If she ever voiced the thought "I'm too kind," it would probably shock the entire crew. Kind? Well, yes, she was kind—but hers was a brutal kind of kindness. Those who worked with her needed an exceptionally strong mental fortitude, or else they'd spend a long time wallowing in the depressing realization that they were, in fact, idiots.
Yet no one could deny that once someone truly grasped and executed her instructions, their stagnant skills would undergo a qualitative leap. This was evident from the sheer number of Oscar winners in her crew.
Before working under Laila, the best most of them had ever achieved was a lukewarm "decent professional level." But after being "educated" by her for a few years, winning awards became almost effortless.
After Roy's wake-up call, Leonardo finally understood—his arrogance wouldn't bring him progress. When it came to professionalism and directing actors, who could claim to be better than Laila? So he came to apologize, humbling himself for his pitiful, misplaced confidence.
Without Laila and Roy, he might have taken years to realize this. But now, he knew. Of course, understanding the theory was one thing—whether he could change was the real challenge.
Laila never rejected goodwill when it was offered. "It's good that you understand. Right now, you should focus on improving your acting, not obsessing over that trophy. If you keep thinking about next year's Oscars, I can already tell you—this film won't get you what you want."
Leonardo rubbed his face vigorously. "I get it. From now on, I'll pour everything into this film. But before that, I need you to tell me—what exactly was wrong with my performance just now?"
Honestly, even now, he still believed he had acted well earlier. He thought he had perfectly conveyed the protagonist's emotions through his lines. He genuinely didn't understand why she considered it an NG-worthy take.
Laila flipped open the script and pointed to the scene they had just shot. "Here, you're telling Jennifer your story—your painful past, the wounds in your heart that never healed. You showed pain, which isn't wrong, but have you considered how long ago those events happened? It's been years since you were a child."
Leonardo frowned. "So… my pain was misplaced?"
"Not misplaced, but excessive. You should have shown more anger, a touch of numbness, and a condemnation of the world. The person in front of you is an American—do you think an American could ever understand the cruelty you've endured?"
Leonardo lowered his head, digesting her words. Numbness, anger, condemnation?
Laila patted his shoulder. "Take your time if you're still figuring it out. I've always believed that dialogue-heavy scenes like this are the real test of acting. You need to tell the story through words, not just body language."
She had long suspected that the Oscars' bias against action and sci-fi films stemmed from this very reason. Those genres relied on external elements to drive the narrative, whereas dialogue—especially conversations between characters—was where true emotional depth could be revealed.
Of course, not all dialogue carried such weight, but there was no denying that conveying the script's intended emotions through pure acting in a conversation was far more challenging than relying on physical movements or special effects.
"Give me ten minutes, okay? I need to go over the script again." His expression was dazed as if something fundamental had just shifted inside him.
Laila nodded. "We'll start in ten." She gave him a final pat and left him to his thoughts.
Leonardo held the script, his expression conflicted. He had studied this script for years, practically wearing it out after deciding to film it. When revisions were made, he was involved and immediately took the updated version home.
He had always believed he understood the protagonist's emotions better than anyone—in his mind, he was the protagonist. But now, Laila was telling him his emotional interpretation was wrong. It was a heavy blow. Yet he had to admit, her reasoning made sense. If he adjusted his performance as she suggested, the character's emotions would become more profound, adding layers to his acting.
The protagonist had endured those painful experiences as a child. Given his personality, it was unlikely he'd still be drowning in raw pain decades later. Time dulled all wounds, whether one wanted to forget or not.
The protagonist had grown into a "bad person" in some respects—his involvement in smuggling proved that the law held little sway over him. People like that tended to be cynical. So when recounting his past to the female lead, pure pain wouldn't be his only emotion.
"That's it! I finally get it!" Leonardo suddenly stood up and strode toward Laila, script in hand. "I know how to do it now!"
Laila studied him, seeing the conviction in his eyes. "Good. Let's see the results, then."
Leonardo nodded firmly and walked over to Jennifer. "Sorry for wasting your time earlier."
Jennifer smiled and shook her head. "Don't worry. The director talked to me too—I think we both made the same mistake. Let's fix it now."
"Yeah!" Leonardo grinned and gave her a thumbs-up.
"Action!" Laila's command rang out and filming resumed.
This was the scene where the male and female leads revealed their pasts to each other.
Jennifer spoke first, recounting how her father had returned from the Vietnam War and taken twenty years to recover. Then it was Leonardo's turn to shine.
A mocking smile curled on his lips as he delivered his lines. He even added a touch of playful malice, inspired by Laila's earlier sarcasm. He figured if he could replicate even a third of her sharpness, it would be enough for this scene.
And he succeeded. He crafted a protagonist who was deeply cynical, his derision masking a fragile strength that made the audience ache for him.
To heighten the intensity, he leaned slightly forward, imposing himself over Jennifer with quiet dominance.
Watching his performance, Laila almost clapped in surprise. Aside from Roy, this was the first time she had seen someone comprehend and execute her demands so perfectly in such a short time.