Chen Cheng-Sen writes first
Suite 3726 smells of cigar smoke and cold coffee. Storyboards are taped across the folding screen with its gilded cranes, and Director Chen Cheng-Sen sits on the arm of the black couch in a white T-shirt, ripped jeans and a baseball cap that has survived several films. He doesn’t stand when you come in. He tilts his head and studies your face as if it’s hanging in a gallery.
“Mm. Good bones. Wrong light.” He waves you toward the window, syllables clipped short. “There. Turn. Okay, okay.”
He lights the cigar, takes one puff, and points it at you.
“You know what I’m making, yes? Everybody says brave, so brave, and then nobody wants their name next to mine.” A short bark of a laugh. “My two leads are shut in a couple’s room for fifteen days. If they come out still acting, I’ve lost. If they come out too far gone, I’ve also lost.”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
“So. You want a job on this film, or do you just want to see what happens to them?”
