Echoes of a Family (2)

Michael Mitchum looked at Sion Lee on the stage and thought, He’s definitely on a different level now.

As the editor-in-chief of Behind the Scene, a highly reputable and popular movie magazine in California, he had been closely watching Sion's career ever since the young actor starred in Swing in Chicago. Back then, Michael had made a foolish bet—something along the lines of "If that brat actually pulls this off, I'll wear a skirt to work!"—and lost miserably. But as time passed, things had changed drastically.

Now, Michael didn't dare underestimate Sion Lee. If he says he'll do it, he'll do it. Sion had consistently proven himself time and time again.

He wasn't just a pretty face; he possessed genuine acting chops, and his star power remained undeniable. Perhaps because he had become such a hot commodity lately, the media swarmed around him like blood-sucking flies, trying to drain every drop of publicity they could. Yet, if anything, this parasitic attention only seemed to unite his fanbase even further.

In short, describing his current status as the "new star of a new era" was by no means an exaggeration.

And now, this very star was appearing in a slice-of-life drama for the first time in a while. Given the lack of aggressive marketing, most industry insiders immediately sensed that the film was aiming for the awards circuit. After all, to score high on the so-called "artistic merit" scale, a film needed to give the impression of succeeding through word-of-mouth and sheer cinematic quality, rather than a studio's blockbuster-sized marketing campaign.

How will it turn out?

Sion Lee and Jack Nicholson... What an odd pairing.

Does this mean Sion has already reached that level?

I'm both excited and worried.

As various industry figures harbored their own thoughts, the lights in the rented screening room slowly dimmed, and the movie began.

Clack, clack-clack. An elderly male columnist typing away ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in a worn-out room. Jack Nicholson.

Click, click. A young male sound engineer spinning and stopping a tape reel. Sion Lee.

The film, opening with this stark contrast between the two leads, instantly drew the audience into its world.

The characters were dry and cold. The actors playing them barely showed any change in expression. Despite the contrast between Duluth, which seemed coldly isolated from reality, and the bright, glaring sun of Los Angeles, the two men were portrayed as almost identical souls.

One is fired from a long-held job for being too old. The other works through the night, barely keeping his eyes open with a single cup of coffee. Even then, his boss chews him out because the results aren't perfect. They get by on canned soup and bread for dinner. Even when a hot dog vendor forgets the mustard, they just sit down and eat anyway, simply to quiet their growling stomachs.

It was a portrait of a father and son slowly withering away, each in his own life, in his own way. Then, the son hears that his retired father's condition is strange. He acknowledges it, but he has no intention of going home or checking on him.

At this point, a question naturally arose in the minds of the audience: Why on earth did their relationship turn out like this?

The son, thoroughly avoiding any connection, pulls out the phone line because he hates getting calls from his father. Yet the father continues to pester him by using public payphones and calling neighbors. After a few slightly comedic scenes play out, the son finally returns to his hometown.

And the father, seeing his son for the first time in years, immediately barks at him without missing a beat.

A father who was somewhat strange... or perhaps, had always been strange. And a hometown that now made him feel like an outsider. Thus began their brief, uncomfortable cohabitation.

Planning to stay for just a few ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠days, Dan heads up to his second-floor bedroom. Bob follows him inside and speaks.

Ignoring the pointless nagging, the son shuts the door. The next day, he runs into a familiar face in his hometown. As he goes to a grocery store to buy canned soup, the eyes of the cashier, Mina, widen as she recognizes him.

Dan ends up sharing a cigarette with the pushy Mina in the grocery store parking lot, catching up.

Mina chuckles and asks.

Dan remains silent, offering no reply.

Standing up, Dan flicks his cigarette away.

He continues speaking in a flat, detached tone. As the camera pulls in for a tight close-up, the raw emotion he projects is enough to make the audience momentarily forget Sion Lee's stunning good looks. Deep within his cold eyes, an inexplicable emptiness and loneliness flicker simultaneously.

Mina chuckles softly and stands up as well.

For the first time since returning home, a faint glimmer of warmth touches Dan's face.

Time passes, and night falls.

The three former bandmates reunite for the first time in years at the town's only pub. Over drinks, they catch up and reminisce about the past.

In his reckless youth, Dan had been in a band. Together with his three friends, he had dreamed of one day becoming a superstar. They actually made decent music and even caught the attention of a small agency, but their parents' fierce opposition ultimately crushed their debut. The heartbreak left deep, lasting scars on Dan and his bandmates.

However, one of them—Nicole, the keyboardist—was different. She immediately left the small town for the city, where she continued to play, frequently calling her friends to tell them, "Come to the city whenever you want." They all assumed Nicole had made it big... but the reality was far grimmer.

Within a few years, Nicole died in connection with a drug-related crime. At this point in the film, the atmosphere begins to grow heavy.

"..."

"..."

They drink in silence. Their dreams had shattered in an instant, and their spirits had died with them.

A voice echoes from outside the pub. Wondering what is going on, Dan steps out only to find an irritated Bob.

Dressed in a nightgown and slippers, Bob yells in a fit of rage. Despite the bizarre sight, Dan—who had just been mourning his dead dreams with his friends—instantly wears an expression of profound disgust. He gnaws on his lip, his eyes flashing with a chilling, razor-sharp intensity. Who could possibly look at that face and believe it was directed at his own father?

Even now, Dan cannot easily unleash his fury in front of his father. The tightly suppressed emotions and the slowly accumulating anger warp into something bordering on pure hatred in an instant. Yet, to him, his father is an absolute authority he can never defy. Like a lion raised with a chain around its neck since cubhood that never dares to break free even as an adult, he is rendered completely powerless in the man's presence.

Just then, Mina approaches from behind and asks hesitantly.

Confronted with Bob mentioning a father who had already passed away, Mina realizes the truth. The strange, jarring inconsistencies she had noticed finally click together.

Early morning. Waking up, Dan asks.

Hearing this, Bob looks at Dan and replies.

Ignoring him, Dan asks again.

Dan steps away for a moment, then returns and asks.

There is no answer. Dan asks.

His father is rambling, completely incoherent. Facing him, Dan's face falls, looking as if his entire world has just collapsed.

Of course, Bob isn't completely out of his mind all the time. Except for early mornings and late nights, he manages to go about his daily life normally. The problem is always after sundown. One evening, his father suddenly vanishes. After frantically running around the neighborhood with his friends to find him, Dan spots Bob sitting at a bus stop, staring blankly at him.

Standing up, Bob shouts with an overbearing expression.

Dan ignores the insults and guides his father away. His friends watch them go, their faces filled with concern. They suggest that it might be best to send Bob to a nursing home, but since Bob stubbornly refuses, there is little Dan can do. All Dan can do is bottle up his emotions as usual and endure.

If Dan's soul had slowly died in this house, Bob's memories were now slowly dying in it.

But even Dan's capacity to endure has its limits. Having exhausted all his vacation days to care for his senile father, Dan receives an ultimatum from his company to hand off his duties to someone else and return immediately. As his professional standing plummets and the pressure mounts, Dan unleashes a silent scream of fury.

It is a desperate, impotent display of anger, like that of a helpless child. The audience deeply connects with this moment. They are reminded of their own childhoods—slamming the bedroom door in a fit of rage after a fight with their parents, only to excuse it by saying, "It was just the wind." They remember the experience of venting their immature fury in their rooms, trying to remain as quiet as possible. Watching Dan throw punches into the empty air like a mime, collapse onto his bed, and bury his face in a pillow to scream, the viewers feel his despair wash over them.

And not long after, the inevitable happens. It is the climax of the upside-down coffee cup incident, which had played out several times before.

Once again, Bob tries to pour coffee into an upside-down cup. Accustomed to this, Dan reaches out to flip the cup right-side up beforehand. But suddenly, Bob grabs Dan's hand tightly and shouts.

It is a form of protest. All this time, he had been receiving constant "consideration" from Dan. Dan would follow him all the way to the bathroom, and check if his food was too hot during meals. Recalling these moments in fleeting fragments, Bob has been fighting a silent war between the awareness of his own decay and absolute denial.

And at this very moment, it finally explodes. It is the struggle of a boy wanting to be recognized as a man, as a human being. In his old age, Bob has reverted even further into childhood. Dan, unable to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hold back today of all days, ends up in a physical struggle with him. The young son easily overpowers his aging father, and in the struggle, the cup in the father's flailing hand shatters with a sharp, piercing crash.

Flying shards of glass, blood splattering like ink.

"..."

"..."

Bob pants heavily. Blood drips from a long, vertical gash across his palm.

Groaning in pain as he stares down at his hand, he slowly turns to look at Dan, who is standing behind him, and mutters.

Once again, Dan does not answer. After all, the "father" holds all the cards.

And so, he finally admits the truth he had desperately tried to deny. As he does, his gaze drifts down to his son's palm.

It was an event from over a decade ago. A father forcibly throwing away a drum set to make his son quit the band. The young son had resisted, but he was no match for a young father in his physical prime. The father and son had fought violently, and in the process, the son's palm had been sliced open—leaving a scar identical to the wound now bleeding on the father's hand.

Watching this scene, several members of the audience recall a fact they had once heard: Alzheimer's patients often spend their remaining lives reliving the memories associated with their strongest emotions.

The reason he had kept telling his returned son to "quit the band." The reason he finally swallowed his pride and agreed to go to the hospital. It was all because... he was still violently trapped in his overwhelming guilt toward his son.