Chapter Twenty-Five: Hollywood, Hollywood

After arranging the coursework for that group, William White was ready to continue his journey.

In this era, the range of industries to choose from was quite limited. Traditional sectors were virtually out of the question, and aside from Silicon Valley, Hollywood appeared to be an excellent path. It wasn't just the domain of a handful of giants; countless independent producers thrived here. Some companies operated directly under the umbrella of these giants, while others opted for cooperative distribution models. Such companies were scarce, unless you possessed the caliber of Lucas—otherwise, the major studios wouldn’t even bother negotiating.

Beyond these, there was the realm of specialized action films—a market of considerable size. America was like this: every genre of film found its audience. As long as your film was well-made, art-house and horror movies could make money just as easily.

William White, however, lacked these resources. If he wanted to step into Hollywood, he would have to start small, gradually accumulating popularity and contacts. No one dared to covet Titanic at the outset; such massive productions were out of reach for newcomers, regardless of wealth.

For someone new to the field, a budget of one or two million dollars was already impressive—reserved for those with real talent. Ordinary directors shouldn’t even dream of it. Most began with commercials and documentaries, toiling for years before any real opportunity arose.

William White did not need to wait. His software company had over two million dollars sitting in the account, and another influx of cash was imminent. Two or three million was hardly a concern for him.

Making movies had always been the young master's dream. For its sake, William White had argued with his father countless times. In the end, he pursued two majors simultaneously at USC—a compromise between father and son.

Now, the young master wanted to make a film—just a small-budget production. Uncle Ford wouldn’t object; at most, it would be a loss of a few million. A month ago, that might have hurt, but now it was barely worth noticing.

White Software’s earning speed was nearly like printing money. Uncle Ford was well aware of the minimal costs involved in software. Continuing at this pace for a while longer would clear any tax obligations, and there might even be substantial profits left.

Moreover, the young master's film might not lose money. Even if it did, it wouldn’t be a big deal; some of it would surely come back.

While movies could be shot in Hollywood, the company itself should not be registered there. America had several tax-exempt states—better to hide away. But William didn’t need to bother with such details; his lawyer would handle everything. Thus, every preparation for testing the waters in Hollywood was complete.

Such companies were a dime a dozen in Hollywood; nobody paid them any mind. New ones appeared daily, and just as many collapsed.

“Jason, I plan to go to Los Angeles in a few days.”

“Boss, are you going back to school?”

“No, I’m planning to take a leave. I’m heading to Los Angeles to shoot a film.”

“Boss, are you serious? Do you need a male lead? I’m quite suitable, and I won’t even charge a fee.”

“At most, you’ll be an extra—a bit part. Take it or leave it; two lines.”

“I’ll do it! Why not? This is my dream.”

“You’re a directing major; what’s the point of acting? I truly don’t get you.”

“No one wants a rookie director. I’ll start with commercials someday.”

“Suit yourself. Contact me when you get there.”

“Alright, hurry back!”

“Hmm.”

In his previous life, Jason Gao later founded an ad agency—clearly, no one ever invited him to direct films.

It was difficult for Chinese directors to make a mark in America, unless they’d grown up there. Otherwise, it was hard to grasp what resonated with the locals. American humor was often simplistic, but its sources were vast. If you weren’t raised there, it was natural not to understand.

Stand-up and sitcoms were like this: Americans found them hilarious, while foreigners were left puzzled, watching a bunch of lunatics.

The Beverly Hills mansion was merely rented—William didn’t have spare cash to throw around, and budgeting was important. The sky here was always so blue, lifting the spirits—not because the air was particularly good; smog was present as ever. Los Angeles rarely saw rain, with almost constant clear skies.

Today’s weather was pleasant—but in Los Angeles, that was a standard cliché. Greet someone with it, and you’d be met with disdain.

Movie companies clustered here, and the weather was a primary reason. Try making Hollywood films in London, and you’d spend half the year resting. The result would be perpetually gray.

The Hollywood studio system was still running strong—highly commercialized, welcoming any person or capital.

On the surface, it all looked enchanting; dreamers would always succeed, and hard work would be rewarded.

But reality was different. Monopoly was everywhere. Foreign capital could enter easily, but leaving unscathed was wishful thinking.

Like the financial sector, tradition mattered here. The Jewish consortium controlled all of Hollywood, and to avoid being targeted, cooperation was best.

William White had no intention of mingling with them, but neither did he wish to antagonize them. Low-key discretion became his only option.

“Uncle Ford, register the script with the Writers Guild. Let’s start recruiting.”

“Alright, young master.”

Thus, William White began assembling his makeshift troupe. Hollywood had countless bold and brash investors like him—no one paid any attention.

Every year, dozens of such films were made. Many never saw release, and their investments vanished without a trace.

Still, to say no one noticed would be inaccurate. As soon as his script was registered, it caught the Writers Guild’s attention.

Screenwriters were typically literary types, well-read. If you hadn’t seen Forrest Gump, you weren’t fit for the job. This book’s adaptation required little change; the prose was strong. Even if some weren’t convinced, referencing it posed no issue.

Rumors spread: a film company intended to pay a million for the adaptation rights. Whether true or not, the news was shocking.

A million dollars was formidable purchasing power—William White’s luxury villa cost around that much.

The actual price offered by the film company was uncertain, but William White’s refusal was well-known. Yet the script now before them—what was this about? Same name and surname?

What was this “White Pictures” anyway?

No one had ever heard of such a film company.

The two who came to register were clearly not William White himself. Their slick appearance suggested they were lawyers.

Tiny film companies couldn’t afford legal counsel; contracts were usually handled by a temporary hire, often the cheapest possible.

What was going on now? For a simple registration, an assistant or secretary would suffice—there was no need for lawyers!

Perhaps William White really was that writer. No wonder he wouldn’t sell the adaptation rights—he intended to venture into film himself.