Westwood's words hit the room like a power outage, cutting the tension with surgical precision.
Silence settled in—heavy, clinical, like a hospital morgue at midnight. You could practically smell the nerves, like a gas leak waiting for a spark.
"As Tony said, maybe we should bring in another director. Let Alan Smithee take over—he's seasoned, been through this kind of chaos before."
The gloom in the room had Michael Rich itching to crack a joke.
But one look from the producer shut that down fast. This wasn't the time for levity.
"Alan Smithee doesn't exist," the producer said flatly.
"Mr. Rich, if you want him on payroll, you'll have to write the check yourself."
Everyone knew the name—Alan Smithee, the phantom director, Hollywood's favorite scapegoat when things went sideways.
You'd have better luck finding a unicorn on Hollywood Boulevard.
Michael slumped back into silence, properly chastised. As the junior scriptwriter, he didn't carry much weight in the room.
His silence wasn't surprising. What did surprise Westwood was that no one else spoke either.
"Richard," Westwood said, turning to the assistant director.
"What's your take?"
Someone had to be called out eventually, and Richard had the most experience in the room.
"Is there no possibility of bringing someone else in?" Richard asked, feigning confusion, though it was obvious he knew exactly where this was headed.
"From a script standpoint, it's not a hard film to direct," he continued.
"We're nearly through pre-production. If the financing holds, we could bring someone new in."
Westwood offered a tired smile.
"And there's the problem—financing."
He leaned forward, his voice low and blunt.
"We're scraping by. If Alan were still around, maybe he could've called in a favor or two, but he's ghosted us. As it stands, we don't even know if we'll have enough to finish. Hiring a new director, even at a discount, will push us over budget. And let's not forget—our leading lady vanished, too. We'll need funds to find a replacement."
He paused, letting the weight of it land before continuing.
"The reason I called you all in today is because we need someone from this team to step up and direct. No promises of extra pay—wish I could, but the coffers are dry. What I can offer is a share of the box office after release. That's normally off-limits for a project without a name director. But desperate times…"
He turned again to Richard. "You're the obvious choice."
Richard didn't dodge it this time.
"I can't."
His answer was immediate.
"It's not about experience. After my divorce, something changed. I don't have it in me anymore. If it came down to making this film or fighting to see my kid again, I'd choose my kid every time. Directing requires passion. This is just a job now."
Westwood exhaled hard, the air deflating out of him.
"I had a whole speech lined up," he muttered.
"But... never mind."
He shifted to Addison Young, the cinematographer.
Plenty of directors started behind the camera. If anyone knew the bones of this film besides Richard, it was Addison.
"What about you?"
Addison didn't answer right away. He took a long drag from his cigarette, exhaled a perfect ring of smoke, then finally spoke.
"Ever see James Cameron's first movie?"
The question came from nowhere. Heads turned.
"Cameron's first film?" someone echoed.
"'Piranha II,' right?" a voice said from the back.
It was Christian.
He stood against the wall, arms crossed, wearing a long coat like he hadn't changed out of it in a week.
His voice had the dry rasp of someone who'd smoked too much and slept too little.
"Yeah," he said.
"'Piranha II: The Spawning.' Total disaster, but it taught him something. You can't polish a turd, but you can learn where to aim the fan."
No one responded. Christian didn't care.
"Addison's right to pass," he added.
"If you're not willing to bleed for the shot, then stay behind the lens."
"Was it any good?"
Christian's tone was casual, but something flickered beneath it.
"To put it lightly," Addison said, dragging slowly on his cigarette, "unsatisfactory."
"Yeah," Westwood echoed.
"Unsatisfactory."
Addison tapped ash into a nearby tray, eyes distant.
"It was filmed in Italy. Cameron was still green—raw talent, zero pull. No one respected him. Not the actors, not the crew. The producer cut him out of the editing room completely. Ignored every damn thing he said. It wasn't just unsatisfactory—it was a nightmare. I was the cinematographer on that shoot."
"What?" Christian blinked. That revelation hit like a sucker punch.
Of all people, Addison—quiet, weary Addison—had worked with Cameron? It was like stumbling across gold in a junkyard.
"So that's it?" Westwood asked.
"You're worried this gig might go the same way?"
Christian might have been lost in his own swirling thoughts, but Westwood was locked in on Addison.
The producer's voice was calm, attempting reassurance.
"I understand your concern. I get it—directors need control. I've made mistakes as a producer, but I'd never undermine the authority of whoever steps up."
"No," Addison cut in sharply.
"You don't understand."
He sat forward, eyes sharp now. Agitated.
"This isn't about bargaining. I've seen what happens when a director's authority is stripped away. I watched Cameron get ignored, shut out, laughed at. I remember how he used to sneak into the editing suite at night, just trying to salvage something, anything. And then, when the filming finally wrapped, he stood in front of all of us and said—clear as day—'You can disrespect me. You can refuse to work overtime. But one day, I'll be a success. And you... you'll be nothing.'"
His voice cracked, raw with old wounds. He paused, dragging in a breath like it physically hurt to say the rest.
"We laughed. Every last one of us. Thought he was just another bitter nobody. It sounded like a villain's monologue: 'I'll be back.' We shrugged it off."
He slumped back into his chair, the fight draining from him.
"But ten years later... he did come back. I remember watching 'Terminator 2'—seeing the T-1000 shift and melt, that liquid metal scene. Everyone was in awe, but me? I was shaking. It wasn't admiration. It was fear. Dread. He made it. He became who he claimed to be. And I... I never left the ground."
The room was dead still.
"I've done some work since then. Sure, my name shows up in credits. But I've never escaped his words. Every time I see his success, it echoes back—you'll be nothing. That line's haunted me for a decade. It's a curse I can't shake. And that's why I can't direct. I can't take the weight. Not again."
Christian remained quiet, watching Addison retreat into his own head. There was no bravado in the man's confession—just naked truth. Everyone in the room felt it.
"A corpse on the road to our dreams," Christian muttered under his breath.
He glanced around the room—Richard, broken by a lost family and a passion that had long since turned cold; Addison, haunted by a single sentence; the rest of the crew, shadows of their former selves.
Makeup, effects, grips—people hanging on by threads.
Maybe Alan had picked them on purpose, assembling a crew no one else would want. Misfits and burnouts. Easy to control. Easy to forget.
And now, with the director gone, the center had collapsed. No leader. No plan. Just inertia and ghosts.
Ridiculous. Tragic.
But despite it all, Christian could feel it—his pulse quickening, the edges of something alive stirring deep inside.
Amidst all this ruin, a question echoed in his head.
Would you dare to give it a shot?