Chapter 4: How Many Geniuses Are Buried in Hollywood

Both the current Murphy and his former self came from extremely ordinary families. A life of mediocrity and even poverty from an early age taught him a valuable lesson: opportunities never fall from the sky; they must be fought for. This is the entertainment industry, where countless people would scramble for a chance to rise to the top.

Even though Bruce Berman said "NO," Murphy hadn't completely given up. The opportunity to work on the sequels to "The Matrix" was too rare.

The office was as quiet as outer space. Only three seconds had passed since Bruce Berman's rejection, but to Murphy, it felt like an eternity. His mind was racing like the most advanced computer, trying to make a last-ditch effort.

"Mr. Berman, Mr. Miller," Murphy steadied his nerves, speaking earnestly as if he hadn't noticed the sharp gazes from the two men. "An internship... would that be possible?"

Once he got the hardest part out, the rest flowed smoothly. "Many people are willing to take unpaid positions to get to know an industry. I'm willing to do the same."

Murphy had already lowered his bottom line significantly for his future.

Bruce Berman, however, just laughed. "I won't hire a paparazzo and an assailant."

His tone was very flat, devoid of any emotion, but it was piercingly harsh.

Murphy clenched his hands tightly. If this were in prison, the fat man opposite him would become a wailing, belly-hugging mess within three seconds. But this wasn't prison, and prison rules didn't apply here.

He had already accidentally injured one British director. If he hurt a famous producer, the entire film industry would likely blacklist him.

Taking a deep breath, Murphy said nothing more and walked out of the office.

There was no point in continuing. No matter how hard he tried, this opportunity would not fall into his lap.

Outside the office area, Murphy looked up at the sunny sky, unable to see where his future lay. Though he couldn't help but feel a bit dejected, he quickly shook it off.

This was Hollywood, after all, where countless dreamers and self-proclaimed talents flocked, yet only a few managed to break through. Most people, after spending their youth and time, could only leave in disappointment or become part of the vast underclass of this industry.

How many geniuses are buried in Hollywood? Perhaps only God knows.

The supposed best opportunity vanished just like that. Murphy felt somewhat dejected. His predecessor had left him with a colossal mess.

Thinking about his next steps, Murphy walked towards the exit of Warner's production lot. Lost in thought, he nearly collided with a woman at the entrance of a soundstage.

"Hey, watch where you're going!"

A clear female voice rang out, followed by another pointing at a curvy, long-haired woman beside her. "You almost bumped into Miss Monica. Apologize!"

Murphy stopped and turned to see the familiar face. Even outside of a film setting, anyone could recognize the famous Italian actress Monica Bellucci.

She stood there, looking coldly at him, flicking her shoulder as if Murphy had dirtied it.

Standing there, she epitomized the cold, sexy, beautiful, and haughty demeanor of a renowned actress.

Especially that haughtiness, which even Murphy, not particularly knowledgeable about women, could clearly sense—it was the kind of disdain that Hollywood elites had for small-timers.

Though she was only a minor star in Hollywood, she was far beyond Murphy's reach.

Her reaction stung Murphy, but he knew very well that respect in Hollywood's cutthroat world wasn't handed out equally. It had to be earned through actions.

Monica Bellucci had every right to look down on him, especially since it was his fault for nearly bumping into her.

"Regarding what just happened," Murphy said calmly, his voice steady, "I apologize."

He turned away, walking forward without looking back, as if nothing had happened.

To gain the respect of people like Bruce Berman and Monica Bellucci, words alone were useless. If talking alone could conquer others, the Kims would have already unified the globe.

This was a realistic society, not a fairy tale.

Over the next week, Murphy had a greater taste of reality and understood why Ross returned to his old job after getting out of prison.

For someone with a criminal record, finding a legitimate and decent job was incredibly difficult.

Murphy went to two more crew interviews, but both rejected him outright after checking his background. Even a small crew turned him away when he sought a menial job.

For a time, Murphy cursed his predecessor and America's hellish societal environment daily. But soon enough, he would calm down.

People habitually attribute their success to themselves and their failures to their environment.

However, such thinking did nothing to solve real problems.

After repeatedly failing to find a job in the film industry, Murphy didn't give up. He realized that establishing himself in Hollywood was far more challenging than he had imagined, becoming more pragmatic as a result.

Not only in the film industry, but Murphy's attempts at other industries also ended in failure. This was unsurprising; few legitimate businesses or shops would hire someone with no education, no skills, and a criminal record.

Would he really have to sell drugs and illegal guns?

Murphy knew this was a path of no return. He would rather work as a laborer in an auto repair shop, even though the job was hard and the pay couldn't be collected daily.

Now, Murphy faced a pressing issue: money. Despite being frugal, his $243 was nearly gone. If he didn't find a way to get money, he wouldn't last until the next payday at the auto repair shop.

One rare evening, when he got home on time, Murphy went into the workspace, eyeing the camcorder on the shelf.

The Canon camcorder still worked; Murphy had tested it a while ago. As a film student, photography was a basic course. Despite the camcorder's outdated features, he had grown fond of it after using it a few times. But now, driven by necessity, he had to consider selling it and the other two devices.

The camcorder, the laptop, and the police scanner weren't new, and each wouldn't fetch much alone. But selling all three might keep him afloat for a while.

After some thought, Murphy decided to keep the laptop. In his spare time, he tried writing scripts for future blockbuster movies, though progress was slow, and selling them seemed unlikely.

Murphy knew enough to understand that most Hollywood movies didn't start with a script being noticed and then produced. Typically, a film company, top director, or well-known producer would have an idea, secure funding, and then hire a suitable screenwriter to develop the script.

In this production model, the screenwriter and script were just a cog in Hollywood's assembly line.

Of course, the chance for a newcomer's script to be picked was slim, but not zero. Murphy intended to try his luck; maybe someday, his fortunes would change.

Taking the camcorder and police scanner, Murphy left home, got into the black Chevrolet, and headed towards the intersection.

These tools, once used by the former Murphy for a living, were now about to become the funds to sustain his basic needs.

The Chevrolet turned out of the Latino community, took a couple more turns, and then Murphy drove onto Figueroa Street, heading for Sunset Boulevard. There, near Hollywood, were many shops dealing in photography equipment, where he hoped to exchange the camcorder for much-needed dollars.

Murphy could have sought Ross's help again, but he chose not to. Constantly taking from even the best of friends could strain relationships. Besides the temporarily borrowed phone, car, and the $243, he hadn't accepted further help from Ross.

Night had fallen by the time Murphy turned onto Sunset Boulevard. Unlike the rundown downtown area, Sunset Boulevard was lined with palm trees and movie billboards, with neon lights illuminating the streets like a city that never sleeps.

The Chevrolet drove past Echo Park, Silver Lake, and Los Feliz, gradually entering Hollywood.

Modern Hollywood was no longer the dilapidated place of the '80s and '90s. With strong support from the California state government and Los Angeles County government, it had regained its Golden Age splendor and was one of the most prosperous commercial districts in Greater Los Angeles.

However, Murphy paid little attention to the surroundings, focusing entirely on driving. Sunset Boulevard was winding in many places, and the narrowest sections had only four lanes. The numerous hairpin turns, blind spots, and lack of median barriers often led to accidents.

As Murphy turned a corner, he saw flames ahead and slowed down.

"That car's going to explode!"

A shout reached him through the open car window. "Damn it, hurry up!"

"Help!"

The Chevrolet drove slowly past. Murphy turned to see a car crashed into a thick palm tree. Nearby were a police car and a fire truck, with police maintaining order and firefighters working around the burning car. Cries for help continued from inside the vehicle...