James was momentarily speechless, staring at me in a daze.

  "Can you let me take a look at your script?" he asked, enunciating each word carefully, his lips pressed tightly together.

  He was trembling! For so many years, he had deliberately distanced himself from the film industry he once loved, shutting out even the familiar jargon. He had lived in the haze of alcohol and past glories, resigning himself to a life of quiet decay. But now, my words had struck him like a knife, slicing deep into his heart. It hurt, but it was a cathartic pain—one that brought with it an unexpected sense of liberation.

  I met his gaze, then solemnly took the script from my coat and handed it to him.

  James stuffed his bottle into his pocket, wiped his damp hands on his clothes, and took the script with an air of indifference.

  But after reading just two or three pages, his entire demeanor changed. His lazy slouch straightened into an upright posture. He licked his lips and flipped through the pages rapidly, his expression shifting between deep concentration and amazement.

  The script was formatted to the highest standards of 21st-century filmmaking. Every detail—from camera angles to scene composition, from character expressions to filming techniques—was meticulously arranged. The precision of the storyboard made shooting incredibly efficient. The plot was gripping, the dramatic beats expertly crafted. If a script of this caliber couldn’t move a washed-up actor like James, then I might as well give up and bash my head against a wall. (Though, to be fair, finding a brick wall in Hollywood might prove to be a challenge.)

  "Brilliant! Brilliant! Brilliant!" James exclaimed, slapping his thigh so hard that it startled both Berg and Gans.

  "I've been in Hollywood for years, but I've never seen a script like this! It’s got everything to captivate an audience, and there's something indescribable about it—something that just feels right. If this film gets made, it'll shake up all of Hollywood!" His eyes were blazing with excitement. He stood up and extended his large hands toward me—only to pause, realizing he still didn’t know my name.

  "Sir—no, Director—I’d be honored to play the lead role in this film!" James said with a bright smile.

  "No need for formalities. Just call me Andre—Andre Corleone," I replied, shaking his hand, trying to appear as refined as possible.

  "Corleone? That sounds like an Italian name. Are you of Italian descent?" James asked.

  I shook my head. "I despise Italians. In reality, I'm of Polish descent."

  James awkwardly pursed his lips. "Polish, huh? That’s impressive! Andre, please, you have to let me play George Bush! I love this character—he’s practically my reflection!"

  I chuckled and then pretended to hesitate. "James, you know that a script like this could fetch a high price from a major studio. But we want to do this ourselves. We raised the funds independently, and all we have is a little over fifty thousand dollars. So, when it comes to your salary, we can’t offer what the big studios would."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  James burst into laughter, waving a dismissive hand. "Salary?! I don’t care about that! Just give me the role, and I’ll do whatever you need. Besides, I despise those big studios. I support what you guys are doing. If you’ll have me, count me in! And as for equipment—take whatever you need!"

  At this, Berg and Gans practically jumped for joy. James owned a trove of top-tier Hollywood film equipment. This would save us a fortune.

  "Welcome to DreamWorks, James!" I extended my hand to him once again.

  "DreamWorks?" James looked puzzled.

  "That’s the name of our film company. Though we haven’t officially registered it yet."

  "Then count me in!" James gripped my hand tightly, then glanced at Berg and Gans. They both extended their hands as well. The four of us looked at one another and burst into laughter.

  "James, I’m going to bring you back to the top. Whatever Hollywood took from you, I’ll make sure you get it back—with interest!" I declared, staring firmly into his eyes.

  James' eyes reddened, his voice choked with emotion. "Alright… I believe in you, Andre! This is the happiest day I’ve had in years! Thank you! Thank you all! If it weren’t for you, I’d probably rot away in that shop, dying in obscurity."

  Tears finally spilled down his face.

  "Come on, James, no tears. This is a celebration! Let’s go get a drink!" I said, nudging him playfully.

  James wiped his eyes and grinned. "You’re right! Let’s drink!"

  We threw our arms around each other, ready to head out—until Berg suddenly blocked our way. He pointed to the sky outside and scoffed, "It’s not even nine in the morning! What the hell are you drinking for?!"

  James and I exchanged glances, realizing our mistake. Laughing sheepishly, we stumbled back inside.

  "Andre, while we have time, let’s go register the company. Otherwise, it’ll just be a hassle later," James suggested.

  I nodded. "Good idea. Let’s do it."

  The four of us left James’ shop, walking down the street boisterously. Passersby poked their heads out, curious about our excitement.

  "James! What’s got you in such a good mood?!"

  "Yeah! And why aren’t you drinking?!"

  James was well-known in the neighborhood. Seeing his uncharacteristically cheerful demeanor, people couldn’t help but ask.

  James beamed and waved. "I’m making a movie! Soon, I’ll be a big star! When I make it big, drinks are on me!"

  "Sounds good!"

  "We’ll hold you to that!"

  Watching James so full of energy, I found it hard to believe that the disheveled drunkard I’d met that morning was the same person. He was laughing, greeting people enthusiastically—his joy radiating from deep within.

  At that moment, I realized that even if this movie didn’t succeed, it would still be worth it. If nothing else, it had reignited hope in a man who had lost all faith in life. And wasn’t that something truly valuable?

  The Hollywood City Hall stood in the bustling heart of downtown, its grand stone structure exuding an air of authority. As we approached the entrance, we saw a group of famous actors and directors filing out. Upon inquiry, we learned that Paramount had just held a launch event inside for a massive historical epic titled The Civil War. The director? None other than the legendary Rebus Pillay, a master of large-scale films from the 1920s. Paramount had poured five million dollars into the production—a staggering investment.

  Gans whistled in concern. "Boss, they’re making a Civil War film too, and with such a huge budget! This is going to be tough competition for us."

  Berg frowned, clearly worried as well.

  James, however, remained unfazed. He chuckled and said, "Don’t be intimidated by their money. I know Paramount inside out. Sure, they have some great screenwriters, but none of them can hold a candle to Andre. Besides, they’re making a large-scale war epic, while we’re telling the story of ordinary people. We’re on completely different tracks."

  His confidence was infectious. Gans and Berg straightened their backs, emboldened by his words. We strode through the crowd of Paramount executives and stepped into City Hall.

  Just then, a shriveled old man emerged from the crowd, spotting James. "Well, well! If it isn’t James! My dear James, what brings you to City Hall instead of running your rental shop?"

  It was none other than Paramount’s head honcho, Adolph Zukor.