Chapter Fifty-Seven: The Comedy of Contrasts

William White was thinking that if Beverly Hills Cop had starred Sylvester Stallone, damn it, there was no way it could have been a comedy, nor would there have been any sequels. The only ending would have been a complete flop. Musclemen belong in First Blood; casting them in comedies is a recipe for disaster. This only shows how unreliable Hollywood blockbusters can be.

The success of Beverly Hills Cop, in truth, is much like that of Police Academy—it’s the comedic effect born of stark contrast. People who are completely unsuited to be cops end up as police officers; this contradiction and disparity are massive, and Beverly Hills Cop’s plot thrives on exactly that.

Compared to the crime-ridden city of Detroit, Beverly Hills’ police force are more like gentlemen than law enforcement officers. Their main daily tasks might be rescuing kittens and puppies, or assisting heiresses who forgot to switch off their alarm systems.

By police density, Beverly Hills ranks highest in America. The officers are always impeccably dressed, polite and courteous. If you think all American police are like this, you’re hopelessly naive.

In this peculiar country, the number of police isn’t determined by actual need, but by tax revenues. One important tax in the States is property tax, and it’s quite unique—its exclusivity is remarkable. Taxes collected in one neighborhood absolutely cannot be used in the next. Beverly Hills’ property values are sky-high, and with property taxes rising each year, public facilities here are excellent: good schools, plenty of police stations.

If a theft occurs, more than five police cars will arrive within five minutes, and their vehicles are often top-notch, some even donated by wealthy benefactors. It’s the same on New York’s Long Island and the Upper East Side. But Queens or Detroit are a different story; even a shooting might take an hour before police respond—not because they don’t want to, but because there simply aren’t enough officers.

The more chaotic the community, the lower the property values. No rich person wants to live there. At the extreme, many neighborhoods become havens for the homeless, with no property tax to speak of. Getting the trash picked up is considered a blessing.

The difference between a supercop from the city of sin and a Beverly Hills officer is so comical it’s hard not to laugh just thinking about it. With the artistic exaggeration of film, this contrast is shamelessly amplified.

Imagine someone so out of place, thrown in with a group of impeccably dressed officers—it’s easy to see just how jarring it would be.

The essence of this film is contrast. In my previous life, this movie wasn’t even considered a comedy. I really can’t fathom how they managed to turn an action film into a comedy. By the second installment, the director finally came to his senses, and the movie’s popularity only grew, eventually creating a box office miracle.

From the start, William White had no intention of being restrained by convention. He went to extremes, making all the Beverly Hills cops into gentlemen, while the Detroit cop—well, he’d just draw his gun at the slightest provocation. William even thought he ought to be a Texas cowboy; in reality, Detroit officers aren’t quite that reckless. They usually wait until the dust settles before intervening. When rival gangs are at war, they keep their distance.

But that’s just how things were back then. Don’t be fooled by Texans carrying guns in public—their police are just as relaxed. The good guys are so well-armed, the bad guys tend to behave themselves.

The futures market continued to boom, and William White had to divide his attention. Silver prices were approaching twenty dollars an ounce; nothing could be more profitable. The entire world was deleveraging and fighting inflation, making silver futures seem completely out of place.

If silver reached twenty dollars, each contract would be worth a hundred thousand dollars. Using a thousand to leverage a hundred thousand—it all seemed fantastical. Many futures brokers began demanding higher margins, unable to withstand the risk. A mere 1% fluctuation could trigger a wipeout—when had such things occurred in the futures market?

“Young master, we’ve already completed fifty percent of our profit-taking,” Uncle Fu reported excitedly. The past few months had felt like a dream—making money had become almost too easy.

“Good, Uncle Fu, don’t worry too much. If it goes above twenty dollars, speed up our selling. Liquidate everything in the U.S. by October,” William replied, unable to stay calm himself. The money came so easily, it was more efficient than running a printing press.

“Young master, what about the London contracts? The prices don’t seem as strong there.”

“Haha, the main concern in the States is the Hunt family pulling some underhanded trick. They’ve completely lost their minds this time—I doubt they’ll know when to quit.”

William knew perfectly well that this group of lunatics would eventually push silver up to fifty dollars. When the Russians invaded Afghanistan, silver and gold both skyrocketed, with gold nearly reaching eight hundred dollars.

These crazed speculators never considered the impact on the global economy. This blind greed for wealth ultimately ruined many families.

No one in the world sympathized with them. Their actions threatened to topple the world economy. The sharp devaluation of the dollar was already infuriating enough; if it really lost ninety percent of its value, even the world’s superpower couldn’t hold on.

America, at this moment, was shameless but not yet utterly so. The subprime crisis of 2008 was a different story—their printing presses ran wild, dragging the global economy down with them.

Casting for the new movie was settled, so the team could finally be assembled. White Pictures was growing rapidly; it was no longer some ragtag outfit. In America, as long as you’re willing to spend big, you’ll attract top talent of every kind.

For Hollywood giants, the biggest headache was always the lack of good scripts. At White Pictures, the boss wrote all the scripts himself, which left people dumbfounded. If these scripts had been written by other screenwriters, the studios would have spared no expense to acquire them.

Screenwriters of this era were far less glamorous than those of later generations. Even though life wasn’t particularly easy for them in the future, it was still much better than now. Hollywood was drowning in scripts—cab drivers and janitors were all trying their hand at screenwriting. Expecting to strike it rich with a script? That’s a joke. An annual income of two hundred thousand dollars already made you a top-tier writer. Bestselling novelists earned far more—those with real talent usually switched to writing novels.

In fact, many excellent scripts were written by misfits. Take The Terminator, for example: after watching Star Wars, James Cameron became obsessed, feverishly inspired. The Terminator was nothing more than a nightmare from his overactive imagination. See, he wasn’t even a cab driver—just a truck driver who happened to write a great script.

If he hadn’t insisted on directing it himself, the script would have been sold off long ago.