The next morning, newspaper stands all over Los Angeles looked like they'd been taken over by Pangu Pictures.
Band slammed a thick stack of newspapers onto Link's desk with a loud smack. The pages scattered everywhere—and every single front page featured photos of Link and Cameron.
The Hollywood Reporter: "The Birth of a Power Couple."
Variety: "A Courtship Worth Tens of Millions."
"Holy hell," Band said, rubbing his hands as he paced back and forth across the office, barely able to contain his excitement. "I'm thirty years old, and this is the first time I've ever seen a comeback this beautiful. The entire town is already speculating about when you two are getting married!"
Link leaned back in his chair and said nothing. He picked up the Variety issue and looked at the photo—Cameron's slightly flustered smile frozen on the page. His fingers idly traced the edge of the newspaper.
The office door swung open without a knock.
Director Chuck Russell walked in. He wasn't carrying a script, but the entertainment section of the Los Angeles Times. He slapped it down on Link's desk, his voice cold.
"Mr. Link , I'm here to make a movie—not to serve as background scenery for your love story."
Band's grin froze.
This wasn't a gossip piece. It was a column by someone labeled a "senior industry commentator." The headline sounded mild, but the content was razor-sharp.
The article quoted an "anonymous source from the set," claiming that on The Mask, the director's authority was practically nonexistent. It accused producer Link of overstepping his role, directing actors himself, and even forcibly engineering a romance between himself and the female lead "for publicity purposes."
"…This has made the creative environment extremely impure," the article concluded, quoting the anonymous source. "We can't tell whether the final film will be the director's art—or a producer's personal vanity show."
Chuck pointed at that paragraph, his finger trembling.
"This article is plastered all over the Directors Guild bulletin boards right now. Three friends called me this morning asking if I'd been completely sidelined by some blond kid."
Link didn't get angry. He smiled instead.
"Chuck, what do you think a director's job really is?"
Chuck froze. He clearly hadn't expected that question.
"…Control. Control the camera, control the actors, control the rhythm of the story."
"Well said." Link nodded, stood up, and walked over to him.
"But right now, this movie's story doesn't just live on the soundstage anymore. It's spilled into the newspapers, onto television, onto everyone's breakfast table."
He placed the newspaper next to Chuck's storyboards.
"That's part of the movie too. It's called marketing."
Chuck's face turned ashen. "So I'm just supposed to sit there while my professionalism gets questioned and I become a joke on my own set?"
"No." Link shook his head, a playful curve forming at the corner of his mouth. "You're not a joke."
"You're the hero."
He patted Chuck on the shoulder, leaned in close, and spoke softly—his voice devilish.
"Starting today, you're the male lead too."
Chuck jerked his head up, disbelief written all over his face.
"To the public, you're no longer just a director who's been sidelined," Link continued. "You're a 'tyrant guarding artistic integrity.' You can't stand the producer and the female lead making eyes at each other on set. You scoff at their romance. The only thing you care about is the art—and for that, you don't hesitate to blow up at them on set."
Chuck's mouth fell slightly open.
Link smiled.
"The media loves conflict. Audiences love gossip. So we give them a blockbuster—
a brilliant leading lady who falls for a domineering, powerful producer, only to be blocked by a stubborn, uncompromising artist of a director."
"Chuck," Link said, locking eyes with him, "you want control of the story, right?"
"Now the entire town is your stage."
Chuck stared at Link for a full thirty seconds. For the first time, a flicker of excitement appeared on his face.
He got it.
Just then, the brick-sized cellphone in Link's pocket rang.
An unfamiliar New York number.
He walked over to the window and answered quietly.
"Hello?"
On the other end came a cool, familiar female voice—now carrying a trace of barely concealed tension.
"Link … it's me. Jennifer Connelly."
"I just got back from meeting my agent."
She paused, took a breath.
"Harvey Weinstein came to see me."