C 3

The day after returning home, Luke temporarily organized his luggage, went to his mother's advertising agency, borrowed a typewriter, and set up an empty room on the second-floor balcony overlooking the sea as a temporary studio. After completing these tasks, he made a cup of black tea, sat on the wicker chair on the balcony, and, enjoying the cool sea breeze, began to consider what kind of movie he should choose.

It had been a long time since the memories of his past life, and his mind wasn't like a computer capable of perfect recall. Many things had become blurred, even the Hollywood movies he'd once spent considerable time studying. While he still remembered the main plots, many details had slipped from his memory. Especially those films he had only watched once or twice—they left only the faintest impression. Without a prompt, he wouldn't even recall them.

This limited the scope of his choices.

Moreover, despite more than 20 years of learning and accumulation over two lives, and having made two experimental films in recent years, he had to admit he lacked experience in directing any formal projects. He was a complete novice. Based on his own and his mother's understanding, the chances of getting an opportunity were slim. But to keep hope alive, he needed to stick to the types of films he had studied and was best at making.

This meant that art films had to be excluded. He had studied those, too, and knew they weren't a good fit for his current skillset. Even if he got the chance to direct one, it would likely result in a disaster. Horror films were another possibility, as they were often low-budget yet successful in North America. However, he wasn't a fan of the genre, and his exposure to it was limited.

Lightly tapping the armrest of the chair, Luke's thoughts drifted back to the present. Film trends were always influenced by the social environment, and even if he remade a previously successful film to perfection, it could still fail in the early 1990s. The film he chose had to resonate with contemporary audiences.

What was popular in Hollywood now? Romantic comedies and action movies!

The former didn't appeal to him, so his thoughts naturally turned to action films. He could recall the names and general plots of several.

Considering the plot direction, camera work, actor performances, lighting, post-editing, and sound design, the action films he had studied in depth seemed like the most suitable choice.

After finishing his tea, Luke left the studio, made a few phone calls to set up appointments, and drove his second-hand Chevrolet out of Santa Monica, heading for the Los Angeles branch of the Screenwriters Association. After paying a small fee, he accessed the registry to check if the scripts of the films he remembered had already been registered. Fortunately, everything was archived on a computer, and the script names and summaries were easy to view.

After an entire afternoon of research, Luke confirmed that the scripts he was considering hadn't been registered. This significantly reduced the likelihood of overlap with other projects.

Of course, it was still possible that someone was working on the same idea but hadn't yet registered their script. If that happened in the future, it would just be a coincidence.

Now his task was to choose the most suitable script from the ones he remembered.

This wasn't difficult. By the time he was driving back home, Luke had already made his decision—he would go with the one that required the least investment.

After having dinner alone, Luke returned to his second-floor studio, sat at the typewriter, and began outlining the film he had studied as a model. Slowly, his ideas started to take shape.

The structure of the film was simple, the premise straightforward, and even the title had only one word—"Speed"!

In fact, the title could be adapted, as the film had different names depending on the country in which it was released.

This was one of Hollywood's most iconic action films of the 1990s. However, Luke's dilemma was that the investment required for such a film wasn't small. Even though it was the least expensive of the action films he was familiar with, it still required a significant budget.

Luckily, the Soviet Union hadn't yet collapsed, and Bill Clinton wasn't in power, so even though the U.S. dollar was depreciating, it wasn't as bad as it would be a few years later.

Even so, this film would require a budget of at least ten million dollars.

"Unless a pile of cash falls from the sky…" Luke muttered, shaking his head as he began typing the first letters on the typewriter.

As he had said before, the odds of success were slim. But if he made an effort, there might be a chance. If he didn't, there would be no chance at all.

"Only someone with strong determination can achieve extraordinary success!" Luke thought.

Over the next week, he set aside financial concerns and future uncertainties, putting all his energy into developing the character settings and script outline. With a pre-existing template in mind, all he needed to do was flesh it out according to the three-act structure and standard Hollywood formula.

Even though he'd forgotten many details, he could still find the right elements to fill in the gaps, thanks to the assembly-line approach of Hollywood screenwriting.

To avoid reducing his already slim chances, the script had to adhere to Hollywood's operational model and aesthetic standards. As an unknown newcomer with no track record, this was not the time to take creative risks.

By mid-May 1991, Santa Monica was enveloped in the scorching sun. Only at night did the cool breeze from the sea provide relief from the daytime heat. On the second-floor balcony, under the white lights, Luke sat in a wicker chair by a small round table, completely absorbed in his work. He ignored the occasional mosquito bites as his hands hovered over the typewriter keys, typing steadily.

The first scene, the opening shot.

The elevator doors on the ground floor of a building slid open, and a security guard with a walkie-talkie stepped inside. He followed vague sounds and spotted an elderly maintenance worker fixing something in the corner.

"Hey, no unauthorized access here!" the guard called out.

"I know," the maintenance worker replied, showing only half his face. "Someone called me in to fix a line."

"Why wasn't I notified?" the security guard asked, growing suspicious. "Let me see your work order."

"Just a second." The maintenance worker, whose left hand was missing a thumb, bent down to retrieve the work order from his bag. "Got it right here."

As he stood up, hiding his right hand behind the work order, he suddenly lunged, driving a knife into the guard's ear.

"This isn't personal!"

With a clear template, Luke's writing pace increased. The film's plot wasn't complex. Many of the action beats were standard Hollywood fare, but they were elevated by the film's relentless focus on time, speed, and life-or-death stakes. For many aspects of the film, Luke could rely on the countless video tapes he had watched and studied over the years.

Of course, the process wasn't without its challenges. Despite his years of learning, he still struggled with certain aspects, like writing emotional scenes.

Thankfully, this movie didn't require much emotional depth. The hero and heroine only shared a bond forged through shared adversity, and most of the emotional content could be downplayed.

Weeks passed, and Luke remained a virtual recluse, dedicating all his time to the script. He had few friends and no social life, transforming into a 1990s version of a workaholic. The only breaks came when his mother, Leah, wasn't busy, allowing for the occasional conversation over dinner.

"You don't know how to write emotional scenes?" Leah asked one evening at the dinner table, narrowing her eyes. "I remember you had plenty of girlfriends after you turned fifteen."

"Mom, my time is too valuable to waste on love," Luke replied, perhaps talking more than usual due to his recent isolation. "I was just playing around with them."

Immediately, Luke noticed the change in his mother's expression and quickly added, "I'm full. I'd better get back to work."

Back upstairs, Luke reviewed his nearly finished script. It had taken six weeks to get to this point, and the screenplay for Speed was almost complete.

The main plot hadn't changed much, but he had added several new details. He also appended a rough budget estimate at the end. Although he wasn't a professional, his years of experience on sets and familiarity with Hollywood's current scene gave him enough confidence to make a reasonable guess. Even if his numbers weren't perfectly accurate, they wouldn't be far off.

By trimming unnecessary scenes, renting most props, and using scaled-down models for expensive shots, Luke estimated that the total production cost would be between $14 million and $15 million.

Still, it was a daunting figure.

"No studio would risk that much money on a new director," Leah said after reading the script and budget. "Even though Hollywood has multiple financing channels, no reasonable person would place such a big bet."

"So..." Luke asked seriously, "Do you think any studio would take this script?"

"Besides the creative use of confined spaces and the race against time and speed, there's not much to set it apart," Leah replied honestly. "To be frank, Luke, I've seen a lot of scripts in my career. This one is, at best, average."