Kapitel 4: Chapter 4 How many geniuses are buried in Hollywood
Whether it's this lifetime's Murphy or the former self, both come from extremely ordinary families, living a humble or even impoverished life since childhood, which made him understand early on that opportunities don't just fall from the sky; they must be sought after. In the entertainment industry, countless people are willing to compete fiercely for a chance to succeed.
Even if Bruce Berman said "NO," Murphy didn't completely give up hope. Opportunities like working on the sequel to "The Matrix" were extremely rare.
The office was quiet as outer space. Despite only a few seconds passing since Bruce Berman's rejection, Murphy felt an unusually long time. His thoughts raced as fast as the most advanced computer, trying to make a final appeal.
"Mr. Berman, Mr. Miller," Murphy steadied himself, seemingly oblivious to the piercing gazes across from him, and earnestly said, "Internship... is it possible?"
After the most difficult words escaped his mouth, the rest flowed smoothly. "Many people are willing to work in unpaid positions to become familiar with an industry. I am willing too."
For the sake of the future, Murphy had set his bottom line very low.
But Bruce Berman chuckled, "I won't hire someone who invades privacy and harms others."
His tone was very flat, devoid of any emotional color, yet oddly grating.
Murphy's hands clenched tightly. If this were in prison, the chubby man in front of him would be rolling on the ground clutching his stomach in agony within three seconds. But this wasn't prison; the rules there didn't apply here.
He had already injured a British director. If he injured another famous producer, perhaps no one in the entire film industry would hire him.
Taking a deep breath, Murphy said no more and turned to leave the office.
With that, there was no need to continue. Even if he tried harder, such opportunities wouldn't land on his lap.
Exiting the office area, Murphy looked up at the sunny sky but couldn't see where his future lay. It was impossible not to feel dejected just now, but he quickly brushed it off.
After all, this was Hollywood, where countless dreamers and talented individuals flocked, yet only a few managed to rise. Most ended up quietly exiting the stage or becoming part of the vast bottom layer of this circle after wearing out their youth and time.
How many geniuses were buried in Hollywood? Perhaps only God knew.
The best opportunity had slipped away just like that. Murphy felt somewhat disheartened. His predecessor had left him an absolute mess to deal with.
As he contemplated his next steps, Murphy walked towards the Warner Bros. Studios gate. Passing by the entrance to a studio, he nearly collided with a woman coming from the opposite direction.
"Hey, what are you doing?"
A crisp female voice rang out, pointing to another curvaceous woman standing beside her, "You almost ran into Miss Monica. Aren't you going to apologize?"
Murphy halted, turned to look, and the woman opposite him seemed familiar. Even if it wasn't on the movie screen, he could still recognize her at a glance—Monica Bellucci, the famous Italian actress.
The woman stood there, looking coldly at him. She lightly tapped his shoulder, which Murphy had brushed against, as if just passing by, leaving it tainted with dirt.
She stood there, embodying the cold, sexy, beautiful, and arrogant demeanor that a famous actress should have.
Especially that arrogance, even if Murphy didn't understand women much, he could clearly feel it— it was the disdain of the upper echelons of Hollywood for the little people.
Although she was only a minor star in Hollywood, she was still beyond comparison with someone like Murphy, who was obscure.
The woman's reaction stung Murphy, but he understood very well that in this very realistic circle of Hollywood, respect was never equal. Other people's respect didn't just fall from the sky; it had to be earned through practical actions.
Monica Bellucci indeed had the qualification to look down on him, especially since he had almost collided with her by accident.
"For what just happened," Murphy remained calm, his voice even calmer and more natural, "I apologize."
Having said that, he turned away and walked forward without looking back, as if none of this had ever happened.
Wanting Bruce Berman and Monica Bellucci to respect him and bow down was futile now, no matter how much he said. If mere talk could conquer others, then the stick would have unified the world long ago.
This was a realistic society, not a fairy tale world.
In the following week, Murphy gained more experience of the reality of this world and understood why Ross went back to work after being released from prison.
For someone with a criminal record, seeking a somewhat legitimate and decent job was incredibly difficult.
Murphy had interviewed with two more crews, but they barely checked his credentials and outright rejected him. Even when he sought a mere odd job at a third, very small crew, he was turned away.
For a while, Murphy cursed his former boss and the American society that felt like hell. But before long, his mood stabilized.
People tend to attribute their success to themselves and their failures to their environment.
But such thinking was of no help in solving real problems.
The idea of finding a job related to the film industry hit a wall everywhere, but Murphy didn't give up. He understood that establishing himself in Hollywood was much harder than he imagined or knew. He became more practical.
It wasn't just the film industry; Murphy's interviews in other fields also mostly ended in failure. This outcome wasn't surprising. How many respectable companies or shops would hire someone like him, without education, skills, and with a criminal record?
Did he really have to resort to selling drugs and illegal firearms?
Murphy knew that was a path of no return. He would rather work as a porter at an auto repair shop, even though the job was hard and the pay was low, than go down that path. But even the job of a porter wouldn't sustain him for long.
Now, Murphy faced the problem of money. He had been frugal, but his two hundred dollars were almost depleted. If he didn't find a way to make money, he probably wouldn't last until the next paycheck from the auto repair shop next month.
One evening, after a rare punctual end to his shift, Murphy returned home and entered the studio. His eyes fell on the handheld camcorder placed on the shelf.
The Canon camcorder was still functional. Murphy had tested it recently. As a student of film school, photography was one of the basic courses. Although this camcorder seemed a bit outdated, after using it a few times, he grew fond of it. But now, forced by circumstances, he could only see it and two other machines as a means to sustain his basic life.
The handheld camcorder, laptop, and car police scanner were all not new. Each item alone probably wouldn't fetch much money. But if he sold all three, Murphy thought he could support himself for a while.
However, after some thought, Murphy decided to keep the laptop. In his spare time, he also tried writing scripts for future blockbuster movies with it. He needed the laptop for this, but progress was slow, and even if he finished writing, the chances of selling it were low.
Murphy knew enough about Hollywood to understand that most Hollywood movies didn't start with an excellent script that was then
selected and invested in by a film company to be produced. The mainstream production mode of Hollywood films often involved a film company, a famous director, or a renowned producer coming up with an idea and then seeking investment, and hiring suitable screenwriters to turn the idea into a script.
In this production mode, screenwriters and scripts were not the beginning of a project but merely a part of the Hollywood assembly line.
Of course, the chances of using a new script by a new person were infinitely low, but that didn't mean it was impossible. Murphy just wanted to try his luck; maybe his luck would turn around someday?
Picking up the handheld camcorder and police scanner, Murphy left the house, got into his black Chevrolet, and drove towards the intersection.
These were the tools the old Murphy had used to make a living, which were now about to become the means for the current Murphy to maintain his basic life.
The Chevrolet turned out of the community, made a couple more turns, and Murphy drove onto Figueroa Street in downtown. He planned to follow this street to Sunset Boulevard, which was near Hollywood, where there were many stores that sold or recycled photography equipment. He figured he could at least exchange the handheld camcorder for some much-needed dollars.
Actually, Murphy could turn to Ross for help again, but he didn't plan to do so. Even if he had good relations with his friends, if he only knew how to take without giving, the two sides would inevitably grow apart. Apart from temporarily borrowing a phone, a car, and two hundred dollars, he hadn't accepted any further help from Ross.
Night had fallen, and Murphy turned onto Sunset Boulevard. This area was the opposite of downtown, with its long stretches of palm trees and towering movie billboards. The blinking neon lights turned the street into a bustling city that never slept.
The Chevrolet passed Echo Park, Silver Lake, and Los Feliz, gradually entering Murphy's destination—the Hollywood area.
Today's Hollywood was no longer the dilapidated scenery of the 80s and 90s. With the strong support of the California state government and the Los Angeles County government, it had revived its former glory, becoming one of the most prosperous commercial areas in the entire Los Angeles area.
However, Murphy rarely paid attention to the surroundings. His attention was entirely focused on driving. Sunset Boulevard twisted and turned in many places, and the narrowest part of the entire route had only four lanes. Due to the countless hairpin turns and blind spots along the way and the lack of centerline guardrails in most places, accidents occurred frequently here.
Just as he had passed an intersection, flames appeared on the roadside ahead. Murphy quickly slowed down.
"That car's going to explode!"
A shout came through the open car window, "Damn, hurry!"
"Help!"
The Chevrolet slowly passed by, and Murphy turned to look. He saw a car crashed into a sturdy palm tree by the roadside. A police car and a fire engine were parked nearby, with police officers maintaining order, and several firefighters were busy beside the burning car, where cries for help continued to come from inside...
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein