"Yes, I love them," Buddy said earnestly. "Anything I can get my hands on, I watch. Whether it's in the cinema or from the DVD rental shop, I go whenever I have time."
Laila wasn't surprised by his answer. "Your script has a great core theme. But you added quite a few American-style individual hero elements—were you trying to appeal to Western audiences?"
"You're right," Buddy replied, lowering his head a little sheepishly. It was true—he'd always dreamed of selling a script to America. So while revising, he couldn't help but mold it to what he thought Westerners liked.
There wasn't anything wrong with adjusting content to fit market demands—on the contrary, that was often the smartest move. The issue was that Buddy didn't fully grasp what Hollywood's style was—or rather, the Hollywood style he imagined didn't quite match reality.
In Hollywood, films were often a product of the assembly line. One person created the framework, and others filled in the details. Every year, countless movies were made—and even more, scripts never saw the light of day.
Truly good scripts often took years to craft. But such scripts were rare, and large studios simply couldn't afford to wait that long. Thus, the factory-like scriptwriting model was born.
Buddy's script had a compelling structure and thought-provoking moments—enough to make Laila's eyes light up.
She could write scripts, sure, but her real talent lay in directing. If you handed her a novel, she could adapt it well. But when it came to original screenwriting, that wasn't her strongest suit. Her passion had always been in directing—not writing. And if you didn't love what you did with your whole heart, how could you do it well?
That's why this script had caught her attention. She wanted to use it to make what she considered her first real film.
Technically, she'd directed other films before—but those had heavily deviated from the originals. Take The Lord of the Rings, for example. The novels had so many iconic scenes that it was impossible to fit them all into three movies. The choices the original director made were quite different from hers.
Yet despite altering parts of the original, she had still turned that trilogy into one of the greatest film series in history.
That showed her skill in adaptation, her ability to control the rhythm of a film—a crucial factor in any movie's success.
While Laila and Buddy were deep in their intense script revision session, elsewhere, Martin was troubled.
Where the hell was he supposed to find filming equipment? And where would he get actors?
He even asked some of his recruits what kind of movies they liked. Their answers were predictable: "pretty women" and "big-name stars."
That confirmed what Laila had told him—if the film didn't have some celebrities, the box office would suffer.
"Where can I find stars to act in my movie?"
One of his lackeys, ever eager to please, leaned in and said, "Getting big stars? Easy. Just invite them! My neighbor knows this big boss guy—he once hired a top-tier celebrity from our country to endorse his product."
He even gave a name—one Martin recognized. She was quite famous domestically. But the moment Martin heard the price tag, his face twisted in fury.
"That much?! Why doesn't she just rob a bank?!"
He had already put nearly all of his money into this. There was no way he could afford that kind of price tag for just one actor.
"Flandre, you're the smart one. What do you think we should do?" He turned to his strategist, his last hope.
Flandre squinted his emotionless eyes and calmly said, "Didn't our director lady come here with her crew? I'd assume some of them are big-name stars."
"Right!" Martin slapped his thigh in excitement. Why hadn't he thought of that? If he could kidnap a director, why not a few celebrities too?
But his enthusiasm quickly turned to worry. "But security over there's super tight now. I've heard they've even sent in the military. It won't be that easy to snatch someone again."
Flandre remained composed. "When we got Director Moran, wasn't it also from under heavy protection?"
That operation had practically become Martin's greatest accomplishment—his claim to infamy and the reason why he now had a small army of worshipping subordinates. In their world, standing up to the authorities was the stuff of legends. Martin's reputation had skyrocketed after the kidnapping, helping him rebuild his crew—albeit with less competent recruits.
He still didn't know how the news had spread, but it had earned him tons of respect. After all, in their underworld, they played by their own rules. He wasn't worried about the authorities hearing of it—there was no evidence. And this whole region was his turf. His eyes and ears were everywhere. If any official personnel showed up nearby, he'd know before they took a step too close—and move Laila long before they got there.
Now, with Flandre bringing up his "heroic feat" again, Martin couldn't help but puff up with pride.
"That's right! Flandre, you know me best! You're the only one who truly understands me." Martin grinned wildly. "Alright, go think of a way to 'invite' a few more Hollywood stars over! They came all this way to film Laila's movie anyway—no harm in having them act in ours, right?"
Flandre lowered his head slightly, his tone indifferent. "Yes, sir."
"Oh, and the equipment too—bring all of that over while you're at it!" Martin remembered the other thing driving him mad.
But this time, Flandre shook his head. "There's too much of it. We'd need several trucks to move it all. Our people can't just waltz in and take everything."
Martin thought it over and realized he was right. Ever since they took Laila, the opposing side had beefed up their presence—plenty of professional-looking guards with some serious firepower. Martin knew his current team couldn't take them head-on. And he had no desire to throw away his hard-won gang for a confrontation.
A boss without his underlings? That just wouldn't do.
"So what do you suggest? I need that equipment!"
Flandre thought for a moment. "There are some local film crews. Why don't we just rent from them? It shouldn't cost too much. And they might have some usable manpower as well."
Martin's eyes lit up. "Haha! Flandre, you're seriously the best. You're my most indispensable right-hand man. Perfect! I'll leave it to you—get it all done! Money's not a problem!"
Though honestly, he thought, after they see my gun, I doubt anyone will be bringing up money at all.