120: Scorsese's invitation

Scott's voice cracked on the word "invitation," and he took a deep breath.

"You are the only person I've ever met who has turned down Martin Scorsese. Do you know what the headlines would say if the media found out about this call today? 'Chen Mo Rejects Scorsese'! My PR team is going to have to work overtime again."

"I know, which is why I shouldn't just agree to it lightly. He invited me because of my music, not my acting. If I agree without knowing how to act, I'd be wasting his time and mine. When I'm ready, I'll reach out to him myself."

"It's not a rejection, it's a postponement. I still have the business card."

Scott sighed on the other end of the line, but his composure had returned. In the background, the sound of his office's old fax machine churning out paper could be heard.

"Postponement. Fine, postponement sounds better than rejection. When do you plan on being ready?"

"I don't know. When I learn how to act."

"Where are you going to learn?"

"I haven't decided yet. Maybe on set."

After Scott hung up the phone, Chen Mo leaned against the armrest of the hotel sofa, toying with the business card.

The letterpress font on the card felt slightly prickly against his fingertips. He stood the card up and spun it around once.

Outside the window, the early morning lights of Manhattan looked like a spilled palette of pearlescent eyeshadow, with a few windows still lit in the apartment buildings on the south side of Central Park.

He tucked the card into a slot in his wallet, stood up, and turned off the lights.

When he lay down in bed, Chen Mo chuckled for no reason, and then, unable to stop himself, burst into laughter.

He had turned down a legend tonight. Who would believe it? Chen Mo had rejected Scorsese!!!

In Malibu, before the sky was fully bright, Chen Mo's car was already driving onto the Pacific Coast Highway.

Scott had sent a message last night saying the shoot would start at six and to not be late. Chen Mo had replied with one word, and then arrived at five-forty.

The mountain road wound its way along the spine of the Santa Monica Mountains. On one side were the parched, yellow hills of California, where scrub oaks and sagebrush swayed gently in the morning breeze.

On the other side was the Pacific Ocean. The sea before sunrise shimmered with a leaden gray light, the waves low, like a piece of silk fabric wrinkled by the wind.

He parked his CLA in the temporary crew parking lot at the foot of the mountain. When he pushed open the car door, the sea breeze rushed in, carrying a salty scent and the crisp chill unique to the early morning.

Jessica had already arrived. She was standing next to a silver Mercedes-Benz C-Class, holding a cup of hot coffee. When she saw him walking over, she took the coffee out of the cup holder and handed it to him.

"The director's name is Marco. He's German and has shot several major car commercials. His obsession with lighting is about the same as your obsession with mixing. A moment ago, he was adjusting the angle of a reflector; the assistant said it was good enough, but he said it was off by half a degree."

Chen Mo took the coffee and took a sip. Not far away, a bald man in a black soft-shell jacket was crouching next to the yellow centerline of the mountain road, squinting one eye as he looked at the frame through a handheld viewfinder.

When Marco stood up, he was about the height of Chen Mo's bridge of the nose. He had broad shoulders, and his handshake was firm and crisp.

"I've seen that Dior commercial where you played the piano in Joshua Tree. You have a quality—you don't rush in front of the camera. Car commercials need people who don't rush, because the cars are fast, so the person must be slow."

"The person next to this C-Class today doesn't need to pose at all; you just need to stand there. When you're driving, you don't need to act either. Just pretend you're driving to the recording studio like you usually do."

Chen Mo nodded and walked over to the silver Mercedes-Benz C-Class. The car body was plated with a faint golden hue by the morning light, and the streamlined hood reflected the glimmer from the direction of the Pacific Ocean.

He pulled the door open and sat in the driver's seat. The steering wheel was new, but the feel was very similar to his CLA. The moment he gripped it, his fingers automatically found the familiar position.

First shot: City.

The crew blocked off a street in Malibu lined with palm trees for twenty minutes.

Chen Mo drove the silver Mercedes-Benz through at a steady speed. The morning light leaked through the gaps in the palm fronds, flickering on the windshield.

Marco sat in front of the monitor in the back of the camera car and said into the walkie-talkie, "Too fast. In the city, you're not rushing; you're passing through."

Chen Mo slowed down to about five miles below the speed limit.

A man jogging on the side of the street passed by with a golden retriever. The golden retriever glanced at the Mercedes-Benz and kept running.

For the second take, Marco said again, "Too slow. Passing through isn't strolling."

Chen Mo readjusted his speed, and the third take passed.

Second shot: Coast.

The crew moved to a straight stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway, with cliffs and the Pacific Ocean on the right and the mountains on the left.

The sun had fully risen, and the sea had changed from leaden gray to a shattered silver mirror.

Marco asked him to roll down the window, rest his left hand on the window frame, and hold the steering wheel with his right hand.

As the sea breeze blew in, his hair was swept slightly back, just like that day at Joshua Tree.

He glanced in the rearview mirror at the shrinking crew convoy, and Marco's voice came through the walkie-talkie.

"That look you gave the rearview mirror just now—that's exactly what I wanted. It wasn't looking back; it was confirming how far you've come."

Chen Mo didn't answer.

Third shot: Mountain road.

The crew moved to the winding mountain road that Chen Mo had driven up that morning.

Marco stood in the passenger seat of an open-top camera car, holding a viewfinder and gesturing back and forth.

"This part is the end of the commercial. Driving from the seaside into the mountains, from open to enclosed. The speed can be a bit faster, but it's not street racing—it's going home."

Chen Mo paused for a few seconds at the start of the mountain road, then stepped on the gas.

The silver Mercedes-Benz climbed up along the ridge, and he hit every turn perfectly.

A light tap on the brakes before entering the turn, a smooth return to the throttle after passing the apex, the car's posture remained steadily glued to the road.

The camera car followed behind him, and the walkie-talkie suddenly went quiet.

Marco didn't shout "Cut," nor did he give any adjustment instructions, until Chen Mo drove through a hairpin turn, downshifted in manual mode, pushed the engine speed to the mid-to-high range, and then smoothly accelerated along the curve.

After the last turn, at the end of the road was the entrance to a recording studio that the crew had set up in advance—a backdrop built by the art department on the mountaintop, modeled after the exterior of Chen Mo's recording studio in Los Angeles.

He slowly brought the car to a stop in front of that door and killed the engine.

Marco jumped down from the camera car and walked over to the Mercedes-Benz. He didn't look at the monitor, nor did he speak to the cameraman; he just stood by the car window, facing Chen Mo.

"That drive on the mountain road just now is the most natural take I've had in all my years of shooting car commercials. The rhythm is excellent. You know when to be fast and when to wait."

"At that hairpin turn just now, you didn't jerk the steering wheel like most actors; you downshifted early and used engine braking to stabilize the car. That's a move only someone who really knows how to drive would make. What kind of car do you drive normally?"

"A CLA, the AMG-tuned model. Same engine as this C-Class, just different tuning. I've been driving it for about a year, so I know how to talk to it. That hairpin turn just now, I wasn't acting—"

"I was really driving. You told me not to act, so I didn't."

Marco placed the viewfinder on the Mercedes-Benz's hood and reached out his hand again, shaking it longer than the first time, saying that if he shoots a global commercial for Mercedes-Benz next time, he hopes Chen Mo will come again.

Chen Mo said sure, but on one condition: switch to an AMG GT next time.

Marco paused for a moment and then laughed, his bald head reflecting the California sun: "You like high horsepower?"

Chen Mo pushed the car door open, and the residual heat from the engine clicked softly under the car.

After the fourteenth take was filmed, the recording was completely finished. The commercial's voiceover was Chen Mo's own voice, which Marco had recorded using a portable microphone during a break in filming.

There was no script; Marco just said, "Just say something, anything, about moving forward."

Chen Mo sat in the driver's seat of the Mercedes-Benz, the window rolled halfway down, his hands on the steering wheel, looking at the recording studio gate at the end of the mountain road ahead.

He thought for a moment, then spoke: "Some people ask me why I always have to keep moving forward. Because looking back... it's too far."