Chapter Seventy: A Peculiar Society

The positioning of White Pictures was clear to everyone: the third film was, once again, a comedy, though its investment was slightly larger and it carried hints of a gunfight movie. It was undeniably amusing, given that the original Beverly Cop was an R-rated film, belonging to the gunfight genre. The American rating system is quite interesting—not an absolute ban for those under seventeen, but R-rated films require parental accompaniment. If the parents are responsible, that's fine, but with an irresponsible parent, who knows how to interpret this.

The same film, once in the hands of White Pictures, was defined by the public as a comedy. William White was utterly speechless; according to the Writers Guild's filing, it was clearly a gunfight film—how did it become a comedy? Film censorship in this era was strict; even Police Academy nearly became R-rated. No matter the age, there will always be critics, and the United States was no exception. Some questioned the ratings, believing that such lowbrow films should unquestionably be rated R.

White Pictures had no interest in responding to these criticisms, choosing to ignore them altogether. This was William White's decision; the more attention these people received, the more fervent they became, a group seeking notoriety. The best response was to disregard them—the rating system was not his decision, so let them complain to whomever they liked.

Americans, once they had a rating system, enforced it quite well, much like the jury system—not decided by any single person. Nevertheless, the review process for the next film would be stricter. Fortunately, Home Alone posed little risk; if anyone dared classify it as R-rated, they would be ridiculed worldwide.

Beverly Cop was different. In American reviews, romantic relationships weren't a primary concern, as long as the details weren't explicit. The focus was on shootings and violence; excessively dark scenes were considered unhealthy, and most criminal behavior was prohibited, with negative portrayals strictly forbidden.

As times progressed, these standards gradually relaxed each year. By today's criteria, a Conan movie would undoubtedly be R-rated. William White would never touch such manga genres; what if some fool tried to emulate them? That would be outright inciting crime, a surefire way to land in court, and with the American jury system, he'd have a sixty percent chance of losing.

This was no joke—there were plenty of lunatics in America, and no one could predict what they might do. In countries with overly active economies, such individuals always exist. Check the missing persons statistics in Los Angeles, and you'll see; many criminals are never caught.

Eddie Murphy, appearing for the first time as the protagonist, was understandably excited, and a one-million-dollar salary was enough to send him over the moon.

White Pictures' box office bonuses were unconventional; they were based on salary amounts, which was unheard of in Hollywood. Only big names got a share of the box office, while lesser actors were paid per day and dismissed once filming ended. This box office split applied only to North America; elsewhere, actors had no claim, as those earnings belonged to the producers—otherwise, who would invest in making movies?

William White's actions undoubtedly raised actors' incomes, causing other studios to resent him deeply. But he wasn't foolish; he was both director and screenwriter, so he too benefited from the bonuses. The company was one thing, personal earnings another—completely separate matters.

He wouldn't deliberately inflate his own value, as there was no need; personal income tax was formidable and inescapable. The IRS was a nightmare—much worse than the FBI, which relied on undercover agents and sting operations.

When had this group ever feared the FBI? The IRS was different—regardless of whether your income was legal or illegal, you had to pay taxes. If you dared not pay, soldiers would break down your door. It sounded exaggerated, but it was largely true; the IRS had armed forces and its own prisons, and even dared to summon presidents. What did criminal gangs amount to?

Eddie Murphy loved this role. Though he wasn't particularly educated, William White explained everything clearly: what was needed was contrast, and the stronger the contrast, the more successful the film. When filming Police Academy, Murphy was still somewhat confused, but by this film, he fully understood. He now realized why that movie was a hit—these intense contrasts were precisely what audiences enjoyed, giving them a powerful sense of immersion.

The success or failure of a movie or novel essentially hinges on immersion—the stronger the immersion, the better the response. Why do Western action films fall short of Japanese ones? Western films are full of handsome men and beautiful women, after all.

It all comes down to immersion. Japanese male protagonists are as sleazy as possible, and if the female lead is too unattractive, then a young heartthrob is needed. Their mastery of human nature is unparalleled; among fans of these genres, the highest ratio is among homebodies and burly men, and some older folks willing to spend lavishly. To give them immersion, such male leads are essential.

Beverly Cop was essentially a mix of gunfights and detective work, with a clichéd plot and poor storyline. Its success lay in throwing a wild wolf among sheep.

The difficulty was really the protagonist. If Stallone played the role, he'd turn it into a Los Angeles version of First Blood. Explosive scenes were fine, but you couldn't just make things up.

Los Angeles was unlucky; after people watched the TV series 24 Hours, many saw it as a criminal paradise. In reality, its public safety was among the best in America, but as Hollywood, gunfights and car chases were always pinned on Los Angeles.

Detroit and Chicago were the most chaotic places; oddly enough, Houston had excellent public safety.

Frankly, it's bizarre—Houston's gun ownership rate was the highest among major American cities, yet its public safety was good, with no scenes of bullets flying everywhere.

Society, after all, had more good people. That was Houston's situation—all the good folks were armed, so criminals preferred to keep a low profile.

There were documented cases—a seventy-year-old grandmother used a .38 to take down four robbers, injuring two.

Houston's criminals picked on easy targets, only to find they couldn't handle them, and nearly met their maker; had they died, it would have been truly tragic.

Whenever someone advocated gun control, there were always those who cited Texas. The logic wasn't entirely invalid, but it was somewhat strained.

Texas had historical reasons; they treated firearms very seriously—they were simply tools. Wolves now roamed suburban farms; without guns, you'd have to stay in the city.

This version of Beverly Cop, transplanted into a different reality, reduced unnecessary violent scenes and designed the plot more reasonably. The original never explained why the protagonist had to travel from Detroit to Los Angeles. The excuse of a murdered friend was flimsy; cross-jurisdiction investigations were unlikely—that was the FBI's job.

That's what federal agents were for. Each American state had different laws; when crimes crossed state lines or violated federal laws, they intervened. Murder and crossing jurisdictions clearly needed FBI involvement. This plot hole had to be fixed; otherwise, sequels would be impossible.