Chapter Twenty-Six: The Small Knife and the Great Tree

This matter had to be taken seriously. When unknown nobodies joined the guild, no one cared much, but things were different with bestselling authors—this had to be reported.

“Boss, your place isn’t bad. Lend it to me for a party next time,” someone joked.

“Sure, but can your body handle it? You look like a walking stick,” William White replied.

“Tch, every inch slimmer, every inch longer,” came the retort.

“Haha, but length isn’t everything, is it? It’s the girth that counts—don’t bend it by accident.”

“Boss, when are you shooting your movie?”

“It’s a small-budget project. A week of preparation, and we’ll start filming soon.”

“You’re not making that kind of action movie, are you? I’m not up for it.”

William White spat out his coffee in a burst of laughter. “What are you thinking, idiot? Do you know who I am right now? Besides, with your scrawny frame, who’d want to watch?”

“Haha, I can’t do it, but if you direct and star yourself and recruit a few girls from school, that should do it.”

“The casting’s already underway. Only looking for a few extras; see if there’s anyone you know who fits. The script’s on the table.”

For all his unreliability, when it came to reading scripts, the man was meticulous, never as frivolous as he appeared.

This was William White’s first foray into filmmaking. The storyboarding for the script was almost obsessive—good in that it left no room for mistakes, but bad in that it restricted the actors’ performances.

The Police Academy was a classic tale of a low-budget underdog. The film’s tone was far from highbrow; to make people laugh, it pulled out all the stops—blue jokes flew freely.

Now, in William White’s hands, the tone dropped even further. This film would undoubtedly leave people choking with laughter.

Steeped in internet humor from the future, William White could toss out punchlines at will. American TV at this time was still conservative; when he’d returned, he’d been watching “2 Broke Girls,” crass from start to finish.

The plot was simple: a certain city couldn’t recruit enough police officers. To expand the force, the female mayor drastically widened the recruitment pool, letting all sorts of misfits join up—people who’d never dream of being cops.

Of course, that meant the black community couldn’t be left out. While there were black police officers in America, they were relatively few. In William White’s version, the recruits included not only pickpockets, but also theater actors—anything for comedic contrast, the greater the disparity, the better. Adding in a couple of tough women would be perfect. He hoped the audience would enjoy these twists.

This type of film had a distinct feature: minuscule investment and a brief shooting schedule—perfect for White Pictures at this stage.

With a small budget, there was no question of hiring big-name actors. Luckily, Hollywood had no shortage of struggling performers; what it lacked was everything else.

Salaries? Throw them a little, it was more than enough. Even important roles might fetch only eighty or a hundred thousand. There was no true lead; instead, many supporting characters had their moments to shine.

Worried that the pay was too low to attract anyone? Impossible. Ninety percent of Hollywood actors were struggling, especially in those days—people chasing dreams, who reality would soon teach to compromise.

Eddie Murphy was still selling shoes at a store; when he heard about a bit part, he showed up instantly, not even asking about the pay.

Don’t think he was a fool—no successful person is. The company making this film might be unknown, but its boss had quite a reputation.

A bestselling novel ripe for adaptation held enormous appeal for dreamers.

Though William White wasn’t wealthy, he wasn’t miserly either. This was to be a series; future collaboration was possible.

Especially with Eddie Murphy, who was still very young. Over the next decade or so, he’d be a money-maker.

Black actors often had a flair for performance; this one, in particular, was adept at celebrity impressions and already had a small reputation. Having lived another life, William White knew exactly how to find him.

After all, before his family’s troubles, he’d been part of this circle—a pretty boy who’d transformed into a billionaire overnight, leaving many unable to adjust.

That he came from money was known, but the fact that he wrote as well was astonishing. The most startling thing was his book’s growing popularity—it had officially entered the bestseller list.

Though only ranked tenth, one must remember: this was a new book by a debut author. Such results were extraordinary.

Forget other writers—even a whole publishing house might not have a single book in the top ten.

And this was a slow burner; sales rose daily. Whether it would peak was uncertain, but the top three were certainly within reach.

White Pictures was gaining some recognition; more people were coming to audition. Befriending a bestselling author was clearly a wise move. Wait until he was a superstar, and it would be too late to curry favor.

Don’t underestimate small companies; they could be methodical and organized. Despite the so-called low investment, money was clearly no object—camera and lighting equipment were top-notch, and nothing important was skimped on.

As for this newcomer, Hollywood’s giants were indifferent. The man was, after all, a film student with some spare cash, investing in a project—perfectly normal.

Everyone has dreams. If his writing was a success, even if the film bombed, it wouldn’t matter—he was just dabbling, nothing to worry about.

As for his refusal to sell the adaptation rights, the studios weren’t concerned. If they bought them, they wouldn’t film right away. The book was still gaining momentum; they had plenty of time to wait.

Hollywood had its own production model: first, a good script, then a director. Directors and producers usually lacked funds, so investors had to be found before any further progress could be made.

Hollywood operated on the producer system; producers acted as brokers, weaving together the entire chain through complicated networks of relationships.

White Pictures skipped the producer step: writer, director, producer, investor—all William White.

It had to be said, he was an oddity—not only a member of the Writers Guild, but also of the Directors and Producers Guilds.

Such cases were rare, but not unheard of. If William White wanted to make a cameo as an actor, he’d probably have to join the Actors Guild too.

Don’t underestimate these unions. Membership fees weren’t collected for nothing. When bosses fired someone, the union would stand up and make noise.

This was part of American culture. You couldn’t say it was bad—without such forces, capitalists would run rampant.

Of course, there were downsides. With these groups around, conflict between workers and employers was constant.

A fair arbitration body might have been better. The unchecked expansion of unions would eventually spell the end of American manufacturing.

If you belonged to an insignificant guild, few would care. But the large ones were different, like the Auto Workers and Steelworkers unions.

Those were not to be trifled with. Their numbers gave them power; politicians were happy to back them, leaving bosses with no room to maneuver.