly air.
Anson glanced again at the woman resting on his shoulder, still motionless. But wait—her face… The sharp features were strikingly familiar. He had been so focused on the movie—and hiding his exhaustion—that he hadn't paid any attention to the people around him. But now, things were different.
Anson froze. He didn't expect to run into her here.
After a mont's thought, Anson stayed seated, not getting up. He had no other films lined up tonight.
Plenty of ti to wait.
Just then, the woman jerked upright, hurriedly rubbing her eyes, trying to compose herself. She looked at the screen as if nothing had happened, like a student pretending to pay attention after dozing off in class.
But when she saw the blank, dark screen, she froze.
It's over... the movie's over?
Instinctively, she glanced around, then saw Anson, sitting beside her, intently studying the festival program as if he hadn't noticed her nap.
But—
She froze, stunned to see this face, taking a deep breath. "You saw everything, didn't you?"
Anson turned to her, "A secret for a secret. We saw nothing, right?"
After a pause, he pointed to the corner of his mouth. "But we should destroy the evidence before anyone else sees."
She blinked, hastily wiping the corner of her mouth. Only after a beat did she realize—there was nothing there. She stiffened. "You were joking, weren't you?"
Anson nodded earnestly. "Marks of soone fully imrsed in the film."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't help a smile. "Looks like I scored high then. I never got high scores in school. This calls for a celebration, I guess. Ha. Haha."
Her awkward laugh was completely joyless.
Anson turned to face her fully. "No need to be so hard on yourself. It's been a long day, you're tired, it's normal to nod off. How many films have you seen today?"
She took a deep breath, looking at him, eyes filled with resignation. Not saying a word.
Anson blinked. "Wait... don't tell —"
She nodded. "This was my first one today..."
Before she could finish, Scarlett Johansson buried her face in her hands with a frustrated groan.
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