"I want to play Roxie," Jenny declared. "Not just because she's the heroine of Chicago, but because she's the most complex role I can tackle right now. And honestly, I love Roxie—I love the era Chicago is set in: ignorant, flashy, morally bankrupt. They thought they were living in a civilized age, but to us, it was America's Middle Ages."
Rob looked stunned, and Jenny knew her choice of words, the cultural sophistication they implied, far exceeded what you'd expect from a typical public high school graduate. (Given her district and the American education system, such graduates were barely a step above illiteracy.)
"You know, Rob, Chicago is fundamentally the story of two criminals escaping justice through public attention." Jenny continued, "Precisely because it's based on real events does the irony cut so deeply. I noticed you made some changes in the film, softening Roxie's character. Of course, that's a necessary sacrifice for mass appeal—movie audiences don't want an unlikable heroine."
She paused briefly. Rob nodded involuntarily. Jenny went on, " But Roxie and Velma are criminals at their core. Roxie is foolish, impulsive, selfish, greedy, shallow, vain, vulgar, ignorant—stupid enough to be swindled by a salesman, impulsive enough to shoot someone, selfish enough to want her husband to take the fall. Yet she desperately tries to project innocence, pitiability, fragility to manipulate the masses. That's why Roxie's musical numbers are affected and shrill. She may be beautiful, but she's also deeply unlikable—not with a bone-deep hatred, but with a morbid fascination for the grotesque. Her ugliness and beauty clash, yet they are also unified. This contrast makes Roxie the most captivating and complex character. I truly want to play Roxie. It would be a huge challenge for my acting skills and an excellent opportunity for growth. So I'm genuinely passionate about it—it's a great role, and I'm an actress. Actors want to play great roles. It's that simple."
Rob stared at Jenny as if seeing her for the first time, holding her gaze for a long moment. Jenny adopted an innocent expression, spreading her hands wide. "Have I convinced you?"
"You seem to understand the role deeply," Rob replied after a pause, avoiding her question. He took a sip of red wine and changed the subject. "You even noticed the changes I asked Renee to make—indeed, Renee emphasized Rochelle's innocence when handling her, making her murder seem almost trivial. My whole vision for the film is to highlight the glamour, give them beautiful song and dance numbers, and just brush over the satire. I even cut out the part where Verma sings about that so-called baby."
He seemed a bit tipsy. "You know why?"
"Because," Jenny said earnestly, "this era isn't so different from the 1920s. People only want to see what they need to see—gorgeous actors, spectacular song-and-dance numbers, and glittering scenes. As for depth? Who cares?"
Rob burst out laughing, even clapping for Jenny. "You're fucking right, darling, who cares about substance? Tony, Emmy, Golden Globes, Oscars—they're all the same. Give them thrills, give them climax after climax, then sprinkle in satire and dark humor as seasoning. Make them think they've seen through the glitz and the hypocrisy, make them think they're the ones who get it, and then you reap the box office and the awards. Milan Kundera was right— this is an era of pandering to the refined, only the definition of 'refined' has changed, right? Back then, a kid saving a dog was 'refined'—you had to force yourself to be moved. Now Hollywood mass-produces these shallow, painless insights. Who the hell needs genuine emotional impact? Directors making those films only get to call the shots at Sundance, thinking they're the fucking gods of truth. This is fucking Hollywood! People want fucking merchandise, not some highbrow fucking art that only a select few can appreciate! Box office and critical acclaim—that's the fucking bottom line."
Getting carried away in the conversation, Rob's drunkenness kicked in. His constant use of "fucking" startled Jenny a bit; she couldn't figure out how they'd jumped to this topic.
She shot a questioning glance at Cesare, who gave her a slight nod before breaking into a smile and chiming in with Rob, "It's the middle class's fault—them and their pretentiousness, Greenspan and his fucking monetary policy. These days, everyone's scrambling to squeeze into the middle class, You know, the market demands middle-class aesthetics, it craves pretentiousness. Rob, we have to deliver that pretentiousness. Look on the bright side—at least this is far more interesting than shooting those boring films where justice prevails and Locksey finally gets his comeuppance."
Rob downed his drink in one gulp and waved for the waiter. "No, it's on me. Listen, nobody leaves. We're going to Lubitsch. We're drinking ourselves into oblivion."
Neither mentioned the audition. After settling the bill, they headed straight for Lubitsch. Though a long line snaked outside, Cesare led them right through. In this vodka-only bar, Rob got completely wasted. Jenny wasn't faring much better. Though she stopped drinking after a few shots and started dodging shots with tricks, vodka is essentially liquid alcohol. By the end, she retreated to the bathroom to throw up.
Cesare, however, demonstrated astonishing stamina. By the end, though his face flushed and his steps grew unsteady, he remained mostly upright. After settling the bill, he managed to steady Rob into a taxi and stayed in the backseat to watch over him, preventing him from vomiting inside.
After vomiting, Jenny actually felt more sober. She sat in the front seat while Cesare escorted Rob to the hotel, waiting in the car until he returned before moving to the back seat beside him.
Cesare gave her home address first. Despite his intoxication, he hadn't forgotten such a minor detail, which made Jenny reassess his self-control. She asked, "You're not drunk, are you?"
"The effects have mostly worn off." Cesare let down his rolled-up shirt sleeves. As for his tie? It had been loosened and tucked away ages ago. "You did well tonight."
"Well?" Jenny countered, still reeling from the night's sudden turn. "I don't even know if I earned that audition."
"What more do you need? For Rob to beg you to audition? Give me a break." Cesare leaned back in his seat, a hint of weariness visible. "Your speech proved you're perfectly qualified for Roxie. Robert has no reason not to recommend you. Don't tell me you didn't see it—he fucking adores you."
"If you ask me, he's under too much pressure." Jenny didn't think she was particularly likable. "His adaptation of Chicago is actually quite risky. The critics might not be universally enthusiastic."
"Of course, you know it, I know it, and he knows it," Cesare said. "Critics are bitches. But his vision hasn't been smooth sailing at Weinstein either. Tonight's conversation about Maya and middle-class aesthetics isn't the first time. Rob and I have talked about it several times. He has his moments of self-doubt, but I believe his vision can succeed. At its core, Chicago is indeed an arthouse film, but no one says arthouse films don't need to appeal to audiences—at most, you could say they appeal to a different kind of audience. Besides, no one would make an arthouse film with a budget nearing fifty million dollars."
"A director must first and foremost be accountable to investors and the market," Jenny agreed with Cesare and Rob's perspective, though this was purely hindsight, as Chicago had indeed achieved at least a double triumph in both critical acclaim and box office success. "Rob simply lacks sufficient directing experience; otherwise, he wouldn't have such doubts at all."
"It's also because his previous circle was too high-minded," Cesare shrugged. "You know those Broadway cliques—to them, film and TV are just too vulgar. Rob felt more pressure than anyone to align with the mainstream, especially since this was his first feature. His behavior on set was understandable, given the circumstances."
"Directors," Jenny remarked meaningfully.
Cesare rubbed his face and chuckled softly. "I must say, your performance tonight was surprising—Jefferson, you never cease to amaze me."
"I just didn't attend a top-tier high school, but that doesn't mean I lack substance," Jenny replied, feeling slightly uneasy. Truthfully, her knowledge was limited. Neither Jenny nor Chen Zhen had ever been artsy types. She'd never read a Milan Kundera novel and couldn't follow discussions about "Mia" or the middle class.
"I was referring to your research on the musical Chicago—though what you said is also valid. It's a valuable quality; you should keep it up." Cesare nodded. "While Hollywood doesn't prioritize cultural literacy, it can earn you favor with many directors."
It was true. Hollywood never demanded diplomas or knowledge from actors, but lacking cultural depth made directing difficult. Take tonight: if Jenny hadn't seemed well-informed, Rob might not have stayed drunk until dawn. Of course, one drinking session meant little, but what about a second, a third? More dinners, and they'd become friends. In an industry where connections determine everything, what could be more valuable than having a director like Rob Marshall as a friend?
"So, are you satisfied with my performance tonight?" Jenny didn't want to dwell on the earlier topic and instead sought Cesare's confirmation.
"Very satisfied." Perhaps genuinely tipsy, Cesare was unusually generous with praise. "Riding with me to the restaurant, calling me by my nickname—both smart self-preservation moves."
He saw right through it, though that wasn't surprising given Cesare's sharpness. Jenny replied, "Thanks. A girl's gotta know how to protect herself."
"Very cautious. Commendable spirit," Cesare murmured without looking at her, his eyes half-closed as he dozed. "But you could have asked me first, Jefferson. You should trust me a little more."
"You mean—" Jenny frowned.
"If there had been any possibility of that, I would have told you first," Cesare said. "Of course, my failure to mention it proactively was my oversight, but you could have asked first. If you had asked, I would have told you—"
He sat up, turning his head toward Jenny. Swiftly shifting light cast patterns across his face, momentarily forming what almost looked like a rare smile—not the polite business smile, nor the one he gave Rob—a smile that simply shouldn't have appeared on Cesare's face.
Jenny decided it was her imagination.
"Tell me what?" she pressed.
"That Rob is gay," Cesare declared.
Damn—Jenny stared in disbelief, taking a long moment before saying, "No wonder—no wonder he noticed your cufflinks and my earrings—and figured out my earrings were fakes—"
"In Broadway, straight guys don't get ahead that easily." Cesare leaned back again. "Once you're in New York, watch out for female directors. As for the men? You can safely treat them as gay friends."
What else could Jenny say? "I see."
They fell silent for a moment. Then Cesare asked, "If Rob weren't gay tonight, if he showed interest in you, if he weren't offering a musical audition but a role in Titanic—how would you react?"
Of course, Titanic had already been made, but Cesare's meaning was clear. Jenny didn't pretend not to understand. After a pause, she told him. "I don't know. Maybe I'd only make a choice when that moment actually came."
"Good," Cesare said.
"Good about what?" Jenny suddenly felt annoyed again. She often overreacted around Cesare because of the pressure he put on her.
"You're cautious about sex," Cesare said. "That means fewer problems later. Good. You trust me enough to be honest. That's good. Jefferson, I'm your agent. You don't need to be so tense around me. You can trust me a little more, remember? I'm always looking out for your best interests."
He wasn't wrong, but Jenny still couldn't help feeling annoyed. She shot back sharply, "How am I supposed to trust you when you still call me Jefferson, Mr. Vigerie?"
Cesare laughed. If the first laugh had been Jenny's imagination, this one was genuine—he was genuinely amused. "Alright, alright, Jenny, Jen. Is that better?"
"For now, Cesare," Jenny said flatly. "Ah, we're here."
Before Cesare could speak, she cut in, "If you try to end this with another 'don't let me down,' I'll make you regret it."
Cesare's open mouth snapped shut. After a second, he said to Jenny, "Then good night, Jenny."
"Good night, Cesare," Jenny said sweetly. She climbed out of the car, wiggled her fingers at Cesare in farewell, and felt a small victory.
She had indeed won—five days later, Cesare called her, telling her to pack her bags and fly to New York for an audition for the musical Chicago.