“You believe this is the center of the world? Hollywood, the lights, the studios, the contracts. You make people crawl, give them crumbs, and call them opportunities. You steal their dignity and call it success.”
Marilyn lowered her gaze. Something in her eyes suggested she understood every word.
“I filmed forty-seven movies in Mexico, in Spain, in France, in Argentina. I worked with Buñuel, with Renoir, with Fernández—real artists, not manufacturers of plastic dreams.”
She looked directly at Weinstock.
“And I earned more money than most of your stars without signing a single contract here.”
“That’s impossible,” someone murmured.
“In Europe, I am paid two hundred thousand dollars per film—more than any actress in this room. Do you know why? Because I do not need Hollywood. Hollywood needs me—or rather, the idea of me. The unattainable woman. The star who said no.”
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