Just as he was about to step into the building, Kazir's sharp eyes caught sight of two familiar figures.
"Arnold Kopelson, and Robert Shaye…"
He muttered softly, quickly recalling information about the two men.
Arnold was a producer, that much he knew clearly, but Robert Shaye was different—he was the founder of New Line Cinema, having launched many box office hits, especially the groundbreaking "the lord of the rings" trilogy, which was a well-known brand and held a pivotal position in the film industry.
It could be said that the company's current brilliant achievements were all thanks to this visionary helmsman.
Kazir immediately reined in his inner emotional fluctuations, a sincere and warm smile quickly appearing on his face as he strode forward and greeted politely, "Good morning, Mr. Kopelson, Mr. Shaye. I am Kazier Gray."
"Excuse me, and you are? Have we met?"
Robert, seeing someone initiative greet him, didn't put on any airs; he just stared at Kazir, sizing him up, wondering if he had met him at a party or social event.
The young man in front of him had a confident glint in his eyes, and his features were pleasant; he didn't seem unlikable.
Arnold Kopelson, standing nearby, also felt that this person was a bit special, not like those ordinary extras or small-time hopefuls.
"No, sir," Kazir admitted, "I'm a director, and I'd like to show you my script, hoping to get your guidance and an opportunity."
"Oh..."
Upon hearing that he was an unknown director trying to pitch a script, Robert immediately lost interest, a hint of impatience flashing in his eyes.
He had seen too many people like this, several of them coming to him every day, wanting to make a name for themselves in the competitive world of Hollywood.
"I see. Just give the script to Kopelson; the company has a specific process, and they'll look at it. If we're interested, we'll contact you."
He brushed him off with a casual remark and walked straight past Kazir, as if Kazir were just an irrelevant passerby.
Hollywood directors were as numerous as cattle, most of them only able to shoot small-budget, bad films. Where would he find the time to deal with each one? he thought to himself, his steps not faltering.
"Thank you." Arnold took the script, his tone flat, not showing much enthusiasm, then turned and followed, leaving with Robert.
"Uh..."
Kazir still wanted to say a few more words, trying to seize another opportunity, but the men didn't even look back, getting straight into their car and driving away, leaving only a trail of exhaust fumes.
"..."
He stood in place, watching the car drive away, secretly gritting his teeth, quickly calculating his next move.
"If this doesn't work, I'll have to use Plan B."
He muttered to himself, a hint of determination in his eyes.
Over the next week, Kazir, as if possessed, copied dozens of copies of his script and tirelessly ran around to all the major film and television companies, not even sparing the second-tier small studios, not letting go of any possible opportunity.
But the result was still equally frustrating—no one took his script seriously; most people just perfunctorily accepted it, then casually set it aside, with no follow-up.
"This week alone, printing and transportation costs were two thousand dollars."
He felt his pocket, a little pained by the expenses, but he didn't dwell on it too much. After all, he had lived a lifetime, experienced countless ups and downs, so why would he get depressed over such a small matter?
In his opinion, it was like clearing levels in a game; without putting in some effort, how could he get the final reward? To achieve a dream, didn't he have to fight like this?
"I want to be a famous director, one of those great directors at the pinnacle of the pyramid."
He vowed silently, a fervent light flickering in his eyes.
Only a handful could be called "great directors": Spielberg, George Lucas, Michael Bay, James Cameron... just these few. They were all legendary figures in the film industry, his idols and goals.
"Oh, right, James Cameron hasn't been deified yet. He needs to sink that luxury liner first. Michael Bay is the same; he hasn't made his name with explosion scenes yet."
He recalled the paths to fame of these great directors, his heart filled with fighting spirit.
Kazir, carrying a suitcase filled with several carefully prepared scripts, found the post office.
He solemnly wrote a director's address on the envelope, each letter written with utmost care.
'They say this script was discovered only after being accidentally sent to this director... Ha, who would believe that? To put it bluntly, it's just a publicity stunt by the production company; nine times out of ten, it was the original author's persistent efforts. But it doesn't matter, I'll make this play a reality. Let's just say it was sent by mistake, and I hope he contacts me.'
He thought silently to himself, a hint of cunning and anticipation in his eyes.
Although he was only 26, his experiences in his previous life had long smoothed out his impetuosity, making him more composed and mature.
Being able to do what he loved, a drive burned within him, a determination not to give up until he achieved his goal.
"You actually read his script?"
Robert Shaye, seeing Arnold Kopelson engrossed in Kazir's script, couldn't help but ask curiously.
"I was just flipping through it since I had nothing else to do."
Arnold didn't even lift his head, his eyes still fixed on the script, as if deeply captivated by its content.
"How is it?" Robert raised an eyebrow, a bit interested now, thinking that a script that could engross Arnold so much might indeed have something special about it.
There were many talented screenwriters in Hollywood, but few could make money from their talent—talent didn't guarantee success; many other factors were involved.
"It's alright. The style is too dark and bloody, but the ending is interesting and unexpected," Arnold said after putting down the script and pondering for a moment.
"Can it make money if it's made into a movie?"
That was the key. No matter how good a script was, it was useless if it didn't make money. They were businessmen, not philanthropists; the purpose of investing in movies was to make a profit.
"Hard to say, it needs a detailed evaluation... Oh, right, this screenwriter's name, I think I've seen it somewhere."
Kazier Gray.
As a producer, Arnold watched films every weekend to broaden his horizons and had some impression of the name, but he couldn't recall exactly where he had seen it at the moment.
"Oh, he's also a director. I saw a film he directed a few months ago; it was terrible, no wonder it wasn't released," Arnold suddenly remembered, frowning as he spoke.
"So, what do you mean?" Robert pressed, a hint of expectation in his eyes, hoping Arnold would give a clear recommendation.
Arnold thought for a moment and said seriously, "I recommend not touching it, especially if he wants to direct it himself; it's purely a money-loser. Unless..."
"Unless what?" Robert asked eagerly.
"Unless you get a different director to shoot it, then it might still turn a profit," Arnold said slowly, the meaning of his words clear—they simply didn't believe Kazir could produce anything good.
This guy had directed small-budget films, but the script clearly stated a budget of over 30 million. For such a large investment, what normal person would let an unknown nobody direct a major production?
'Forget it, the script is somewhat interesting, but if it's actually made into a movie, it's questionable.'
Arnold shook his head, tossed the script aside, and stopped thinking about it, returning to his other work at hand.