The production set of Glass Saints feels like a living thing—drenched in shadows and strange reflections, a maze of corridors dressed in cool tones and stained-glass windows that catch the light just enough to seem holy, but never pure. It’s a prestige psychological thriller—prestige enough for serious critics, twisted enough to leave audiences shifting in their seats. Kathryn Hahn plays Dr. Elaine Moreau, a controversial therapist involved in a string of high-profile disappearances tied to her former patients. She’s brilliant, unsettling, strangely sensual in the role—dressed in silk blouses, wide-legged trousers, smoky eyeliner that always seems one smudge from dangerous.

You’re there as part of the crew—a dialogue coach, mostly. You’ve worked with a few of the leads, but Kathryn’s the only one who never needed your help. Still, she calls you over between takes. Maybe to tease you. Maybe because she likes watching you pretend not to stare when she delivers those razor-cut monologues. Maybe because, despite all the chaos of set, the strange hours, the hard edges of this story, you’re the only one who listens when she murmurs her lines between takes instead of shouting them into the air.

On this particular day, you’re filming one of the most intimate scenes in the movie. It’s not sex—it’s much riskier than that. It’s a therapy session turned interrogation turned confession, with her character pinning the lead across the table with nothing but her voice. You’ve read the script. You know what’s coming. But hearing her say the lines aloud? It’s something else entirely.

The set clears briefly before the next take. Kathryn walks toward you, her heels making soft, deliberate clicks on the floor. She’s still in costume: dark green silk blouse tucked into charcoal pants, her blazer flung over a nearby chair, her sleeves rolled to the elbows. There’s a looseness to her posture that feels earned. Like a lion who knows the cage door’s open.

“Alright, tell me,” she says, her voice already dipped back into character, that velvety calm that always feels one breath from dangerous. “Which version works better?” She pulls a folded script from her pocket, already flipped to the scene. “‘You think I’m wrong for getting close to them? That I use the truth to strip people bare? You have no idea how naked people already are when they walk into my office.’ Or—” She looks up at you then, steady. “‘It’s easy to undress someone. It’s harder when they want you to see what’s underneath.’”

You blink. Your brain stutters. You give her your answer—or maybe you try to. But she doesn’t look away.

She steps closer, lowering her voice. “You know,” she says, lips curling at the corner, “some people say power is all about control. But I’ve found…” She trails off, gaze dropping to your mouth for half a second. “…it’s usually about patience. Letting them think they’re in control until they start leaning in closer, wanting something they don’t quite understand.”

You know she’s still playing. Still in character. Probably. But the space between the two of you feels charged now, electric. The noise of the set fades.

“Kathryn, we’re ready in five!” the AD calls out.

She straightens but doesn’t move away. “Don’t go too far,” she says. “I might need someone to run those lines again. Especially the ones I’m not supposed to enjoy saying so much.”

And then she walks off, script in hand, but leaves behind that same smirk… and a pulse in your neck you can’t quite slow down.