RPAGF Chapter 136 The "God-Making" Plan
Chapter 136 The "God-Making" Plan
Chapter 136 The "God-Making" Plan
On Wednesday afternoon, the sun, having shed its heat, shone through the thick oak canopy of Beverly Hills onto the driveway of Charlie Chaplin's private residence.
Here you won't hear the roar of sports car engines on Hollywood Boulevard, nor will you feel the suffocating pressure of the world of fame and fortune.
Ivy covered the red brick exterior wall, as if even the flow of time slowed down in front of the mansion's gate.
Qin Han was led by an elderly butler through a corridor filled with black and white stills from the film and into a bright, spacious sunroom.
"Come on, young man, we're all waiting for you."
Inside the sunroom, several elderly people with gray hair were sitting around a wicker round table. Charlie Chaplin put down his teacup, smiled, and waved to Qin Han.
Beside this comedy king, who had just returned to the Oscars, sat several old men who would never have appeared in public before.
Dalton Trumbo, a once-highest-paid screenwriter who was imprisoned for refusing to compromise with the Committee on Un-American Activities, is now sipping a black slim pipe and enjoying his favorite Turkish tobacco.
Besides Trumbo, there's also Lin Radner, who won an Oscar for "Small Town Celebrity" and was also blacklisted for many years.
They were once leaders in the industry, but at the height of their careers, they were infamously blacklisted by Hollywood.
Dragging them into the abyss.
"Good afternoon, seniors. I am Qin Han."
7
Qin Han stepped forward, without the arrogance of a Hollywood upstart or the restraint one would show when facing a legendary figure. His posture conveyed the unique composure and humility of an Easterner.
Trump exhaled a puff of smoke and looked the young man up and down.
For twenty years, his life of writing screenplays under a pseudonym in the shadows gave him an almost instinctive intuition about the hypocrisy and good and evil of human nature—at least, Qin Han did not arouse his natural aversion.
He shifted his body slightly in the wicker chair and nodded a little, which was a gesture of acceptance of the young man's joining.
The butler brought over a steaming cup of Ceylon tea, and Qin Han sat down in the empty seat opposite Chaplin.
"Young man, you've read this report too, haven't you? Look at the faces of these Washington politicians." Trump's thin fingers pounded the Washington Post on the table.
The front page prominently featured the official White House press release—"Oscar Horror: Just Ten Minutes Away from Destruction! Deadly C4"
Explosives nearly destroyed Hollywood.
"International extremist organization? What high-sounding political rhetoric." Another veteran screenwriter sneered, "Lorna Barrett just revealed a few days ago that Japanese right-wing militants were infiltrating Los Angeles, and then this huge thing happens at the Oscars. Anyone with a brain full of shit can guess who these people trying to send the whole theater flying!"
These elderly intellectuals, who had experienced persecution, felt a deep disgust and contempt for Washington's tricks of playing word games to whitewash the situation.
"They'll never stop burying their heads in the sand. They don't even have the courage to point out the killer's nationality in order to protect those parasites on Capitol Hill." Trump took a vicious drag on his cigarette, his eyes full of contempt.
Chaplin leaned back in his chair, his eyes, which had seen through the ways of the world, looked across the table and landed on Qin Han.
"However, when I was at the hospital for physical therapy yesterday, I overheard something different from what I was hearing from a casual conversation among some Warner executives," he said with a smile.
All the elderly people's eyes turned to him.
"It is said that the security company that dug out those C4 explosives under the theater that night was dominated by Chinese."
The sharp-eyed veteran screenwriters immediately made a connection.
They all turned their heads at the same time and focused their gaze on the only Chinese person present.
Feeling the sudden concentration of gazes around him, Qin Han put down his teacup and calmly met Trump's gaze: "These days, it really isn't easy for Chinese people working in security."
His voice was completely calm: "I was originally paid just to protect myself from thieves and paparazzi, but in the end, I had to defuse bombs for those intelligence officers who were paid high salaries and sat in air-conditioned rooms."
"I think Washington should really give them a special allowance, preferably in cash, so they don't have to pay taxes."
The elderly couple looked at each other and then burst into hearty laughter.
"Hahaha! Well said! Those idiots in Washington really do owe them a huge sum of money!" Trump laughed so hard he coughed repeatedly, his wrinkles completely smoothing out.
He raised his coffee cup and made a gesture of respect to Qin Han from afar.
This tacit answer unlocked the tightly closed hearts of these old-fashioned intellectuals.
They didn't need to see any official documents; the way he casually disregarded life and death was enough to confirm the young man's identity: he was the unsung hero who had saved everyone in the darkness.
The atmosphere became incredibly harmonious, and once the barriers were broken down, the conversation became increasingly enjoyable.
"Actually, the reason I've come to visit you all today is not only to express my respect, but also to seek your help." Qin Han put away his smile and got to the point of his visit.
"All of you seniors have watched Hollywood grow step by step. You know better than I do that the old studio system was already terminally ill."
Trump snorted, clearly agreeing with Qin Han's words.
"Han's Film Studio doesn't want to be a garbage factory." Qin Han's gaze swept sincerely across the faces of each of the elderly men: "We need true creators, we need minds that can use words to dissect human nature and shake the soul. I sincerely invite you all to come out of retirement and cooperate with Han's Film Studio."
The elderly people looked at each other.
Although they were tempted, twenty years of suppression had taught them to be cautious; they had seen too many producers who made empty promises.
Seeing the hesitant crowd, Qin Han opened the briefcase he had brought with him and took out a thick stack of manuscripts.
"To prove Hans's vision and sincerity, you might want to take a look at this." He pushed the manuscript in front of Trumbo: "This is a novel that I just bought out for a high price from a rural schoolteacher in Maine."
With the mindset of checking a junior's homework, Trump casually turned to the first page.
However, after reading for less than five minutes, the old man, who had read countless top-notch scripts, even changed his posture.
He straightened up completely, having been leaning back in his chair, and was completely unaware that the tobacco in his pipe had gone out.
Stephen King's pen is like a scalpel, dissecting bit by bit the desperate world of this marginalized girl named Carrie.
They gradually awaken amidst school violence and religious fanaticism, ultimately heading towards destruction and madness.
The desperate struggle of being isolated by the whole world made him see himself in Carrie, who was covered in blood, and he saw the shadows of all the screenwriters present who were persecuted by the "blacklist" and abandoned by the whole of Hollywood!
"Snap!" Chaplin had just finished his cup of black tea and put the cup back on the table.
The sound of the glass hitting the glass jolted Trumbo awake. He grabbed Qin Han's wrist: "Genius—this is absolutely genius! This isn't just a horror story; it's a bloody indictment of the system and hypocrisy! Where is this Stephen King? I have to see him!"
Qin Han looked at Trump's fanatical state and a smile appeared on his lips.
"Mr. Stephen King is currently dealing with some minor matters in Maine. However, I've already extended an invitation to him, and he'll be moving to Hollywood soon." He reassured him, "I'll definitely arrange a meeting for you then."
"So, Mr. Trumbo, are you interested in personally taking charge of this project and turning it into a great screenplay?"
""
"I accept!" Trumbo said without hesitation, clutching the manuscript tightly to his chest. "No one but me can touch this script!"
"Letting those studio idiots who only know how to write happy endings rewrite it is a desecration of this masterpiece!"
The doubts in the eyes of the other veteran screenwriters vanished when they saw Trumbo's possessive manner.
The story that could make Dalton Trumbo lose his composure like that is an absolute rarity.
As afternoon tea drew to a close, after receiving Qin Han's assurances regarding script credits and generous compensation, the veteran screenwriters, filled with long-lost passion and anticipation for the future, took their leave one after another.
In the sunroom, only Qin Han and Charlie Chaplin remained.
This superstar, who spent his life satirizing reality with humor and wit, now put away his relaxed demeanor, his eyes revealing a moving solemnity.
"Qin, those old guys only saw the surface-level work of defusing the bomb, but I know what that means."
The old man, who had lived through two world wars, deeply understood the fear that humanity felt when facing such weapons: "In such situations, without immense courage and meticulous planning, it was impossible to escape unscathed."
The old man bowed slightly, saluting the young man who was half a century younger than him: "You did a great thing, not only saving more than two thousand lives in the theater, but also preserving the dignity of Hollywood. If the theater had been reduced to ruins, it might have taken American film culture decades to recover from that fear."
Qin Han readily accepted the praise from this legendary figure: "Mr. Chaplin, I simply did what I had to do."
Han's Pictures has its roots in Hollywood; this is my battlefield. No one can harm my friends or my business here.
"I understand, but that doesn't stop me from giving the green light to younger generations I admire." Chaplin looked at the energetic young man with approving eyes.
"Since you admire Han's Film Studio so much, why not get involved? In future projects, I hope to have the honor of inviting you to make a cameo appearance in some of our works, even if it's just for a few minutes."
Charlie Chaplin made a cameo appearance in a Chinese-led film after decades away from the big screen!
This is a super Easter egg that will bring tears to the eyes of all movie fans!
Looking at this talented and courageous young man, Chaplin seemed to see himself in his younger days, holding a cane, penniless, yet daring to defy the whole world.
After a while, a radiant smile bloomed on the old man's face.
"Young man, you really know how to give me a hard time." He leaned on his cane, slowly walked around the desk, and extended his right hand, which was covered with age spots.
"If that script can move me as much as it does today, I promise you, I'll find that bowler hat again and wear it once more."
A promise that transcends time; their hands clasped tightly together.
Leaving Beverly Hills, Qin Han slammed on the gas, and the red sports car headed straight for Lorna Barrett's radio station.
Lorna was pacing anxiously back and forth in front of the row of recording equipment, her arms crossed.
Her hair was a little messy, unlike her usual perfectly styled big waves.
-
Seeing Qin Han walk in, she immediately went to greet him: "Qin, my follow-up report has been sent out. As per your request, there is not a single word about 'Japanese' or 'Chinese security personnel'."
"Very well, but now we need to use some underhanded tactics." Qin Han took off his coat and tossed it onto the sofa. "We need a storm. A storm that can completely ignite public sentiment."
"Prepare a special episode. Use your best interview format, in the most sensational gossip style. The topic is: The Inside Story of the Oscars: What really happened that night?"
Lorna's eyes lit up instantly, her gossip queen blood boiling: "A dual-track system? Outwardly compliant, but secretly having someone stir up trouble?"
"That's right, I've already found the guest for this episode."
"Who?"
"Ted Ashley, president of Warner Bros.; and Sidney Sinberg, executive vice president of Universal Pictures."
Luo Na stared at Qin Han in disbelief: "Are you crazy? Inviting these two arch-enemies to the same live broadcast studio? They'll tear down my radio station!"
"Besides, how could people of their status possibly be willing to participate in this kind of gossip show full of conspiracy theories?"
"They will come, and they will cooperate perfectly." Qin Han chuckled, rubbing his index finger and thumb together as if counting money. "First of all, I am their savior, and they should repay me for this favor; more importantly, participating in this program is helping them make money."
He walked up to Lorna, leaned close to her ear, and whispered, "In the program, your questions need to be sharp and leading enough."
"Let them 'inadvertently let slip' when recalling that night, implying to the audience that the official press release is lying."
"The one who truly defused the bomb in the dark and wiped out the terrorists at Long Beach Harbor was a mysterious force proficient in Chinese Kung Fu."
Luo Na instantly understood Qin Han's meaning: "Which movie is about to be released? 'Fist of Fury' or 'Enter the Dragon'?"
It must be "Fist of Fury," the editing and dubbing for "Enter the Dragon" isn't finished yet.
Qin Han looked at the intelligent woman and nodded: "What do Americans like most these days? Of course, it's conspiracy theories about governments hiding the truth, lone heroes, and mysterious Eastern powers."
"When these two most powerful figures in Hollywood inadvertently confirm this speculation on the radio, the entire American public will be swept up in a frenzy."
"On the day 'Fist of Fury' was released, they didn't go to see a movie, they went on a pilgrimage!"