Chapter 160: Attitude Determines Success or Failure

They say attitude determines everything, and there is certainly a lot of truth to that. Hong Kong cinema had not yet entered the era of utterly terrible films, and many actors of this era were formally trained professionals with genuine martial arts skills.

What they remained uncertain about was what Americans actually liked. Simply replicating Bruce Lee obviously would not work—The Big Brawl was marketed that way, and it tanked miserably.

William White wanted to tell them that they didn't even know how to copy properly. Americans weren't masochists; you couldn't always have Chinese actors cast as invincible martial arts masters while the local guys were constantly beaten to a pulp.

No matter how fancy your moves were, a single gunshot from the other guy would put you down—unless you simply didn't give them a chance to draw their weapons.

Rush Hour perfectly demonstrated this trope. Whether it was the police or the criminals, their movements were always somewhat deliberate to showcase the charm of martial arts. If you could just take someone down with a single bullet, how could they even film the movie?

Only with such design could the plot remain free of glaring logical flaws. Watching current cop and gangster flicks, William White really felt a lingering annoyance.

First, the villains talked far too much. At critical moments, they either ran out of bullets or their guns jammed, leading to chaotic brawls where everyone ended up bruised and battered.

The protagonist was always beaten to a pulp before suddenly experiencing a burst of cosmic power. If you asked him, "If you're really this tough, why didn't you settle this earlier so you'd still have time to pick up girls?"

Despite treating these Hong Kong stuntmen quite well, William White had extremely strict demands. Retaking a single action sequence dozens of times was a regular occurrence.

Fortunately, truly capable people always win respect. When someone complained that a particular movement was too difficult to execute, the director simply changed into costume and did it himself.

At first, these fellows took it lightly, but it turned out the boss actually knew his stuff. Although he didn't finish the entire task, he had clearly demonstrated the general concept.

With that, there was nothing more to say. You just had to do whatever he instructed. You bunch of bastards were the professionals, yet your boss could pull it off close enough to perfection—how could you possibly fail?

Massaging his neck, William White couldn't help but offer a wry smile. After all, he wasn't a professional stuntman, and those couple of takes had been rather painful.

"Boss, let me do it!"

"Haha, Tiger, you can't. Your murderous aura is too strong, and this move requires a touch of comedy. It's not your style."

Jackie Chan, the big brother of that young era, was truly fearless, leading several insurance companies to almost refuse coverage for him.

In modern Hollywood, while lacking the mature structural systems of later eras, a basic framework was already in place, and the protection afforded to actors was relatively reliable.

For the Hong Kong crew, this shoot was undeniably a valuable learning opportunity.

As for whether the film would turn out well, at least in their eyes, it looked promising, and the production progress was smooth.

The boss might have gone off for drinks, but the rest of the crew couldn't afford to slack off. They still needed to refine those action sequences; if they ended up looking worse than the Westerners, it would be utterly humiliating.

The world worked this way: as long as you put in the effort, you would reap some rewards. Once you mastered a skill, it belonged to you, and no one could take it away.

"Cut! Good. Next setup."

After a night of grinding and another dressing-down by Raymond Chow, this bunch of fellows finally performed admirably today.

"Brother William, how should we schedule the release window?"

"Raymond, post-production is quite troublesome, and there's a lot of original score to handle this time. Let's aim for March if possible!"

"Alright, no problem. Next year's summer blockbuster season is going to be fierce, isn't it?"

"Sigh! It's a traffic jam; next year's summer slate is going to be brutal. We have Superman, Raiders of the Lost Ark, and my own Johnny English—it's going to be absolute chaos!"

"Raiders of the Lost Ark? Is that one formidable?"

"Trust me, it's going to be an absolute nightmare. I'd rather go head-to-head with Superman."

Although Warner Brothers had a new boss, they had no intention of changing their release date. That was the pride of a major studio: you could lose, but you couldn't chicken out.

No matter how formidable White Pictures was, it was still a new company. Superman wasn't some arthouse film like The Shining; while it might not possess the sheer pulling power of Star Wars, it certainly wouldn't lag far behind Jaws or similar hits.

Audiences actually didn't mind. As long as the quality was decent, what harm was there in watching an extra movie? If there was only one blockbuster every six months, their lives would be quite miserable indeed.

Why did the American summer box office perform so well?

It was determined by their social structure. High school students were expected to get summer jobs—this was a mainstream value promoted in America.

Once you turned eighteen, your old man truly stopped supporting you, and earning some pocket money during the summer was your assigned duty.

Compared to allowances from parents, the money earned through one's own labor was more substantial, and nobody dictated how you spent it. With such a consumer demographic, the summer season couldn't possibly be quiet.

"Have you checked out the release schedules?"

"Yes, boss. Estimated for next March."

"So soon?"

"Yes, boss. That's the information from the set; their shooting speed is extremely fast."

"Alright, you may go."

William White had already achieved great success. By now, he was churning out a movie a week, so people probably didn't have much left to say about him.

Of course, that was on the condition that you didn't flop.

As long as you succeeded, even if they deeply resented it, they still had to shower you with praise. You could view it as a form of "killing with kindness," or simply as a helpless resignation.

"Boss, the master plan for Lanai is ready, but the construction costs won't be cheap."

"Sigh, there's nothing we can do about that. Let's build the golf course first, then expand the dock. The seaside villas can also be built initially, but the hotel and airport should be postponed. I'm strapped for cash right now."

"Understood, boss. That should work out fine."

"Alright, go ahead with your tasks. I need to practice my golf a bit more. My skill level is absolute garbage, and I'm too embarrassed to play out in public."

"Very well, boss."

Philson left with a smile. A boss who showed a trace of awkwardness was rather endearing; no one was omnipotent. Given how defyingly successful he already was, it would simply be ridiculous if he were also a golf master—that sport required a dedicated investment of time, after all.

Following a loud thud, another luxury golf club was rendered broken and useless, and William White looked thoroughly displeased.

"Old Fu, do you think I'm better suited for farming?"

"Haha, you jest, young master. Everyone starts out like that; the old master was atrocious at the game when he first began."

"Really? Well, since it's hereditary, I suppose I can't be blamed."

The young assistant nearby was struggling mightily to hold back her laughter. She rarely saw this guy look so awkward, yet he actually managed to blame it on genetics—his skin was certainly thick enough.

"Little girl, laugh if you want to. If you hold it in any longer, you're going to explode."

"Pfft, as if I am."

"Sigh, I wonder what she eats to grow to such a magnificent scale."

Seeing that her boss was starting to act improperly again, the assistant ignored him. After all, it was still daytime.

As for practicing golf, that truly wasn't on account of Lanai itself. It was simply the trend among the affluent elite; in Texas you could go hunting, but elsewhere, this sort of networking tool was an absolute necessity.

When membership cards cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, did you really think playing golf itself was that expensive?

Without a certain standing and status in society, people might not even accept you as a member.

Demanding that William White master golf right now was indeed stretching things a bit; being decent at thirty was acceptable enough, as most players were old-timers anyway.

Unfortunately, the White family was under his sole authority now, and certain social engagements were simply mandatory. Claiming ignorance of the sport would turn one into a laughingstock within the high-society circle.