Jamie Torres pulled into the circular driveway at 8:57 AM, three minutes early. The Malibu compound stretched before him like something from a 1970s rock star fever dream—weathered cedar siding, too many windows, and a main house that seemed to sprawl in every direction without architectural logic.
His Honda Civic looked ridiculous next to the vintage Porsche 911 parked under a carport. Webb probably bought that car when it was new. When Jamie was negative ten years old.
The Pacific Coast Highway hummed behind him, but the compound felt isolated by money and eccentricity. Jamie checked his reflection in the rearview mirror one last time.
Dark hair combed but not styled. T-shirt that fit well but wasn't trying too hard. Jeans without holes. Sarah had drilled it into him: callbacks were about not fucking up, not about impressing anyone new.
He grabbed his sides from the passenger seat. Three pages, same character breakdown he'd auditioned with two weeks ago. Marcus Webb's adaptation of some sci-fi novel called 𝘕𝘦𝘹𝘶𝘴 𝘗𝘳𝘪𝘮𝘦.
Jamie had read the source material twice, taking notes in margins like he was back in community college.
The front door opened before he could knock.
"You're early." Webb stood in the doorway wearing a Ramones t-shirt that had seen better decades and jeans with actual holes. His gray hair stuck up in back like he'd been running his hands through it. "I like that. Shows respect."
"Traffic was lighter than expected."
"Come in. We're not using the main house today."
Webb led him around the side of the building, past overgrown landscaping that probably cost more to maintain than Jamie's rent. Jasmine and bougainvillea climbed trellises in directions that made no geometric sense.
Everything about this place suggested money spent without concern for resale value.
"You live here alone?" Jamie asked, then immediately regretted it. Personal questions during callbacks were rookie mistakes.
"My ex-wife got the place in Brentwood. Said she couldn't live somewhere that looked like a recording studio threw up." Webb glanced back at him. "She wasn't wrong."
They walked toward what had clearly been a four-car garage before someone gutted it and turned it into something else entirely. Webb pulled open a side door, and Jamie stepped into controlled chaos.
Film strips hung from clotheslines strung across the ceiling like prayer flags. Not just any film strips—Jamie recognized scenes from 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘜𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘓𝘪𝘧𝘦, Webb's Oscar winner from three years ago.
Strips of 35mm celluloid caught the morning light filtering through windows that someone had covered with dark fabric, creating a red-tinted glow like a darkroom.
"This is where I cut everything," Webb said, settling behind a desk that held three monitors, two keyboards, and stacks of printed footage logs. "Digital workflow, but I still like seeing the actual film. Helps me think in sequences instead of just shots."
Awards lined a bookshelf in the corner—two Oscars, three Golden Globes, something that looked European. They gathered dust like afterthoughts.
Jamie had googled Webb's career the night after his first audition. Thirty-seven films in twenty-two years. Two marriages, both ended badly. One son who didn't speak to him.
"Sit." Webb pointed to a director's chair positioned in front of a professional-grade camera on a tripod. "Same sides as before, but I want to try something different today."
Jamie sat and unfolded the pages. Same three scenes he'd memorized. Michael, the lead character, confronting his mother about his absent father. The girlfriend scene where Michael admits he doesn't know how to love someone. The breakdown scene where Michael realizes he's been lying to himself about everything.
"Which scene do you want to start with?"
"All of them. In order. But I want you to do each one three different ways." Webb picked up a remote and the camera's red recording light blinked on. "First pass, play it exactly how you did it in the initial audition. Show me you can repeat your performance."
"Okay."
"Second pass, I want you to access something real. Not method acting bullshit, but genuine emotion from your own life. Use whatever you need to use."
Jamie's stomach tightened. "What if I can't—"
"You can. I saw something in that first audition that you weren't even aware of. Raw honesty underneath the technique." Webb leaned forward. "Third pass, I want you to surprise me. Take the character somewhere I haven't seen before."
"All three scenes, all three ways?"
"We have time."
Jamie looked around the converted garage again. Film strips swayed slightly in the air conditioning. The whole space felt like a shrine to something he didn't understand yet. Making movies, maybe. Or just making something that mattered.
"Ready when you are," Webb said.
Jamie started with the mother scene. First pass came easily—he'd practiced this version until it felt automatic. Controlled anger, disappointment that never quite tipped into self-pity.
Webb watched through the camera viewfinder, occasionally making notes on a legal pad.
"Good. That's exactly what you gave me before. Now forget everything you just did and do it again."
The second pass required going somewhere he usually avoided. Jamie thought about his father, Carlos, who'd left when Jamie was eight. Not dramatically—just failed to come home from work one day. No forwarding address, no explanation, no apology. Just absence where presence used to be.
The anger that came out surprised him. Real fury, not performed emotion. His voice cracked on the line about trust, and his hands shook when he gestured.
Webb didn't look away from the viewfinder, but Jamie saw his knuckles go white gripping the camera.
"Jesus." Webb looked up when Jamie finished. "That was...hold on."
He rewound the footage and played it back on one of the monitors. Jamie watched himself fall apart in high definition. The breakdown looked authentic because it had been authentic.
"Where did that come from?"
"My dad left when I was a kid." The words came out flat. "Haven't seen him since."
"I'm sorry."
"It's fine. Ancient history."
"No, it isn't." Webb paused the playback. "And that's why it works. You're not over it, so the character doesn't have to be either."
They moved through the girlfriend scene and the breakdown scene the same way. First pass professional, second pass personal, third pass somewhere Jamie hadn't expected to go.
By the time they finished, two hours had passed and Jamie felt emotionally scraped raw.
Webb turned off the camera and sat back in his chair. "You want some water? Coffee?"
"Water would be great."
Webb disappeared into what Jamie assumed was a kitchenette tucked behind the editing equipment. Jamie studied the film strips overhead while he waited. Fragments of scenes cut together in no particular order, like a mobile made from someone else's dreams.