In the first decade of its invention, cinema was far from the glorious art form we imagine today. In the public eye, only opera and classical music were considered highbrow arts, while movies were seen as mere entertainment for the working class—a form of lowbrow amusement. This perception wasn’t limited to the general public; even those in the film industry, actors and directors alike, often felt their profession lacked dignity and resorted to using stage names. This sentiment persisted until around 1912, when a wave of film theorists and directors began to argue that cinema was not just a sideshow but a legitimate art form. Italian theorist Ricciotto Canudo, in his Manifesto of the Seventh Art, declared cinema as the seventh art, ranking it alongside literature, sculpture, music, and other established arts. His declaration gained widespread support among intellectuals.

  Over the next decade, filmmakers rallied together, sparking a storm of cinematic movements. In Europe, this took the form of surrealism, impressionism, and Dadaism in film, while in the United States, directors like D.W. Griffith led the charge, producing films of profound artistic merit. Gradually, society began to acknowledge cinema as a legitimate art form.

  This hard-won sense of honor led many filmmakers to view themselves as guardians of cinematic art. They instinctively rejected anything they deemed lowbrow or vulgar, which is why, by 1925, pornographic films were virtually nonexistent in America.

  For me, this was an advantage. At the time, there was no film censorship board or rating system, so even if I made a film with erotic elements, I wouldn’t have to worry about legal repercussions.

  “Boss, are you saying you want to make that? A pornographic film?!” Gance’s eyes widened in disbelief.

  “Boss, don’t joke about this. If my dad finds out I used his money to make something like that, he’ll kill me!” Berg shook his head vigorously.

  “Who said anything about a pornographic film?! Is that all you two think about?! Let me ask you, is the armless Venus de Milo pornographic? Are the countless nude sculptures from ancient Greece and Rome considered pornographic? No one calls them that! You’re being vulgar! Too vulgar! What I want to make is a psychological art film that explores the connection between body and soul. Understand?!” I couldn’t admit to making a pornographic film, and even if I could, I wouldn’t make something purely for sensory stimulation. To succeed in Hollywood, box office success is crucial, but a film without depth is doomed to fail.

  “Psychological art film? What’s that?” Berg and Gance, unfamiliar with the concept, tugged at my sleeve, looking utterly confused.

  “Have you heard of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari?” I asked.

  The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, a 1920 German film, is a masterpiece of German Expressionism. It tells the story of Dr. Caligari, a madhouse director who uses hypnosis to manipulate a patient into committing murders. The film reflects the psychological turmoil, fractured identities, and authoritarian worship prevalent in post-World War I Germany and is considered one of the most influential films of the 1920s.

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  “I’ve seen a bit of it. It felt... weird,” Gance nodded, while Berg looked completely lost.

  “That’s the kind of film we’re going to make,” I explained, summarizing the plot and looking at them with fiery determination.

  “My God! Boss, just give me my money back! I don’t even want to watch it, let alone make it! Split personalities? Psychological turmoil? I’m not a university professor! I just want to watch a movie and have a good time. Do we really need to go this far?!” Berg grabbed my arm, feeling like he’d been duped into joining a sinking ship.

  I shot him a disdainful look. “I know what you’re saying, but don’t worry. I’ll write the script, and it’ll have plenty of appeal.”

  Berg wasn’t wrong. Films like The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari are artistically brilliant, but when it comes to drawing audiences into theaters and getting them to open their wallets, it’s a different story. After a long, exhausting day, people just want to relax. If you bombard them with a film that messes with their minds, they’re bound to curse you.

  Being a film director is no easy task. You have to play both sides—entertain the masses while earning the respect of critics and intellectuals. It’s a delicate balance.

  The film I wanted to make had to be something that would lure audiences into theaters just by looking at the poster, while also containing deeper themes that would resonate with artists and intellectuals. In other words, it had to appeal to everyone, young and old alike.

  “Boss, why don’t you write the script first, and then Gance and I will take a look?” Berg was still skeptical but didn’t press further.

  I agreed, and after some casual conversation, we went our separate ways.

  Over the next few days, Berg went on a trip with his lovely cousin, and Gance tagged along. They headed to a resort near Los Angeles, known for its beautiful scenery, good food, and plenty of girls to flirt with.

  Meanwhile, I locked myself in my room to write the script.

  Hollywood’s standards for scripts are notoriously high, but since we were doing this independently and I was the director, I didn’t need to adhere to strict formalities. Besides, I had some experience writing scripts, so it wasn’t too difficult. The real challenge was packing as much psychological appeal as possible into the script while keeping it under an hour.

  For an entire week, I barely left my room except for meals and bathroom breaks. My parents knew I was working on the script and even lowered their voices to avoid disturbing me.

  On the eighth night, I wrote the final word of the script and set down my pen with a heavy sigh. After seven days of relentless writing, revising, and polishing—from the initial outline to the dialogue and finally the shot-by-shot breakdown—I was on the verge of collapse. But at last, the script was complete.

  The story revolved around a kidnapping.

  Set during the American Civil War, it follows George Bush, a Southern general who defects to the North and becomes a traitor, leading the Union army in brutal attacks against his former comrades. His intimate knowledge of Southern strategies makes him a formidable foe, and the Confederate army suffers heavy losses. To turn the tide, the South sends a beautiful spy named Dietrich to assassinate him. Using her charm and wit, Dietrich gains Bush’s trust, but as she gets closer to him, she discovers his dual personality. By day, he’s a calm, efficient general; by night, he transforms into a sadistic tyrant. Dietrich endures r*p*, beatings, and humiliation, yet she becomes inexplicably drawn to him, even willingly submitting to his abuse. In the end, as Union forces close in, Dietrich chooses to stand by Bush’s side, facing the firing squad together.

  In the script, I deliberately emphasized techniques like close-ups, long takes, and parallel editing—methods not yet widely used in Hollywood. Alongside the psychological depth meant to intrigue intellectuals, I included plenty of intimate scenes and visual elements to captivate the audience. The film, titled Lust, Caution (sorry, Ang Lee, you’re out of luck!), would explore Dietrich’s transformation from a loyal Confederate spy to a woman willing to die alongside her captor.