March 9.
A long stretch of time had passed, a magnificent stretch in which so much had been accomplished. A good season to seize everything within reach, a good season in which nothing remained unexamined, nothing was left hanging in uncertainty. Billy watched as the film underwent a tremendous transformation. They had already spent two weeks shooting, and nothing more seemed necessary. They worked quickly, relentlessly, never allowing themselves to be distracted by the weight of the scenes still ahead.
--Are you ready? - Giuseppe Tornatore commented.
--More than ready. - Billy replied.
Now dressed in clothing that evoked the Italy of the 1940s, he wore a loose white linen shirt that offered little warmth and patched trousers suited to the role of a boy who had only recently turned nineteen. Everything about the way he dressed, everything that radiated from him, carried the spirit of another era.
--Then let me see your talent. - Giuseppe laughed, carrying that familiar tone he always used whenever he wanted to challenge someone.
--Scene seventy-five, take three. -
The war was ending. The beach stood beneath a ridiculous silence, and in less than three days Italy itself had transformed before their eyes. What a grand deception it all seemed now, hearing the "good news." What a grotesque deception catharsis itself had become. The Nazis were gone, and now the women climbed onto the platform and began screaming.
Monica wore a pale blond wig and a white dress.
--Whore! - shouted a stout Italian woman with crooked teeth, her face twisted with envy and resentment.
--Whore! - others joined in.
--Whore! -
--Whore! -
--Vile woman! Snake! -
--Whore! -
The insults continued until a tomato struck Monica directly in the face. The impact was hard.
Billy moved instantly.
This was where the role diverged from the original path. No one there was willing to speak the truth.
One blow after another followed. They grabbed her violently and prepared to cut her hair. Everyone in the square screamed together like a pack of animals. It was a horrifying truth, one impossible to calculate from the outside. Yet inside Renato, something awakened like a tiger.
He reached Malena, who was now filthy, nearly stripped bare, though her hair remained untouched.
--Stop! - Billy/Renato shouted with force.
--Stop! - Billy yelled again.
--What are you doing, boy? - one of the women snapped.
Billy shoved her aside and stepped between them.
--Ahhhh! - Malena screamed behind him.
--I'm doing what's right, Mrs. Montalvo! You're not driven by justice. You spent years criticizing your husband for fantasizing about Malena. What wakes you is not righteousness—it's envy. Envy! The envy of being an ugly, bitter, greasy woman! - Billy roared with terrifying conviction.
--And you! You, old woman who cannot satisfy your lawyer husband, a harasser and a complete idiot! Or perhaps you, who refuses to admit your husband tried to steal Malena's inheritance and threatened to throw her into the streets! - Billy shouted.
The scream thundered across the square, leaving the crowd stunned into silence beneath the weight of such fury.
--I know every single one of you, and I judge you all because you are the reason beauty becomes something impure. I forgive you for being ignorant. I do not forgive you for being resentful. I forgive you for being unpleasant, for following fascism blindly, and now I judge you for forgetting your own sons and fathers—because every one of them was a fascist you once applauded! - Billy declared.
The speech lingered heavily in the air.
It was the speech of a boy becoming a man, the image of change itself.
--What are you doing, Renato? - his father asked.
--Correcting injustices. - Renato replied.
He removed his jacket. It was not much, but it was enough.
Renato's mother stood pale with shock at the spectacle unfolding before her. Three American soldiers approached, and the entire plaza fell silent. Billy's outburst had shifted the atmosphere completely, leaving behind the certainty that everything had changed. He walked away quickly, still dressed in costume.
--What's going on here? - an American sergeant asked.
--Just village problems. In Italy, we're not used to beating our women. - Billy answered in forceful Italian.
He burned with rage. This was exactly what he had hoped for. His posture transformed, and the emotional shift arrived as suddenly as lightning before vanishing just as quickly.
--Cut! -
Billy's performance was overwhelming. It was ruled by restraint and controlled fury. His eyes alone carried expressions that fulfilled every emotional demand of the scene. He looked slightly drowned within his own thoughts.
Let's do another take. - Giuseppe commented.
A perfect opportunity. - Billy replied, watching Monica clean herself off before changing into another identical dress.
Fortunately, they had not actually cut her hair, even if it was only a film.
Cut her hair this time, and you come in later. - Giuseppe instructed.
That day Monica repeated the scene three more times. By the end, her knees were bruised raw from being dragged across the pavement. Nothing about it felt fortunate anymore. Nothing remained comfortable in heart or mind.
***
--I've dreamed about doing this for a very long time. - Peter commented.
With sharp attention, he supervised the filming of the Tom Bombadil sequences while Christopher Tolkien stood nearby.
--I just believe that with this much money, something good has to come out of it eventually. - Christopher Tolkien commented.
He was no longer a child but an older man now, carrying immense knowledge and the legacy his father had entrusted to him for an entire lifetime. Within him lived what could only be called the beginning of fantasy itself and everything that would follow after it.
There were no easy answers left anymore.
--I'm afraid nothing else compares to this. - Peter commented. - When I planned the film, I pushed everything as far as possible. I did whatever I could to convince the studio to approve shots they believed were impossible, and once those scenes are used, everything will finally make sense in a way I haven't seen in years. Besides, the casting is first-rate. Billy was incredibly precise when selecting actors. Every one of them brings something valuable. So many extraordinary actors—whether as leads, doubles, or supporting roles—and every single one of them carries something compelling. -
Peter understood that in some of the films there would be countless warriors, countless extras, countless faces, until eventually the audience would be left staring at nothing but perfection.
--I want to do this. You want it too. But is it true every single studio rejected you? - Christopher asked thoughtfully.
--It's true, and honestly it left me in a terrible position. - Peter admitted. - In fact, Billy gave me headaches too. He said I didn't deserve a salary. He asked whether I was doing this for money or for art, and said that if it was for art, then I shouldn't be greedy and should leave everything in his hands. -
--And what did you say? - Tolkien continued.
--I told him he was right. - Peter answered. - But then he told me not to worry. He said that if I truly did it for art, he would still pay me a salary and reward me generously. If the films succeeded financially, bonuses and percentages would be distributed so nobody on the crew would walk away empty-handed. Cameramen, photographers, animators—everyone would receive something written directly into their contracts, along with a share reserved for the actors. -
--It makes me think all of us win in the end. - Christopher commented.
The phrase lingered in the air.
--Perhaps it's dangerous. - Peter replied.
--What bothers me is how much he understands. More than anyone else. As though the stories themselves were carved into his mind, along with the legacy my father created. - Christopher answered quietly.
--Because you have to truly understand the stories you speak about. - Peter replied.
Billy's reading history had become enormous and relentless. Every animated series already carried signed contracts. The goal was to create at least ten films. Billy had done everything possible to plan the expansion of the universe across ten different phases. He had mapped out four thousand years of history and found ways to connect it all with Star Wars: three trilogies, two live-action series, three animated films, and a massive fifty-episode animated saga.
Every one of those projects represented only the beginning, because the true objective was permanence.
--The boy's ambition may consume us all. - Christopher whispered into the silence.