Cooper had a knack for spotting an opponent's weakness and landing a final, targeted strike. More importantly, he had patience—enough to pursue an enemy for ten or even twenty years if that's what it took to bring them down.
And he'd had his share of success. He had once managed to drive the Phoenix into dire straits. If Reynolds hadn't died early, if the Phoenix had remained in that man's hands, the company might have been forced into bankruptcy and liquidation long ago.
That outcome would have been due partly to Reynolds' personality, but also largely to Cooper's film reviews.
Even before Laila had risen to prominence, Cooper was already an established, highly successful critic. His sharp, incisive commentary made him a favorite among film lovers, and people trusted his judgment. Whether he praised or panned a movie, readers believed he was right—things were exactly as he said they were.
In the days before the internet, critics held a high status in the film world. Studios were willing to pay them to speak well of a film—or, if praise was impossible, at least to avoid saying anything bad.
Back then, if you wanted to know whether a movie was worth watching, apart from word-of-mouth from friends, you could only rely on media reviews. And if a famous critic publicly tore a new release to shreds from top to bottom, how many people would still want to waste their money on it?
People went to the movies for enjoyment, for something they wanted to see—not to leave the theater seething with frustration.
Under his long and relentless smear campaign, Phoenix had indeed become "famous"—infamously so. It was the sort of notoriety no company wanted.
By the time Laila took over, anyone who could leave had left; those who stayed were just biding their time. Phoenix had become a byword for B-movie bottom-feeding—any release from them would be met with Cooper's scorn, and no one wanted to buy their DVDs.
B-movies rarely got a theatrical release, and even if they did, there was no budget for marketing. Without promotion, ticket sales were nearly impossible, and in this "good wine fears no deep alley" world—especially with Cooper lurking like a vulture—it was a miracle the company had lasted as long as it had.
Perhaps it was the constant failure of his films to reach their potential audience that left Reynolds disheartened, turning his attention instead to chasing love and beautiful women.
Had Laila never appeared, Cooper would have been the one laughing in the end. Reynolds is dead, Phoenix crushed by his hand—his life's work complete.
But fate had other plans. Laila arrived and, with one film after another, proved her ability beyond doubt. People had believed Cooper's reviews because they were once well-founded. But when he began saying things about her films that most found unconvincing, his career faced its first major crisis.
Reynolds' productions were cheap B-movies, with the barest-bones props, bargain-bin actors, and a post-production philosophy of "spend nothing if you can help it."
When you had to make a movie for tens of thousands of dollars, no matter how clever your ideas, they couldn't be fully realized on screen. And with such shoddy quality, there were endless flaws for Cooper to pick apart—special effects, plot, sets, actors. If a viewer had even mildly enjoyed the film, one of Cooper's scathing takedowns could still convince them they'd watched a piece of trash.
But with Laila, it was different. True, her first film cost only $100,000, and Cooper attacked it for "nauseating shaky-cam," for "cheating the audience," for "making a witch movie with no witch." Yet the public's reaction was "innovative camera work," "brilliant suspense," and so on.
It wasn't that Cooper hadn't tried—it was that his opponent was too strong, and grew too fast. Before he'd even adjusted, she had amassed a large, loyal fan base. Any of her films could bring in hundreds of millions, and Hollywood itself treated her like a glittering treasure, with young fans shouting "Idol! Idol!" wherever she went. What could he do?
The result of his stubborn resistance was the situation he faced now—no media outlet would publish his anti-Laila reviews. Even his old base, the New York Post, had been acquired by her allies.
The one thing he was grateful for was that he'd mastered the art of speaking out online. In his eyes, this was an even better way to attack her—more convenient, and it allowed him to hide his identity. Without ever revealing who he was, he could use his words to rally a large following. Perfect.
His writing skill was beyond doubt—his past popularity proved he was a man who could fight with his pen. And now, the internet was his new battlefield.
In a recent article, he wrote:
"There's a lot to be seen in the trailer—attractive leads, eye-popping special effects—but it also exposes its weakness. If Director Moran can't resolve this issue, then this so-called contender for Avatar's box office crown could end up as one of cinema's great jokes."
"Ensemble films are difficult to make—no question there. But Moran's potential mistake isn't just that it's an ensemble; we have to look at exactly what kind of ensemble it is, and who is in it."
"From the trailer, we can see several superheroes who have already appeared in previous Marvel films. Each has incredible powers and a massive fanbase, as well as distinct personalities and ways of operating. In their films, each is an unbeatable lead—just as in Moran's Iron Man. Iron Man was cool, stylish, saved the world, and brought peace. It was, by any measure, a highly successful blockbuster."
"But now the problem is—it's not just one of them. It's a whole group of superheroes!"