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Henry had no intention of dodging the question. He answered with steady seriousness:
"First, sir, you should know—I worked in Hollywood for a few months before becoming Miss Hepburn's assistant.
"Not as a real actor, of course. Just a background extra. The kind that wanders around the set without lines or close-ups. But even in that role, I had plenty of chances to observe the professionals, to study what people mean when they talk about acting.
"Some follow Method, some swear by emotional recall. Others talk about performance theory, though truth be told that's usually a matter of direction, not the actor themselves.
"Whatever technique is used, it all points to one thing—an actor must become the role. Not just pretend to be it.
"But why do some succeed while others fail? My belief is that the successful ones already possess, somewhere deep in their nature, the essence of that character. The director only needs to draw it out. When the entire production works to serve that performance, the two reinforce each other. That's the ideal of performance theory in practice.
"If the director lacks skill, the actor risks being dismissed as 'just playing themselves.' But in truth, aren't we all playing ourselves?
"It's always some fragment of the self, never the whole. Because a film, a scene, a shot requires only that piece of you, not the rest.
"Now, that doesn't mean actors who play killers or criminals are killers or criminals. What it means is that they magnify the darker corners of their own character, then—working with the director—shape them into something the audience can believe.
"Freud was right—human beings are many-sided, not one-dimensional. The law and morality keep those darker impulses chained. But on screen, freed from consequence, conflict is exactly what we seek—conflict of ideals, of fists, of human nature. Even in the gentlest drama, there is always a clash of something.
"So yes, actors may harbor violent impulses. We all do. But being human means learning to keep them buried, never letting them rule us.
"In the end, what we see in a film is just a fragment of an actor's self, hidden behind costume, dialogue, and interaction. A self disguised as someone else.
"So, would I ever fall for Princess Ann, Sister Luke, Holly Golightly, or Eliza Doolittle on screen—only to feel disappointed when I discover Audrey Hepburn isn't exactly those women in real life?
"Of course not. Because to me, Audrey Hepburn is all of them—and more.
"She's the princess who shakes hands with every journalist because goodbyes matter.
"She's Natasha Rostova, scarred but still innocent through war.
"She's Susy Hendrix, outwitting the villain in the dark.
"She is one person, and at the same time, all people. And I'm lucky enough to see even more of her up close. For a true fan, what could be better than that? Disappointment? Impossible."
By the time Henry finished his long monologue, dishes had already begun arriving. Yet neither of his listeners touched their plates—they were too busy staring at him, astonished.
For Audrey, once an actress herself, his words struck deepest. She knew the truth in them—that even when her nature lacked a certain darkness, she still had to reach into it, create it, and perform it. And in doing so, she carried a piece of it with her forever. That was why some actors never escaped their roles.
Givenchy, though no actor, found Henry's thoughts equally convincing. To him, the Audrey Hepburn on film was never the whole—only fragments framed for a role. The real Audrey was richer, more alive, and in every smile or frown he glimpsed the beauty that enthralled him.
He gave a soft laugh. "Audrey, now I understand why you insisted I meet this boy. Henry, is it? I like you. You've put into words everything I've thought but never managed to say."
"Thank you, sir," Henry replied, calm and respectful.
Meanwhile, Audrey was flustered, hiding behind her water glass. She fanned her flushed face, drained her wine, then emptied her water in one breath. The two men could only exchange amused glances.
Givenchy signaled for the waiter. "Another glass of water for the lady, please. Tell me, Audrey, is it really that hot? Or did the restaurant turn on the heat early this year?"
At last, Audrey managed to recover herself. She shot him a glare, half embarrassed, half fond. "You know, I'm used to reading film critics in the newspapers. Thank heavens I only ever saw their words on paper. If I'd had to hear them in person, I'd have either wanted to punch them—or faint from embarrassment. And today? No escape. You two are merciless."
Givenchy chuckled, bumping Henry lightly with his elbow. "This side of the great star, ordinary fans never get to see. Don't tell anyone—it's one of the perks of being a friend."
Then, suddenly, he stood, raised his glass high, and declared, "A toast! To our golden-age beauty, our cultural treasure, the eternal star of cinema—Audrey Hepburn!"
Some guests had already recognized her when she entered, of course. This was a restaurant for the old elite, many of whom had lived through her era. They had heard Henry's words, too—not loud like a speech, but clear enough to carry.
And so, with mischievous delight, they all lifted their own glasses and echoed in unison: "To the eternal Audrey Hepburn!"
The great star had no choice but to rise, face glowing red, and return the toast to the entire restaurant.
And so the evening passed, light and joyful.
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