From Flower Vase to Film Emperor in Hollywood

Ding.

The elevator arrived at the first floor from the underground parking lot, and the elevator doors slowly opened, revealing the scene of the Actors Guild.

It was slightly different from what I had imagined.

The beige and yellow-based decor exuded a soft atmosphere, vaguely resembling a library.

Anyway, it had nothing to do with movies—

There was a front desk for reception, with a stack of materials piled up beside it.

At the entrance, a waiting area was set up, and some people were sitting there listlessly.

Because there were no smartphones, they were still dedicated 'low-head' people, flipping through newspapers and magazines.

Diagonally in front, in the notice board area, a black woman with glasses wearing a cardigan was writing on it, densely packed with job postings.

Although it was already the twenty-first century, and computer penetration had comprehensively increased, at least in the present year of 2000, the convenience of the internet was still waiting to be further explored.

Retro and old-fashioned job postings were still very popular, and the Actors Guild's hardware update speed was still not fast enough.

Standing in place, I carefully looked around—

Red.

Yellow.

Green.

Blue.

Different colors of chalk represented different types of film crews, different attribute requirements, different levels of emergencies, and so on.

Everyone could find audition information according to their own situation.

I had heard before that Hollywood produced three hundred movies a year.

Hearing this roughly, I didn't feel anything, and was even a little surprised, thinking there were only three hundred?

But now, seeing it with my own eyes, the job opportunities provided by the number 'three hundred' crashed over me like a wave, and the whole nature of it was completely different.

"Excuse me…"

The receptionist noticed Anson's footsteps, stopping in place, as if Harry Potter was entering Hogwarts for the first time, and politely asked.

Noticing Anson's gaze, the receptionist revealed a sweet smile.

"Is there anything I can help you with? You must be visiting the Guild for the first time, right? I can give you a brief introduction."

Friendly, polite.

Anson chuckled, "It seems the word 'newcomer' is written all over my face."

The receptionist's eyebrows completely relaxed, "I would rather call it vigor."

Vigor?

Carefully savoring it, this adjective was not only apt, but also meaningful.

Anson couldn't help but take another look at the receptionist.

Indeed, even the receptionist was experienced.

Anson was a little curious, casting a glance towards the notice board, "So, in this process of sifting through the sand, is there any special trick?"

"Sifting through the sand?" The receptionist repeated, the smile in her eyes overflowing, "Perhaps, luck is the only answer."

The memories from 2023 were an endless treasure.

The corners of Anson's mouth gently turned up, "I should go to church to pray later.

Do you know where the nearby church is?"

"Ha." The receptionist immediately understood Anson's joke, her expression completely relaxed.

Anson didn't continue to exchange pleasantries, "Anson Wood.

I have an appointment.

To avoid being late, why not postpone our summit conversation a little bit."

"Haha." The receptionist looked at the only computer screen on the first floor with a beaming smile, typing away happily.

The screen refreshed with information at a snail's pace—

Darren had completed the reservation in advance.

"Oh, here it is, Anson Wood, fourth floor, 407, Andrew O'Connell, you can go straight up."

Anson revealed a smile, "Thank you."

The receptionist raised her head, just in time to see Anson's smile, and her mood brightened as well, "Congratulations."

Anson was slightly stunned.

The receptionist quickly explained, "You're here to sign the contract, right? Congratulations on getting the role."

Anson suddenly understood, "Hopefully this isn't the last time."

His casual joke once again won a soft laugh, and then Anson walked towards the elevator bathed in gazes.

The receptionist couldn't help but stand up, leaning out slightly, watching that tall and dashing figure, the smile on her lips never fading, her eyes sparkling.

Until the elevator doors closed.

… …

Knock knock!

The sound of knocking stirred shallow ripples in the quiet of the corridor.

Without waiting, a crisp voice came from inside, and Anson pushed the door open and entered.

Files.

Files.

And more files.

Mountainous piles of files.

As soon as he entered, Anson instantly dreamed of his senior year in high school.

At that time, they were also like this, piling books, test papers, and exercises around the desk, like a siege, surrounding themselves.

In the corner of the files, a pair of feet wearing white socks were placed cross-legged, the visual impact was very direct—

In an instant, it was as if he had arrived on Quentin Tarantino's film set.

The entire Hollywood knew that Quentin loved to film feet, having his own fetish.

A little slower, those feet retracted, and a ginger chestnut head suddenly lifted up.

The facial features on that face seemed to all have their own personalities, letting themselves go, the whole appearance slightly scribbled; but the rough temperament between the eyebrows cleverly integrated the facial features, forming a unique personal temperament.

If he appeared in a gangster movie full of hooliganism, it should be very suitable.

Perhaps, Quentin's "Reservoir Dogs"?

Or Guy Ritchie's "Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels".

"Anson?"

Andrew O'Connell was holding a cigarette in his mouth, but it was not lit.

The cigarette swayed up and down with the movement of his lips as he spoke, his eyebrows slightly furrowed.

After receiving a definite answer, Andrew did not continue with the pleasantries.

"Clauses.

Projects.

Details."

"I have already communicated everything, there are no problems, all that remains is for you to confirm."

"This is the confidentiality agreement."

"This is the performance agreement."

Crackle crackle, there was no pause at all, and a huge amount of information came crashing down, showing Andrew's decisive and efficient manner.

Although the desk was full of files, Andrew obviously had his own habits.

He quickly pulled out a few files and handed them to Anson.

Anson was not in a hurry, capturing a detail in the words, interrupting Andrew, "Confidentiality agreement?"

Andrew, with a cigarette in his mouth, raised his chin and squinted at Anson.

"The filming of this season of 'Friends' is coming to an end, and countless people are curious about how this season's story will end."

"Especially how Chandler will propose to Monica, the production team must keep the subsequent plot secret."

"Look, they are even unwilling to send me the script, waiting for you to sign the confidentiality agreement, the production team will personally hand the script to you."

With a pause, Andrew's eyebrows furrowed slightly, even though the cigarette was not lit, it seemed as if wisps of smoke could be seen enveloping his face.

He leaned his body forward slightly, as if in a black deal in a crime movie, his face hidden in the shadows of the light, lowering his voice.

"Do you know that someone is willing to pay four hundred thousand dollars to buy an episode script now?"

Anson's eyebrows gently raised, it seemed that Marvel's methods of preventing spoilers were not new in Hollywood, but a good tradition.

Andrew noticed Anson's expression, but misunderstood Anson's thoughts, his eyebrows relaxed, revealing a hint of teasing, he sat back straight, and casually made a joke.

"Believe me, it's not worth it for a mere four hundred thousand dollars."

Entertainment newbie author Qimao debuts, thank you all book friends for your support, follow the updates, follow the updates, follow the updates, sincerely hope that all readers can keep following the updates during the new book period, thank you! Thank you!