Chapter 30: Only the Face, That's All

If one decides to go into the film and television industry, then one has to consider whether to be on-screen or behind-the-scenes.

Behind-the-scenes work also has its professional threshold.

Sound recording, cinematography, color grading, depth of field, lighting, composition, directing and editing — these skills do require some talent, but without a solid theoretical foundation, one won't get far. Let alone stepping onto the Hollywood stage.

As for those web-novel transmigration entertainment stories he'd read before transmigrating — the idea of submitting a screenplay to attract the attention of a film company and thereby break into the industry — it's not that no one has succeeded, but the odds are slim.

For one thing, most Hollywood screenplays already exist. Some have been around for ten or twenty years before getting their chance to be filmed.

Then the screenplays get revised again and again, until they're completely unrecognizable, and no one can tell what the original work looked like.

Take the highly acclaimed 1994 film Forrest Gump — the original was actually a political satire novel.

Not to mention anything else, just the fact that an idiot with an IQ below the normal standard could be involved in so many major historical events and end up becoming a millionaire — if that's not mockery, then what is?

This is basically slapping every normal American in the face with an ultimate move. It's missing only one famous line: "I'm not targeting anyone in particular — I'm saying every single one of you Americans is trash!"

But in the end, the film that came out became an inspirational work, and was even regarded as a representative piece of the 90s American Dream.

If the degree of revision to that screenplay were described in human terms, it wouldn't be makeup or plastic surgery — it would be a direct head swap. It's just that this new head also has two eyes, one nose, and one mouth, that's all.

So submitting screenplays, waiting for film companies to come begging to buy them, or paving the way to become a director — that route won't work.

The only path with a chance of working similarly is B-grade horror films, or crude comedy films. This type of movie is the only one that doesn't have screenplays sitting in the major studios' "pending production" libraries.

But whether it's horror or comedy, the screenplay isn't the most important thing — what matters is the director's style of expression.

In other words, to enter the industry through this route, the stepping stone is first having one work, and then a good creative idea, before one can attract a film company to invest in making one a director.

Fine. Henry had indeed spent over two months watching classic films, but he didn't think that just by watching, he could turn himself into a James Cameron — a director who transitioned from being a truck driver.

Does one really think that watching a fish swim upstream can turn oneself into a great man?

So his best chance was still to go the on-screen route — that is, become an actor. At least the first threshold of this profession is just having a face.

And precisely because the threshold is so low, there are huge numbers of people in the industry. The opportunity distributed to each individual is lower than the probability of standing in an open field on a rainy day waiting to be struck by lightning.

This is also why all kinds of unspoken rules and casting couches run rampant. It's because everyone wants to boost their chances of success even a little.

As long as he doesn't aspire to become a superstar, using the income from crab-fishing work as support, treating hanging around various crews and being an extra as a hobby, and doing some knowledge or nostalgia games in daily life — this kind of life should be pretty comfortable, right?

As the saying goes, "he who has no desires is strong." Not seeking to become an Oscar-winning Best Actor, not forcing himself to chase wealth like those Jewish guys. He's just a salted fish who wants to live an easy life — that shouldn't be too hard, right?

The biggest difficulty of "Happy America, shootings every day" is nothing more than niggers and doped-up hippies waving guns around everywhere.

He has a Kryptonian physique — a born bulletproof body — meaning he stands firmly in an invincible position.

As for the mutant problem, whether that cosmic family-planning committee that may or may not be planning to collect the Infinity Stones exists, and whether there's a Celestial embryo in the Earth's core — those aren't any big deal.

In any case, as long as he stays away from the center of the universe — New York — his life safety goes up another notch.

Even if the purple potato really does gather the seven Dragon Balls… six Infinity Stones.

Whether he's embracing a compassionate mood, hoping that half the universe's population will disappear so the remaining people can have more resources to distribute; or whether he simply wants to send a lot of people to their deaths to please "Death," one of the five major creation gods.

No matter what mood he's in, after one snap of the fingers, the probability of him turning to ash is fifty percent.

If he lives, of course, no problem. If he dies… what big deal could there be? He's already dead, what the hell is there to be afraid of.

Everyone fears the snap, but if you really think about it, it's not that scary.

Compared to dying suddenly in an accident, what should be more painful is being tormented by illness, lingering in a half-dead state.

But the latter situation, compared to his later experiences at the Russian research institute, doesn't seem like much.

Back then, those guys in white coats forced him to endure the limits — there wasn't a single part of his body that wasn't within the scope of their experiments. To say he was covered in wounds would not be an exaggeration.

If they were given a little more opportunity, the torture methods would probably be upgraded — today they cut off a leg, tomorrow they saw off an arm. Whenever they got bored of playing, they'd slice him up into specimens…

So Henry truly doesn't think the snap is any big deal — for him, at least.

He has no attachments in this world to speak of. If Thanos wipes out half the universe's population, what would he have to feel bad about?

Whoever wants to be a superhero, let them go do it themselves. He just wants to lie low and live his days, happy and carefree, living according to his own mood.

Rather than being bitter and resentful all day, worrying about where something exploded, where people died, where someone got robbed, where a toilet is clogged.

These things! The responsibility is not mine at all!

That he's not going dark, not thinking about destroying the world, is already pretty good. At least when those damn Russians reshuffle next year and the red empire collapses, Henry never thought about joining in.

Could he gain any advantage from that big show?

Robbery?

Holy shit! He's a Kryptonian — if he really wanted to rob, anytime, any target would do. No need to consult an almanac for an auspicious day.

If he really had the mind to, tomorrow he'd just cover his face and take a trip to the Federal Reserve's vault. After coming out, he'd just heat-vision melt the gold — no one could tell where the gold came from.

Reselling goods for the price difference?

That's just earning hard money — could earning a bit make him so rich he won't have to worry about food and clothing for three lifetimes?

Using exchange rate differences to acquire assets of the red empire to make money?

To play that game, one needs substantial capital. His measly little stash would be better off just going straight to robbery.

As for seeking revenge on those white coats from back then — that kind of thinking is even more ridiculous.

Not to mention the sea of people — how could he find his targets just by face alone?

For the next several years, for the majority of Russian common people, there will only be suffering. So if he goes through all the trouble of finding them, is he helping them find release?

Even if they really do find their chance amid the chaos and rise to the top, taking revenge then — how could that be considered too late?

The two most painful things in life are nothing more than: a person is about to die, but the money hasn't been spent yet; and the person isn't dead yet, but the money is already spent.

When the time comes, those white coats who have a grudge with him, having finally endured their way to the top amid the chaos, and then he shows up to deliver an "this is where it ends" — wouldn't that be more interesting than going to find them now?

Death is not necessarily punishment; living can also be hell.

New book seeks follows, bookmarks, recommendations — thanks~~



(End of chapter)