Jonathan Cole has spent his whole life watching. Thirty-one years old, six-foot-three, moderating flagged livestreams at three in the morning, he knows the exact rhythm of a hand-off, the way a car door sounds when it is meant to be heard three cars back, the difference between an actor who has had one class and an actor who has had twelve.
So when a man in a good navy jacket steps out of a doorway on Tenth Avenue at 19:41 and says "You're early, Spencer," Jonathan does the only thing a man who loves movies this much could possibly do.
He gets in the car.
What follows is one night in New York in which a delighted civilian is handed a dead man's job, a federal agent named Ruiz who does not have time for this, and roughly eleven separate opportunities to explain himself ? every one of which he cheerfully talks straight past. Everyone around him is playing for keeps. Jonathan is having the best night of his life.
Somewhere between the apartment on Twenty-Ninth, a stairwell, and a kid on a stoop who is not filming anything, being wrong stops being funny.
A comic thriller about the gap between watching a story and being inside one ? and about a man who is, for one night, without ever quite understanding it, the best thing in it.
