Imagine... being Orson in that scene and having to be all like "damn, Paul Masson, you fuckin' fine, all classy with your French inspired wine and horrific piss flavored swine. I would totally drink you, both my character and the real me." when all he really wants to do is crack open another ‘53 Margaux his dressing room. Like seriously imagine having to be Orson and not only sit in that chair while the Paul Masson wine is in front of you, the favorable lighting barely concealing the fermenting odor and urine color, and just sit there, take after take, hour after hour, while they perfected the take. Not only having to tolerate their nonsense but their haughty attitude as everyone on set tells them it’s STILL GOT IT and DAMN, PAUL MASSON WINE TASTES LIKE THAT?? because they're not the ones who have to sit there and drink the sour fucking concoction, a bile-like pallet you didn't even know existed before that day. You've been drinking nothing but a healthy diet of Bordeaux wine and brandy and later alleged sherry for your ENTIRE CAREER coming straight out of the boonies in France. You've never even tasted anything this fucking disgusting before, and now you swear the wine tastes like sweat that's breaking out on your forehead as the cameramen glare their lights down on you, smugly assured that you are enjoying the opportunity to get paid to sit there and revel in its "vintage dated (for that is what they’re calling it)" quality. The quality they worked so hard for with discount grape juice and baking yeast in the previous months. And then the director calls for another take, and you know you could smash a wine bottle on the table in front of you and kill every single person in this room before the studio security could put you down, but you sit there and endure, because you're Orson fucking Welles. You're not going to lose your future transformers career over this. Just bear it. Hide your face and bear it.