The implosion of *Starlight’s Fall* was not a quiet affair. It was a public execution.
The box office numbers that first weekend were so catastrophic they became an industry punchline by Saturday afternoon. *Variety* called it a “finely-calibrated disaster.” *The Hollywood Reporter* was less poetic, labeling it “an incoherent, star-powered vanity project that collapses under the weight of its own pretensions.” The reviews were a symphony of creative insults, each critic trying to outdo the last in describing the film’s nonsensical plot, its jarring tonal shifts, and Serena’s bizarre, overwrought performance.
From the safety of my new, sterile pre-production office in SoHo, a space Victor had provided that smelled of fresh paint and ambition, I watched the fallout like a seismologist trac
