Hollywood Director 1992

[Chapter 3: A Bittersweet Reality]

"Who?!"

Link shouted in annoyance.

"Sir, you're still alive, great, it's time to check out."

"Check out? Check out of what? This is my office!"

Link groggily opened his eyes, stunned.

Where was he? Where was Nicole Kidman? Where was my office?

As he rubbed his eyes and sat up, he realized with disbelief that he was not in the pristine, beachfront office of DreamWorks, but rather a damp, moldy, tiny room filled with unpleasant odors.

The place featured only a bed, a broken wardrobe with a black television, a tarnished kettle, and a poster of Nicole Kidman taped to one wall.

Despite the windows being sealed, a chilly draft seeped in through the cracks.

Link shivered and quickly pulled the covers up to his neck, attempting to shield himself from the biting cold from all directions.

However, the dank smell of the bedding continued to assault his senses.

Link felt dizzy from confusion.

He couldn't process how just moments ago he had been in a luxurious office with the breathtaking Nicole Kidman, and now found himself in this dreary, cold space.

...

Knock, knock, knock! Knock, knock, knock!

The knocking outside grew more aggressive and jarring.

"Sir, it's 11:30 AM! If you don't check out by noon, we'll charge you another day!"

The voice from outside rang out.

"No, I'll check out immediately!"

Upon hearing the additional charge, Link instinctively replied in haste.

After responding, Link felt puzzled. His film Buried had grossed over $100 million worldwide, and his bank balance exceeded eight digits. Why was he worried about covering a stay?

Link stood slowly from the bed, confusion still clouding his mind; dizziness returned as he stumbled slightly, almost collapsing onto the filthy floor.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, realizing it was warmer than usual.

He was running a fever.

Link sniffed; his nose felt congested.

What was happening?

His beachfront villa, the Rolls-Royce, DreamWorks Pictures, Nicole Kidman... where had they gone?

Link grabbed his down jacket lying on the cover, crouched to put on his sneakers, then realized he was still in his underwear; he hastily took off his shoes to put on sweatpants and jeans instead.

As he performed these actions, he gradually came back to his senses, unearthing an astounding, hardly believable reality.

...

Everything that had happened before was an illusion -- a vivid daydream.

While he had indeed attended the 8th Sundance Film Festival, he didn't win any awards.

In fact, no media outlet even mentioned his film.

There had been no big-shot Harvey Weinstein purchasing the rights to Buried.

Nor had Buried grossed millions immediately after its release.

The beautiful Nicole Kidman was not the star of Buried -- and she hadn't been lying on the table for him to admire.

That was merely a poster on the wall, projecting a dream.

The Rolls-Royce, the Beverly Hills villa, the DreamWorks studio, the Hollywood starlets lining up for auditions, Harvey Weinstein begging for a partnership, outpacing Quentin Tarantino, and being hailed by the media as the greatest newcomer in Hollywood -- all of those were mere fabrications of a dream.

"It can't be! It can't be! Those moments felt so real, and Nicole Kidman felt so good in my embrace! How could it have been a dream? It must be a prank!"

Link shook his head, but his mind continued to swirl.

He pressed his burning forehead and stumbled into the tiny bathroom.

...

Just like last night, the faucet remained devoid of hot water.

In the frigid Utah weather, the cold water flowing from the faucet was enough to chill one to the core.

Link splashed cold water onto his face, fighting against the warmth on his forehead.

His thoughts began to regain clarity.

His name is Link, there was no mistake.

He was a time traveler.

Five months prior, an accident had sent him from 2024 to 1991, transforming him into an orphan residing in a Los Angeles inner city.

In hopes of improving his circumstances, he returned to his past life as a director.

Carrying his scripts, he sought out investment, but no film companies displayed interest in his projects.

His submissions sank without a trace -- no responses from any film studios at all.

Desperate, he took up a job as a waiter in a restaurant while finding roles in various Hollywood film productions, even taking a job as a mascot at a McDonald's.

He juggled four to five jobs at once.

...

After three and a half months, he managed to save $20,000.

With that money, he rented a camera, sound equipment, and a few props to begin shooting his own project.

However, during the casting process, others realized he was the sole crew member and couldn't afford to pay anyone, which resulted in no one wanting to join his production.

Rental fees for cameras were exorbitant, often over two hundred dollars per day.

With no choice but to make do, he decided to write, direct, and act in the film himself.

Over the course of ten strenuous days, amidst the most challenging conditions, he finally wrapped up Buried's production.

When the Sundance Festival rolled around, he brought his newly finished film to Park City, Utah, aiming to showcase it at the world's largest independent film festival, Sundance.

...

Founded in 1984, the Sundance Film Festival was created by renowned director and actor Robert Redford to celebrate independent filmmakers and their works.

Taking place annually in mid to late January over 10-11 days, the festival attracted over 3,400 films showcasing the best independent talent from around the world.

Link arrived at the festival with high hopes for Buried, dreaming of it achieving instant recognition.

He hoped for the jury's favor, lots of interest from distributors, and a chance to cash in big.

However, reality was far harsher than his dreams.

Over the three days of screenings, only a handful of attendees entered the theater, and many left halfway through.

The lack of audience only enhanced the film's silence.

Buried barely made any impression at the festival -- no distributors approached him for rights.

In stark contrast, Quentin Tarantino's new film, Reservoir Dogs, was positively celebrated.

Harvey Weinstein himself sought out Quentin, securing the distribution rights at a premium.

...

Feeling cold and hungry amidst his undeniable disappointment, Link drowned his sorrows in alcohol.

Eventually, he fell ill in that cheap hotel without heating, and found himself entangled in a lavish daydream.

"Alas, dreaming is far easier; life just doesn't play out that smoothly."

Link looked at the reflection staring back at him in the mirror. At least his face was a comfort -- handsome with clear short hair, bold brows, and a sharp nose.

With high cheekbones and a pale complexion, he resembled a striking vampire.

Link smiled, flashing white teeth. "Just you wait, Hollywood. You won't know what hit you."

...

[Film production is complete; box office subsidy system is counting...]

[Your contribution to the film was 95.3%; overall film quality is at 87.7%.]

[Reward: 4x box office subsidy; directing experience +30%; physical fitness +10%.]

Am I still dreaming?

Link rubbed his eyes, seeing [4x box office subsidy] flash on the screen three times before fading away.

"Is the system actually real?"

Would it compensate for Buried's original box office with a quadruple subsidy?

If so, my Buried could make over $80 million globally?

With such earnings, a film company, lavish villa, fancy cars, and Nicole Kidman would no longer be mere fantasies.

Ding, ding, ding!

At noon, the bells of Park City rang out.

Realizing he hadn't paid his room fee, Link hastily packed up his meager belongings and burst out of the room, shouting, "Check out! I wish to check out now!!!"

*****

https://www.patreon.com/Sayonara816.