I looked around at everyone and said seriously, "Since Gans brought it up, I think it makes sense. So, starting today, DreamWorks Motion Pictures is officially established!"

  The group stared at me in stunned silence.

  "What are you all gawking at? This is a momentous occasion! Applaud, d*mn it!"

  A few half-hearted claps echoed through the room.

  "First, we’ll establish the DreamWorks board of directors. The members? Everyone here. All major decisions will be made collectively by the board, and profits will be shared among us. Of course, the risks will also be borne together." I glanced at them. Seeing them nodding in agreement, I continued.

  "As for specific roles, you can decide amongst yourselves."

  "Oh, come on!" Before I could finish, a chorus of groans erupted.

  "Andre, you should assign the positions. We’ll follow your lead," Berg said earnestly.

  "Alright then, I'll make it simple. Berg, you’re the head cinematographer. Gans, you’re the general manager. James, you handle HR. As for me, I’ll take the role of director. Now, we still need to elect a chairman of the board."

  "Elect my *ss! It’s you!" Berg shouted. The others quickly voiced their agreement.

  And just like that, the four founding members of what would one day become a Hollywood empire were casually established in a tiny apartment.

  The next few days were exhausting. When Watts left, he took everything—including the trash cans—leaving us with an empty, bare-bones studio. Our first task was to build the interior sets for Lust, Caution, requiring nearly thirty different period-accurate indoor locations. Since the story was set during the Civil War, the set design had to be historically accurate. Finding authentic antique furniture and props was no easy feat.

  Luckily, James had been around Hollywood long enough to know exactly where to go. Just two blocks from Harvey Street, there was a well-known prop house specializing in historical reproductions. The owner had worked on a previous production with James, and as a favor, he rented us most of what we needed at a 40% discount. As for the remaining twenty sets, over half were outdoor locations, while the rest—grand hotels, theaters, and mansions—required more effort. I reached out to Grant, who, after reviewing my list, assured me it wouldn’t be an issue. As Hollywood’s honorary mayor, he had enough influence to secure venues like city-owned hotels and theaters for free. As for the mansion? He had one himself and offered it up for filming.

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  Grant still didn’t know exactly what I was making, but given his experience in Hollywood, he could probably guess based on my set list. He had asked to see my script, but I politely declined. I wasn’t stupid—Hollywood had seen too many cases of brilliant scripts being stolen. Although Grant had been generous to us, I couldn’t let my guard down completely. Fortunately, he understood the industry and didn’t take offense.

  After over a week of grueling work and spending more than $8,000, we had our sets mostly in place—though that didn’t include wardrobe and makeup costs. The film required large crowd scenes showcasing life during the Civil War, meaning we needed period-appropriate costumes for countless extras. James and I didn’t want to commission new outfits—it would be too expensive and time-consuming. Instead, we scoured Hollywood’s thrift stores and finally struck gold at a secondhand clothing shop in the north of the city. For just over $1,000, we bought nearly 2,000 garments. They were old and tattered, but with a bit of cleaning, they would be perfect. In fact, their worn appearance suited the film’s gritty aesthetic far better than pristine, custom-made costumes. After all, it would look ridiculous if even the fishmongers in the film were dressed in freshly tailored outfits.

  Just as we wrapped up the set and costume preparations, our company’s official sign arrived. A massive 20-meter-wide, 10-meter-tall logo—unlike anything Hollywood had ever seen. The day it was delivered, all of Harvey Street was abuzz. People gathered at our door, watching as a fierce, red dragon with bared fangs was mounted above our entrance.

  Harvey Street was the poorest part of Hollywood. Aside from a couple of tiny film companies, no one wanted to set up shop here. Our flashy new sign felt like a status upgrade for the entire street. The local struggling actors immediately started asking around, trying to find out if we were hiring.

  Following my instructions, Gans posted a casting notice at our front gate. It announced that DreamWorks was recruiting actors for an upcoming production and that interested candidates could apply at our HR office.

  Securing talented actors meant offering competitive pay, but I had no interest in hiring established stars—I couldn’t afford them anyway. More importantly, the lead female role, Dietrich, was highly controversial by current moral standards. Many of her scenes would push boundaries, making it unlikely that any well-known actress would take on the part. But for struggling extras and third-rate actors, it was a different story—especially with a $3,000 paycheck attached. Compared to the few dollars per day they earned at big studios, this was an irresistible opportunity.

  The next morning, our courtyard was transformed into a casting venue. Two tables were set up, with the four of us seated behind them, facing a line of hopeful actors that stretched from our front door all the way down Harvey Street—forming a human dragon.

  The applicants came in all shapes and sizes—old men, young children, rugged cowboys, fallen gentlemen, heavily made-up women—enough variety to make our heads spin.

  "Boss, there are way too many people. We’ve barely gotten through a quarter of them. Your standards are too high! I think we should be less picky," Gans grumbled, rubbing his temples.

  "You don’t get it. A film’s success depends largely on its actors. If the performances s*ck, no one will watch it!" I shot him a glare.

  James nodded vigorously beside me. More than anyone, he understood the importance of casting the right actors.