Clark Gregg stared at Leo, the chilling persona of Jigsaw receding from his eyes, leaving behind a man stunned by the sudden finality in the room.
"Just like that?" Clark asked, his voice returning to its normal, warmer tone. "You're offering me the part?"
"I'm not offering," Leo corrected gently. "I'm insisting. You didn't just read the lines; you understood the character's soul. That's more important than any audition."
Clark looked at Rick, then back at Leo, a slow, grateful smile spreading across his face. In his heart, however, Leo knew there was more to it. He gave a professional reason, but the real one was his ace in the hole: his memory. He saw the future award-winning actor, the beloved Agent Coulson who could anchor a multi-billion-dollar franchise with his warmth and integrity. And he knew that very integrity was the secret ingredient. A monster playing Jigsaw was just a monster. A good man playing Jigsaw—a man whose inherent kindness made his philosophical cruelty a thousand times more terrifying—that was genius.
This script is a kingmaker, Leo thought, the cynical 52-year-old director assessing the board. It doesn't need a star; it creates one. Any talented actor who understands the role becomes unforgettable. For Clark Gregg, this wasn't just a job; it was a launching pad into a different stratosphere, years ahead of his original timeline.
The tension in the room broke, replaced by a celebratory energy. Rick's wife, Karen, called them to the dinner table, and the meal was a fusion of relief and excitement. Rick was the boisterous, proud host; Clark was the thoughtful artist, already asking sharp, insightful questions about Jigsaw's backstory; and Leo was the quiet center of it all, watching his new team solidify, his mind already three steps ahead, planning camera angles and lighting setups.
A week later, pre-production for Chainsaw was in full, frantic swing. Leo, on official leave from USC, had turned a cavernous, forgotten warehouse in Van Nuys into his personal workshop of horrors. Under the guidance of his friend, Sam Chen, a crew of young, hungry artisans hammered, sawed, and painted. The set for the iconic bathroom took shape day by day, its pristine white tiles meticulously aged with grime and fake rust, transforming it into a claustrophobic altar of dread.
The props, custom-made by a specialty company Rick had recommended, began to arrive. The prop master, a burly, bearded man named Gus who had been making fake knives and blood packs since the 70s, uncreated a particularly nasty-looking device from a wooden crate. He held up the complex tangle of metal and leather—the reverse bear trap—and compared it to Leo's detailed, hand-drawn schematics.
He looked at the blueprints, then at the alarmingly young director who had designed them. Gus whistled, low and long. "Kid," he said, shaking his head with a mixture of professional admiration and genuine unease. "I've worked for Cronenberg. I've worked for Carpenter. But I gotta ask... what in the hell goes on in that head of yours?"
On September 15, 1991, the set was ready. The lights hummed with power, the camera was loaded, and the $1.3 million from New Line sat waiting in a supervised account. The studio's appointed producer, a quiet, hawk-nosed veteran named Mr. Katz, stood by the craft services table, observing everything with an impassive expression. He was New Line's greatest courtesy—a promise of non-interference unless the budget started to bleed.
"Alright, people, first positions!" Leo's voice commanded, cutting through the low murmur of the crew. "Scene 1A, Take 1!"
The sharp clap of the slate echoed through the suddenly silent warehouse.
"And... ACTION!"
The shoot was a grueling, exhilarating 25-day marathon. Leo was a general on the battlefield of his own design. He knew from memory that the original 2004 film had been shot in a miraculous 18 days on a slightly smaller budget. But that film, brilliant as it was, had flaws born from its breakneck pace. Leo had the advantage of more time, more resources—actor salaries were lower in '91—and the priceless gift of hindsight.
"Cut!" he'd call. "Salma, that was good, but I need more. Forget the lines. I want to see the animal terror in your eyes when you realize the lock is real."
The young actors, unburdened by the ego of fame, were pure clay in his hands. They trusted him completely, giving him raw, visceral performances take after take. Leo would watch them, exhausted but dedicated, and think of the pampered, brand-obsessed "celebrities" he remembered from the 2020s. These people weren't stars; they were actors, and he was profoundly grateful for it.
On the final day, the set was thick with the bittersweet smell of imminent victory. They filmed the last, brutal scene.
"…and, CUT!" Leo yelled, his voice raw. He held the silence for a beat, letting the moment land. "THAT IS A WRAP!"
An explosion of cheers, whistles, and applause erupted. The crew, bonded by the shared experience, swarmed each other in hugs. Champagne corks, courtesy of Rick, popped, and the bubbly sprayed over laughing, exhausted faces.
Leo watched the celebration for a moment before walking over to Mr. Katz, who was already closing his ledger.
"Well, Mr. Katz," Leo said, a tired smile on his face. "We brought it home. What's the final damage? How much is left in the account?"
The producer adjusted his glasses and looked at the final figure, his professional mask unwavering. "Actually, Mr. Vance," he said, his tone flatly neutral. "Given the check I had to write to the prop company this morning, you're going to be surprised."