Richard Levitt's message arrived in the early pale clarity of morning, when Rose was still half-dreaming and the house was silent except for the faint, rhythmic thump of the dryer in the laundry room. She read his email stretched out on the window seat in the upstairs hall, sunlight pooling across her bare feet, and the immensity of it almost tipped her into laughter. Five offers—two feature films, a National Theatre production, a voice role in a major animation, and some grimly prestigious period piece she'd never heard of—each articulated in Richard's dry, surgical prose, as though this kind of bounty was as routine as the changing of a stoplight. He had an implicit faith in her that at times felt as heavy as the expectations swirling through her blood.
The first proposal was a lead role in Sense and Sensibility—Marianne Dashwood, "a perfect fusion of wit, defiance, and fragile optimism. The producers are convinced they need you, not some English rose with a triple-barreled last name." Richard's parenthetical aside about Kate Winslet—who he claimed was the alternate-universe Marianne—made Rose smirk. She'd met Winslet once at a function and found her intimidatingly bright, her conversation a constant duel of subtext. "You have the photographic memory and piano skills to eclipse any performance," Richard wrote, and then, "They're aiming for an accelerated schedule, so you'd need to clear a few months, starting almost immediately. I've already told them you'll want script approval and dialect coaching if the adaptation leans too far toward the loopy." She pictured herself in those frothy Regency dresses, the set's air saturated with beeswax and overripe fruit, the quiet pressure of inhabiting a character whose best lines people already quoted in their heads. She would be, as always, herself behind the mask, but also the vessel for every prior Marianne—the literary original, the Winslet, the collective expectation.
Offer two: a mainstage run at the National, in a new staging of Women of Troy. "You'd play Helen—yes, that Helen. The director has a concept piece if you want to see it, but in short: she's not a seductress, she's a survivor. Possibly a villain, but never a victim." Richard's tone shifted slightly in the next paragraph, becoming both arch and sentimental: "As you know, your grandfather was not only a founder of the National, he practically invented the Oliver Theatre's house style. The press will howl nepotism, but they always do. By opening night, they'll be too busy calling you a 'clarifying force of nature' to remember why they were angry in the first place. You'll need to start rehearsals in November, but your command of the stage is, as always, immediate. You could play this role in your sleep." Rose's mind flickered with childhood recollections: wandering the labyrinthine backstage corridors, her grandfather's voice echoing in the trap room, the smell of greasepaint and sawdust so thick it lived in her hair for days. She had always imagined that her eventual return to theatre would be on her own terms, her own script, but the idea of making her re-entry as Helen—one of literature's most inscrutable women—in the house her grandfather built felt less like nepotism and more like a homecoming. "Let them rage," she thought, rolling the phrase around like a hard candy.
Third offer—horror film, Scream, the role of Casey: "You are the first kill of the movie, which is iconic if short-lived. Little time commitment, but maximum exposure. The director wants you to improvise the death scene. I suggest taking no upfront fee, but negotiating points on gross. They expect this to be the next Halloween." Rose laughed aloud. She'd never seen herself as horror fodder, but the concept had a perverse, campy charm. There was something appealing about the idea of appearing and vanishing—a flash of presence, a performance that haunted the rest of the movie. She could already see the shots: herself, blond-wigged and screaming through a grainy lens, the moment of obliteration immortalized in freeze frames and GIFs. And the money, of course, would be exquisite if the film hit.
The fourth offer was Jude, set to shoot in early 1995. Richard was uncharacteristically direct: "I don't think this is the right vehicle for you, and frankly, the numbers don't add up. But I didn't want to decline out of hand. The script is heavy, the character is tragic, and there's a certain prestige attached, but not enough to justify the slog. Let's hold on this one." Rose trusted his instincts implicitly. There was a time, not so long ago, when she would have leapt at the prospect of "prestige." Now, she was more strategic with her energy, her brand, her face.
Fifth and, as Richard put it, "most intriguing": The Hunchback of Notre Dame. They wanted her not just for the voice of Esmeralda, but also to compose songs and possibly the entire score. "This is a chance to be both seen and heard, in every sense. The director is a 'collaboration maximalist' and likes to shape the music around the performer. I know you've been itching to get back to composition, so this could be a two-for-one." She found herself unexpectedly stirred by this offer. Music had been her first love, the piano her earliest instrument of selfhood, and the chance to leave her fingerprints on a studio feature, even in animated form, felt more intimate than anything she'd done in years. The very idea of writing the sonic signature for a film—a score that would outlast trends and scandals—gave her a jolt of ambition she hadn't felt since the twins were born.
Rose sat unmoving for a long spell, back pressed to the windowpane, Levitt's message suspended in a column of golden light. In another life she might have said yes to all of them, taken a perverse pride in overextension.
There is another big film where there is a role in the film Independance day. It is only films.