Chapter Twenty-Seven: A Comedy Called Mr. Bean

Rowan Atkinson was still performing in London theater, never imagining that, as an unknown, he would receive an olive branch from Hollywood.

What? Not the lead role?

What was he thinking? He wasn’t even the lead in his own stage plays.

Alright, the pay wasn’t high, but relatively speaking, two hundred thousand dollars was by no means a paltry sum. Moreover, they offered a five percent share of North American box office revenues—granted, this was for the entire crew, but it was a sincere gesture; in a year of theater, one couldn’t earn nearly as much.

In this era, Eddie Murphy and Rowan Atkinson were undisputed kings of comedy, their very presence infused with humor—even a stern face from them could provoke laughter.

No need for further discussion; the next day, he flew straight to Los Angeles. If he hesitated, the role might vanish.

With a motley crew assembled, William White began to fulfill his roles as director and producer.

Upon seeing such a detailed script, the group was deeply moved. Aside from Eddie Murphy and Rowan Atkinson, the other actors were Hollywood nobodies—some worked in theater, others as waiters.

Hollywood wasn’t easy to survive in; without gigs, one still needed to eat. Fortunately, odd jobs were plentiful in America—if you were willing to work hard, it wasn’t difficult to fill your stomach.

They rarely saw scripts; to have two lines was a privilege. They had no right to read the script; whatever the assistant director said, they followed. If anyone dared improvise, they’d be booted instantly.

Film stock was expensive; no one would waste time on extras. Even if their scenes were shot, post-production editing might cut them out entirely. They were mere background characters; who cared about their feelings?

White Pictures was different. Here, not only was there a script outline, but every actor held a storyboard. Despite the chaos, nearly everyone had an opportunity to perform.

It was already late May; to catch the summer release window, William White accelerated filming.

Paramount’s studio remained exorbitant; William White was helpless. Shooting in Canada was possible, but completing the entire film there was impossible—the costs would be even higher.

Some might say the author is exaggerating—how could a crew be assembled in just a few days? Doesn’t acquiring equipment take time?

Actually, it didn’t. Hollywood had countless prop companies; as long as you could pay, the most advanced equipment was at your fingertips.

Costumes and firearms posed no problem either; they even provided large weapons and police cars—a simple phone call sufficed, the service was impeccable.

Camera and lighting were just as easy; they could be arranged within a day. There were all kinds of cinematographers, their fees determined by skill level. Sometimes there was some deception, but generally, service was reliable.

Their livelihood depended on providing services. Although White Pictures was a new company, no one dared to pull tricks—the legal team wasn’t just for show. Best not to disrupt their filming.

Paramount looked down on this crew of temp workers; these bumpkins truly believed the film industry was easy to navigate.

William White preferred a low profile; now was not the time to show his hand. All of Hollywood was dormant, especially in 1979.

That year’s box office champion was "Kramer vs. Kramer," an Oscar masterpiece starring Meryl Streep.

How much did it earn?

About fifty million dollars, boosted by its Oscar nomination; even the champion was at this level, the rest were negligible.

In history, "Police Academy" broke eighty million dollars without deliberate promotion.

When this film premiered, it was shown on a mere three hundred screens—a pitiful situation that needs no further description.

The group of nobodies and college students nearly drove William White to despair. Except for Eddie Murphy and Rowan Atkinson, the others were often sleepwalking, making White reluctant to start shooting.

“Jason, don’t look at the camera—I’ve told you a thousand times. Only fools stare at the lens.”

“Luna, you’re not a delicate lady now; you need to be assertive. Don’t you know what assertiveness is? My God, look at me.”

Despite constant issues, filming progress didn’t slow. The advantage of these extras was obedience; they didn’t care about overtime. Other crew members were paid by the hour, and their overtime wages were doubled.

After the first week, everyone settled in, and traces of overacting nearly vanished.

The set was convenient; now that they were in the zone, reshooting a few scenes was no problem.

It must be said, Mr. Bean was outstanding. Anyone acting opposite him was easily overshadowed. Eddie Murphy had talent; if he worked half as hard as Mr. Bean, his achievements would be even greater.

Once this movie is released, Mr. Bean will surely become famous. Even with a straight face, he made people want to laugh. Almost every actor in his scenes broke character; if not for editing, William White would surely cough blood.

This film carried a satirical undertone regarding America’s minority policies. One glance at the cast revealed it: African-American, Asian, Latino—a veritable United Nations.

The profession of police officer rarely included minorities; the film portrayed this with humor and mockery, without causing discomfort.

Ultimately, the main theme prevailed—this could not be compromised. Film censorship truly wasn’t strict, but that didn’t mean one could be reckless. When it came to religion and ethnicity, it was best not to push boundaries.

Mel Gibson was Hollywood’s top star; feeling invincible, he ventured into religious themes. "The Passion of the Christ" was no fabrication—it’s clearly described in the Bible.

Yet the Jewish consortium was displeased, and directly blacklisted Mel Gibson. Had he not later relented, he would have been exiled from Hollywood.

His treatment nearly matched Michael Jackson’s; his public image collapsed, almost driven to bankruptcy.

Hollywood served as a propaganda channel for certain groups; making money was important, but influence was paramount.

How others viewed it was uncertain, but the crew was highly optimistic about the film—it was simply hilarious and would surely cause a stir upon release.

Would it face obstacles in screening?

Eddie Murphy posed this odd question—he was desperate for fame and didn’t want his efforts wasted.

William White told him he hadn’t considered that possibility; if necessary, he could rent cinemas. If rental was not allowed, he’d consider acquiring a few theaters—were hundreds of screens expensive?

Such audacious confidence left Eddie Murphy speechless; how casually he spoke—were theaters expensive?

They really were costly; not to mention buying, even renting was astronomical. But it depended on whom you asked. To Eddie Murphy, it was expensive; to William White, perhaps not.

The American theater owners were having a rough year; half the year had passed, and not even one film grossed over a hundred million. Nearly none reached fifty million; Hollywood’s giants had all flopped. Theater owners depended on them for income; in such a market, theaters were dirt cheap—acquiring two was no real challenge.