raknovel Chapter 159 Drive-in Cinema
Chapter 159 Drive-in Cinema
Chapter 159 Drive-in Cinema
After a unique day trip to Washington, D.C., Qin Han and Fred finally returned to the bright sunshine of the West Coast.
Even after the plane had landed smoothly, Fred's chubby hands were still gripping the seatbelt buckles tightly, the veins on the back of his hands standing out.
"call"
It wasn't until the sweet "Welcome to Los Angeles" announcement came over the intercom that he breathed a sigh of relief, like someone who had just been rescued from drowning, and turned to look at Qin Han, who was calmly adjusting his suit cuffs.
"If you were sitting in my office yesterday morning and told me that boarding a Boeing aircraft involved a gunfight, a hijacking, and even nearly crashing into the White House—"
Fred swallowed hard, his voice still trembling with a hint of relief: "I swear, I'll treat you like a drunken lunatic and have security throw you out of Burbank Studios."
Qin Han reached for the coat hanging on the hook, smiled, and patted Fred on the shoulder: "But you have to admit, Fred, reality is often a million times more exciting than a script you can write sitting in an air-conditioned room."
The value of this research trip is immeasurable. Just think, while the entire American public is still reeling from yesterday's near-disaster, and while politicians in the White House are still scrambling to deal with the tapes and the issue of heroism—"
"A movie trailer that perfectly fits reality and is visually spectacular suddenly appeared in their field of vision."
"This story is no longer science fiction, but reality that is happening right now." Qin Han stood up and walked towards the cabin exit: "I will write the first draft as soon as possible. Tell Ted Ashley to get Warner Bros.' production machine fully prepared for a new box office tsunami."
Upon hearing this, Fred's tightly furrowed brows finally relaxed.
Yes, what's a little panic?
For Hollywood right now, public panic is the ultimate source of traffic and endless money!
"I'm going back to the studio right now!" Fred's chubby cheeks trembled slightly, and a burning desire rekindled in his eyes. "Ted needs to know all this immediately. Funding, marketing, theater scheduling—as long as your script is ready, Warner Bros. will make way for this movie instantly!"
An hour and a half later, on Sunset Boulevard.
The afterglow of the setting sun bathed the Sunset Tower in a dazzling dark gold.
This art building, which has witnessed countless golden ages of Hollywood, has now become the heart of Hans Film Studios.
Qin Han pushed open the double doors to the office. The main light was off; only a dim, yellow floor lamp cast a halo of light.
Behind a mountain of files, Michael Ovitz's hands pounded furiously on the typewriter.
His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, his collar was open, and his hair was a mess like a bird's nest—he looked exactly like a lone wolf fighting desperately for territory.
Hearing the door open, Michael abruptly raised his head. His bloodshot eyes slumped as he recognized the person who entered.
"Boss, if you had come back a day later, I might have died of a sudden accident in the office."
Michael tore the paper off the typewriter and casually threw it into the wastepaper basket next to him.
"It seems you haven't been idle during the few dozen hours I was away." Qin Han took off his coat and hung it on the coat rack, then poured his beloved general a glass of ice water.
"Free time? I wish I could stretch every minute into two!"
Michael walked around from behind his desk, downed the glass of ice water in one gulp, then picked up the thick stack of documents next to him and slammed them onto the coffee table with a "thud".
"The meeting with Martin Scorsese has been finalized. Disney's 'white glove' agreement."
I've already obtained the production team's charter and even the guardianship authorization letter for that child star named Jodie Foster.
""
Michael rubbed his throbbing temples and reported at a rapid pace.
Qin Han opened the folder, glanced at it, and nodded in satisfaction.
Ovitz's execution ability is beyond doubt; as long as you give him direction, he is definitely a master at getting things done.
"Well done, Michael." He closed the file. "Now, the only problem is the last piece of the puzzle."
A flicker of annoyance crossed Michael's face: "Paul Schrader. The homeless screenwriter you specifically asked for."
He pulled another fax sheet from the table and handed it to Qin Han, his voice tinged with annoyance: "Lorna's paparazzi are really something else; they sent the news yesterday afternoon. That guy is now—living in his car."
"Lorna's people discovered that he has been appearing at a drive-in movie theater in the San Fernando Valley every evening recently."
"I haven't reached out to him yet. After all, to go to a place like that and talk about a million-dollar film project with a homeless man whose mental state is extremely unstable—I need you to be there to keep things under control."
"Drive-in theaters in the San Fernando Valley—" Qin Han folded the fax paper in his hand and stuffed it into his pocket. "Grab your car keys, Michael. Let's go now."
As evening fell, an ordinary-looking black Ford drove off Hollywood Boulevard and plunged into the San Fernando Valley along the winding road.
There are no dazzling neon lights like in downtown Los Angeles, only dim streetlights and the occasional fast food restaurant sign flashing by.
Half an hour later, a huge open-air movie screen appeared in front of us.
Below the curtain is a vast dirt square, marked out with parking spaces by rows of simple wooden stakes.
The air was filled with the creamy smell of popcorn, the strong smell of gasoline, and a kind of indescribable heat.
The sun hadn't completely set yet, but the entire square was already densely packed with all kinds of cars.
From muscle cars to dilapidated pickup trucks, they lurked like steel beetles in the gradually dimming light.
Michael rolled down the car window and coughed twice, choked by the polluted air outside.
He looked disdainfully at the rusty car doors around him and couldn't help but complain, "Boss, I really can't understand why so many people are willing to spend 50 cents to park their cars in a dusty ditch and watch a tattered screen that can't even be in focus in this day and age when televisions are commonplace?"
"Because it's cheap, Michael."
Qin Han's voice echoed in the quiet carriage: "The quagmire of the Vietnam War has just ended, and inflation has deprived many young people of the means to party in bars."
He pointed to the vehicles outside: "For 50 cents, a cheap used car becomes their private property."
"Here, they can escape reality, avoid their parents' scolding, and even—"
Qin Han did not continue speaking, because the Ford had slowly driven into the last row of the square.
In an extremely inconspicuous corner, there was an old black Dodge sedan parked.
The paint has peeled off badly, revealing brown rust underneath. The right-side rearview mirror is fixed to the door with gray tape.
After comparing the license plate number with the one Luo Na gave me, this is the car.
Michael parked the car and reached for the door: "I'll go and call him down."
"Wait." Qin Han grabbed Michael's arm. "Don't disturb our genius yet."
"Observe the current situation of your prey; this is the most basic quality of a hunter."
Although Michael was a little impatient, he patiently sat down again.
Just then, several headlights in the entire drive-in movie theater plaza went out with a "snap".
A projection beam lit up the huge screen, and accompanied by the click-clack of an old-fashioned projector, the opening credits of a movie appeared.
Qin Han glanced casually at the curtain, and his expression instantly froze.
Accompanied by a burst of rough electronic synth music, two white men and women appeared directly in the frame—they were naked.
Loud breathing sounds blared across the square through the loudspeakers next to each parking space.
This is hardly a legitimate movie! It's a poorly made film that skirts the line of "restricted" content and is practically an adult movie!
"This is fucking—" Michael's eyes widened, and he almost couldn't catch his breath.
As the movie reached its most outrageous climax, the cars in the drive-in theater plaza began to resonate in a strange way.
The red Chevrolet muscle car on the left was making a "creaking" sound from its shock absorbers, and the car body began to sway up and down rhythmically.
A dull thud came from the cargo bed of the Ford pickup truck ahead, which was covered in mud.
On the right, a Volkswagen Beetle's window was quickly covered with a thick layer of white condensation, and two blurry figures were writhing wildly.
The intermittent creaking of springs, accompanied by the languid music emanating from the loudspeakers, coalesced into a magical symphony belonging to the American underclass of the 1970s.
Qin Han was completely dumbfounded.
In his previous life, he had heard snippets about "drive-in theater culture" in countless American sociological documentaries.
What "breeding ground for hormones" and "factory for baby boomers"?
Those cold, hard words are far less direct and impactful than the scene before my eyes.
Behind this seemingly prosperous country, in the shadows where the sun doesn't reach, the most primal human desires and the desire to escape reality are laid bare.
He turned to look at the old black Dodge: it was probably the only one of all the vehicles present, besides his own, that wasn't shaking.
After more than an hour, the R-rated movie finally ended amidst a sea of white noise.
The curtain went dark again, and a few dim, yellowish venue lights came back on.
The surrounding cars rolled down their windows, and the glow of cigarettes lit by lighters flickered in each car.
"Wait for me in the car, let me borrow your cigarettes for a bit." Qin Han opened the car door, took the cigarettes Michael handed him, and walked towards the black car.
He raised his hand and gently knocked three times on the car window: "Knock, knock, knock."
With a "click," the car door was pushed open very roughly.
A nauseating odor wafted towards us.
Qin Han frowned slightly, his gaze sweeping across the interior of the carriage.
The passenger seat was piled high with crumpled tissues; several Coca-Cola plastic bottles filled with pale yellow liquid were scattered on the floor mats; the dashboard and the crevices of the seats were littered with cigarette butts burned down to their filters and empty cigarette packs.
In the center of this garbage dump sat a man.
He was wearing a plaid shirt whose original color was no longer recognizable, his hair was tangled like weeds, and his thick beard almost covered most of his face.
Those eyes, hidden beneath the disheveled hair, were like those of a wild beast driven to the brink of despair, filled with extreme obsession.
Paul Schrader, the legendary screenwriter of Taxi Driver, is now living like a rat in a sewer, barely recognizable as human.
"What do you want to do?" His voice was incredibly hoarse, and his right hand was gripping a rusty tire wrench.
Qin Han ignored the other party's hostility, stood outside the car door, lit a cigarette and handed it over: "This kind of cramped space can indeed make people feel the despair of a marginalized person, which is suitable for creation."
Paul's hand gripping the tire wrench froze, his muscles tensing instantly as he stared intently at the well-dressed man before him.
Young Chinese people who feel out of place here.
"Who are you? Who sent you?" His breathing became rapid.
Unemployment, illness, and a broken wedding—these experiences have completely severed his ties with the Hollywood circle.
In that dilapidated car, he wrote day and night the story of the taxi driver named Travis, pouring all his despair and violence into the paper.
The story is still missing an ending, and he hasn't revealed to anyone that he's still writing the script!
How did this Asian person who suddenly appeared know this?
Facing Paul's murderous gaze, Qin Han pulled out a business card from his pocket and handed it over: "Han's Film Industry, Qin Han".
Paul's gaze fell on the words "Han's Film Company," and his lips twitched violently.
He suddenly turned around and frantically searched through a pile of waste paper and empty bottles.
A moment later, he pulled out a crumpled copy of the Los Angeles Times.
The headline in the entertainment section was Lorna Barrett's report on the listing ceremony of Hans Films.
In the photo, the young Chinese man standing under the spotlight perfectly overlaps with the man standing in the darkness.
"Look," Qin Han ignored Paul's shock, "you've locked yourself in this iron cage full of excrement and garbage, refusing to communicate with anyone, pretending that you've abandoned the world."
"But you still have newspapers about the latest developments in Hollywood on hand."
"Admit it, Paul. You haven't given up at all. You crave for them to see your talent, and you crave to trample those who rejected you underfoot."
"You must really want to come back, right?"
Paul's body began to tremble uncontrollably.
The newspaper clearly displayed Hans Films' manifesto: "To be a conduit for talent" and "To provide a stage for truly talented grassroots creators to realize their dreams."
The report also mentioned the down-on-his-luck muscleman named Sylvester Stallone and a poor schoolteacher from Maine.
They were all dug out of the mud by this person.
Now, he stood before him.
But—how did he know I was writing a script? Could it really be, as the newspapers claimed, that this Chinese man was a prophet with witchcraft?
"I have a very important meeting at Sunset Tower tomorrow morning at ten o'clock." Qin Han straightened up, giving Paul no time to catch his breath or think: "The other party in the meeting is Martin Scorsese."
He took out a $100 bill and clipped it to the car window: "If you want to come, use this money to find a motel, take a good shower, and buy some clean clothes."
Then, he turned and walked toward his Ford: "Be prepared to go back on the red carpet, or stay stuck in this mud forever."
.