My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 160 The "Perfect" Ending

"Splash—"

The night wind swept through the San Fernando Valley, swirling up the popcorn tubes on the ground.

The taillights of that black Ford had long since faded into two faint red dots at the far end of the highway, blending perfectly into the boundless night of Los Angeles.

Paul Schrader remained frozen in place, like a lifeless sculpture.

The hundred-dollar bill, wedged in the gap of the car window, slapped against the glass in the cold wind, making a piercing sound.

The voice sounded like a condescending mockery, or like a hand of fate reaching out from the abyss, madly tempting him to grasp it.

Paul shakily pulled the ink-smelling banknote off the car window.

As a film critic with a master's degree in film from UCLA, he once scorned those money-grubbing studios.

But now?

The hunger pangs in his stomach and the nauseating sour smell emanating from his body were a stark reminder of a fact—he was almost devoid of the right to even talk about self-respect.

Paul opened the rusty car door and frantically groped around in the dark back seat, pulling out a thick stack of papers.

On the cover, the words "Taxi Driver" were written in messy handwriting.

He stared intently at the name on the cover, his breathing becoming increasingly rapid.

The protagonist of the script, Travis, is a veteran who crawled back from the quagmire of the Vietnam War and a severe insomniac driven mad by the decadence and stench of New York.

Travis is himself.

In this city filled with lies and hypocrisy, Travis tries to find meaning in his existence.

He tried to assassinate the presidential candidate who made empty promises, but failed and fled like a stray dog.

He wanted to save the girl soliciting customers on the street and pull her away from the pimp named "Matthew".

But then what?

Paul clutched his tangled hair in anguish; writing this part of the script felt like sinking into a suffocating swamp.

How can Travis end all of this?

Let him give up the struggle and die quietly in some gutter in New York like a real coward?

Or should we let him take a gun and rush into the street, only to be shot dead by New York police, becoming a forgotten social news story in the corner of the next day's newspaper?

No! Absolutely not! The emotional release is far from enough!

Travis needs an explosion, a climax that can shatter this hypocritical world!

He could clearly feel that climax was in a locked room deep in his mind, but he just couldn't find the key!

Paul was breathing heavily, his gaze rising to the rearview mirror inside the car.

The mirror reflected a face: tangled hair, stubble, sunken eyes, bloodshot eyes, and a look of madness.

"Be prepared to return to the red carpet, or stay stuck in this quagmire forever."

The words the Chinese man left behind echoed in my ears again and again.

"Fuck the mud puddle!"

Paul shoved the hundred dollars into his pocket, grabbed the car key, inserted it into the ignition, and turned it all the way in.

"Boom—cough cough cough!"

The old Dodge roared as it shuddered violently, spewing a thick plume of black smoke from its exhaust pipe.

This dilapidated car, laden with garbage and nightmares, crashed through the night like a runaway horse, speeding headlong down towards downtown Los Angeles without looking back.

The following morning, Sunset Tower.

The once quiet office now seemed like a powder keg about to explode.

"Go to hell! I've had enough of you West Coast hypocrites!"

Martin Scorsese, the future legendary director, was at this time just a young, rebellious upstart in the industry.

With thick, dark eyebrows, he waved his hands wildly in the air, his heavy Italian accent spraying through the room like machine gun fire as he yelled at Michael Ovitz, who stood behind his desk: "I hate Los Angeles! I hate you vampire producers who just sit in air-conditioned offices looking at reports even more!"

Martin whirled around, his finger almost poking Michael's nose: "If you went through all that trouble to bring me to this money-smelling place just to have me make a Disney family movie for kids—I'm buying a plane ticket and heading straight back to New York right now!"

Faced with Martin's furious roar, Michael slammed his hands on the walnut wood table, his voice even more forceful than Martin's:

-

"Mr. Scorsese, please put away your ridiculous arrogance immediately!"

"Don't think that just because you made an underground film that a few people applauded, the whole world has to revolve around you!"

"If it weren't for our Han's Films mediating, would Disney's legal department have let you off so easily?!"

"We shielded you from the business troubles you hate most, and now you're throwing a tantrum like a three-year-old in my office?"

Two equally hot-tempered men clashed, sparks flying.

"Click." The office door was pushed open from the outside.

Qin Han carried two coffee cups and slowly walked in. He walked unhurriedly to the sofa and placed one of the coffee cups steadily on the coffee table in front of Martin.

"Martin, sit down. Have some coffee first."

He stared into Martin's eyes, his voice echoing clearly in the spacious office: "I know you have a lot of grievances. Indeed, Hollywood's values ​​dictate that films here can't be too—realistic."

"However, I don't think it's a big problem to occasionally create a few nightmares for the audience."

Upon hearing this, Martin Scorsese finally nodded, picked up his coffee, and sat down.

"I've seen your 'Cruel Street'." Qin Han cut straight to the point: "Many people say you're making films about gangsters and violence. But they're all wrong."

He incisively exposed the genius director's soul: "Deep down, you are fascinated by the sinful and decadent atmosphere of the streets of New York."

"What you truly yearn for in your heart are those marginalized figures who have been abandoned by mainstream society, struggle in the sewers, and are driven mad by repression."

Martin's pupils contracted slightly, and his fingers holding the coffee cup tightened unconsciously.

This young Chinese man, with just a few words, accurately pinpointed the core of all his creative desires!

"As for Disney—"

Qin Han leaned back in his chair, letting Michael hand the "liability waiver" to the troublesome director: "That's a 'white glove' agreement."

"Disney would never dare let one of its contracted child stars play a bad girl on the big screen. Once they get involved in such a scandal, Wall Street shareholders will tear them apart."

"So, Han's Film Company is playing the villain."

"And you, Martin Scorsese, no producer will interfere with you; you can have Judy play whatever bad girl you want without restraint," exactly what does that mean?

"Once I finish filming your 'Alice,' I can start preparing for my movie!"

This was the first time Martin had ever heard a Hollywood producer say something so contrary to his preconceived notions.

There was no haggling, no endless chatter about the rate of return on investment; they actually delegated so much authority!

He put the coffee cup back on the coffee table, lowered his guard, and his eyes were filled with intense curiosity.

"You went to such great lengths, not only shielding me from all commercial obstacles, but also giving me all the freedom a director could ever dream of —"

"So what exactly do you want me to film? You want me to film some crazy people in New York, where's your script?"

Qin Han did not answer immediately. He slowly raised his left hand, glanced at the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist, and saw that the hands were pointing towards ten o'clock.

A faint smile appeared in his eyes, and Qin Han said softly, "I'm waiting for someone."

"A rare genius who could turn the stench of New York's sewers into a poem of despair."

"I believe that when you two madmen meet, you will create an extremely terrifying chemical reaction and become the greatest partners of this era."

Martin's appetite was completely whetted, and he eagerly pressed on, "Who is it? Does Hollywood have screenwriters like this? Robert Tom? Or one of Francis's men?"

Qin Han simply shook his head, maintaining his mysterious silence.

Michael Ovitz, who had been standing to the side, finally couldn't hold back any longer. He strode over to Qin Han's sofa, bent down, and lowered his voice, his tone filled with strong doubt and worry: "Boss, are you really sure?"

Thinking back to the stinking, humanoid piece of trash he saw at the drive-in theater last night, he simply couldn't associate it with the word "genius."

"Does that madman who sleeps in the garbage dump really have the guts to step into the Sunset Tower today?"

No sooner had he finished speaking than two soft knocks sounded in the office.

"They're here," Qin Han said with a smile.

Michael opened the door and saw Paul Schrader standing in the doorway.

If it weren't for the still neurotic look in those eyes, he would hardly recognize the person in front of him.

He shaved off his thick, bushy beard, revealing his pale face.

The previously tangled hair was washed clean and neatly combed back.

He was wearing a gray suit that he had obviously bought from a second-hand store, which made him look much more normal.

Although he was dressed neatly and cleanly, he was still in a state of extreme tension.

Standing in the Sunset Tower office, his unease almost overflowed, his hands clenched into fists as if he were ready to run away at any moment.

Qin Han smiled, stood up, and strode to the door.

He didn't say any of those insincere pleasantries; he simply looked calmly into Paul's bloodshot eyes and extended his right hand.

Paul clenched his teeth, his chest heaving violently.

He took a deep breath, as if using all his strength, and pulled out a thick, yellowed manuscript from the paper bag beside him.

"Slap." He stuffed the manuscript into Qin Han's palm, as if it were not just a script, but his life and fortune.

Sitting on the sofa, Martin Scorsese looked across the sofa and saw the rough black words "Taxi Driver" on the cover of the manuscript.

For no reason at all, the director's intuition was screaming alarm bells: this thing was definitely not simple!

Qin Han took the manuscript and walked back to the coffee table. Under the watchful eyes of Martin and Michael, he directly opened the script.

The only sound in the office was the rustling of papers turning over.

The group read very quickly, their eyes scanning the lines filled with violence, confusion, and idioms.

"A very vivid psychological description."

As Qin Han turned the pages, he spared no praise: "This intense sense of oppression, Travis driving a taxi every day, coldly observing this decadent city, this intense loneliness, is written so vividly it's almost suffocating."

The script was quickly finished.

"But, Paul."

He waved the last few pages in his hand, his voice becoming stern: "All that you've said so far, your emotions are like a supervolcano about to erupt."

"What about your ending? Why did it suddenly become so uneventful?"

Paul's face turned deathly pale instantly, his lips trembled as he tried to retort, but no sound came out.

He knew it was a dead end: in order to make it to today's meeting, he racked his brains and hastily wrote an ending.

"Travis cannot simply destroy himself."

Qin Han tossed the script onto the coffee table, stood up, and began pacing slowly around the room, guiding Paul's thoughts: "Think carefully, what kind of person is Travis? He's an outsider who desperately craves attention and recognition from this indifferent society."

"He trains his body every day, buys guns, and wants to cleanse this city, which he sees as filthy, through extreme violence."

Qin Han walked up to Paul, staring into his eyes: "What if he failed to assassinate that politician? He shaved his head, was fully armed, but was chased away by the agents like a clown."

"So, where should he unleash his pent-up rage, those loaded bullets in his gun?"

Paul's eyes began to flicker aimlessly, his brain was working frantically, and he vaguely grasped at some kind of feeling.

Oh, right, send him to that gang-controlled brothel!

Transform him into a "Western cowboy" of the streets of New York!

Paul's excitement grew, and he exclaimed, "That's right! A thrilling gunfight! A brutal, extremely bloody gunfight!"

"Gunfire erupted in the narrow stairwell, severing pimps' fingers and shattering gangsters' arms! Blood splattered throughout the room!"

"Let him empty every last bullet in his magazine, let him unleash all the pent-up emotions of his life in that filthy hell!"

"Finally—finally—" Cold sweat began to break out on his forehead; he was stuck at the last step!

Qin Han suddenly raised his right hand, his index and middle fingers together, and his thumb raised high, making a gesture like a pistol.

He pressed the "pistol" against his temple, mimicking the action of pulling the trigger.

"Bang!"

"When the New York police stormed into that blood-soaked room with guns at their ready, Travis was out of bullets."

"He was slumped on the sofa, covered in blood, shooting himself in the head with his bloodied fingers, and shooting at the police who rushed in."

The entire office was deathly silent; everyone held their breath.

But Qin Han's performance wasn't over yet; he delivered the ending that cemented the film's legendary status: "Then, the most ironic scene appeared."

"This madman, who originally just wanted to take revenge on society—by mistakenly killing a gang and rescuing a twelve-year-old girl, was portrayed by the media as a righteous and evil-fighting urban hero!"

Pfft!

Paul's legs went weak, and he collapsed onto the sofa, trembling violently with emotion, large tears streaming down his face.

found it!

This is the release he has been searching for! This is Travis's perfect ending!

A praise composed of blood and absurdity, giving the middle finger to this rotten world!

Martin Scorsese sprang up from the sofa, grabbed the manuscript of "Taxi Driver" and roared at Qin Han, "Qin! This movie is mine!"