If I decide to pursue a career in the film and television industry, I need to consider whether I want to be in front of the camera or behind it.
Backstage roles have their own professional thresholds. Fields like sound recording, cinematography, color grading, depth of field management, lighting, scene layout, directing, and editing—these all require more than just talent. Without a solid theoretical foundation, one won't go far. Let alone reach the heights of Hollywood.
As for those American entertainment novels I read before transmigrating, the idea that someone can submit a script and get discovered by film companies is wildly optimistic. Not impossible, but very unlikely.
First, most Hollywood scripts already exist—many have been sitting around for a decade or more, waiting for the right time to be filmed. Second, scripts are subject to repeated revisions. The final product may look nothing like the original draft. For instance, take the highly acclaimed 1994 film Forrest Gump. The original novel was actually a political satire.
Think about it: a man with an IQ below average somehow ends up at the center of multiple major historical events and ultimately becomes a millionaire. If that isn't satire, what is? It practically feels like a slap in the face to all average Americans. All it's missing is the line: "I'm not targeting anyone; I'm saying all of you are trash!"
Yet the film adaptation turned it into an inspirational tale—a shining representation of the American Dream in the 90s.
The level of script alteration here is beyond superficial—it's not just cosmetic surgery; it's like replacing the entire head. It might still have two eyes, a nose, and a mouth, but it's no longer the same face.
So, submitting a script and waiting for a knock on the door from a production company, or dreaming of becoming a director that way, is not practical.
The only possible entry point left is via B-grade horror films or slapstick comedies. These genres often lack pre-written scripts waiting in studio vaults.
But even in these cases, the script isn't the key; the director's expressive techniques are what matter. To break in this way, you need to first produce a compelling short film or a sample work. Then, if you have a solid idea, film companies might invest in you as a director.
Alright, so Henry has spent over two months watching classic films. But he knows full well that merely watching won't magically turn him into James Cameron, who started out as a truck driver.
Does he really think that watching fish swim upstream can make him a great man?
So, ultimately, his best shot is still to work in front of the camera—to become an actor. At least that role has the lowest entry barrier: just a face.
Because the threshold is so low, the competition is intense. The chances given to each aspiring actor are even less than the odds of being struck by lightning while standing in a field during a thunderstorm.
This is why the unspoken rules, red sofas, and shady deals are so rampant. Everyone's trying to increase their chances—even if it's just a little.
But as long as I don't dream of becoming a superstar, I can rely on the income from crab fishing to support myself, treat acting in minor roles as a hobby, and spend my days on knowledge-based or nostalgic games. Life could still be fulfilling, right?
As the saying goes, "Without desire, one is strong." I'm not aiming for an Oscar, nor am I chasing wealth in hopes of catching up to the Jewish moguls. I'm just a salted fish who wants to live a relaxed life. That shouldn't be too much to ask.
The biggest danger in this so-called "Happy America, shootings every day" isn't the system or economy—it's the random black folks and high-as-a-kite hippies waving guns around.
But I have a Kryptonian physique—my body is naturally bulletproof. That puts me in an invincible position, doesn't it?
As for the mutant issue, the possibility of a galactic family planning committee coming to collect Infinity Stones, or Celestial embryos lurking in the Earth's core—none of that really matters to me.
The key is to avoid New York, the center of the universe. The farther I am from there, the higher my life expectancy.
Even if Thanos really gathers all seven Dragon Balls—wait, I mean six Infinity Stones—what's the worst that could happen?
Whether he's acting out of compassion, trying to give the universe a better chance by halving its population, or simply trying to please Death, the personification of one of the five primordial cosmic entities—it doesn't change the result.
A snap of the fingers. A 50% chance of turning to ash.
If I survive, great. If I die… well, I've died once already. What's there to be afraid of?
Everyone fears the Snap, but when you think about it, it's not that terrible.
Compared to dying suddenly in an accident, what's even more painful is a slow death from illness—being trapped in a failing body, swinging between hope and despair.
But even that pales in comparison to my time at the Russian research institute. Back then, I was their experiment. Every part of my body was subject to their cruel tests. It's no exaggeration to say that I was covered in wounds.
If they'd had more time, they probably would've taken things even further—dismantling a leg today, sawing off an arm tomorrow. And when they got bored? Slice me up and preserve me as a specimen.
So no, Henry doesn't think the Snap was a big deal—not for him.
I can safely say I have no worries in this world. If Thanos wipes out half of all life, what's there for me to feel bad about?
If someone wants to be a superhero, let them. I just want to live a quiet life, be happy, and follow my own rhythm.
I don't want to spend my days in frustration, worrying about explosions, robberies, deaths, or even clogged toilets.
Those things? Not my responsibility.
It's already admirable that I haven't turned to villainy or plotted world destruction. When the Russians experience major upheaval next year and the Red Empire collapses, I don't plan on getting involved.
What could I possibly gain from such a chaotic drama?
Robbery?
Come on. I'm a Kryptonian. If I really wanted to rob someone, I could do it anytime, anywhere. I wouldn't need to pick an auspicious date.
If I were serious, I could fly into the Federal Reserve vault tomorrow, burn through the walls with heat vision, melt the gold, and walk out. No one would ever trace it back to me.
Reselling goods to earn the price difference?
That's just making hard-earned money the slow way. Can I really make enough in one go to be set for three lifetimes?
Buying up assets during the Red Empire's collapse and profiting off the exchange rate difference?
That requires substantial capital. My petty cash wouldn't cut it. I might as well just rob someone.
As for seeking revenge on those white coats who tortured me?
That's laughable.
In a sea of billions, how would I even recognize them just by face?
Besides, most Russians will face years of hardship. So I fight my way to their doorstep now… to do what, exactly? Help them escape their misery?
If they eventually manage to climb out of chaos and build new lives, and I show up then to settle the score—that's poetic justice.
After all, the two most painful scenarios in life are: one, dying before spending all your money; and two, living on after your money's all gone.
So, when those white coats finally pull themselves out of the mess, finally get a taste of peace, and I appear to say, "This is the end"—wouldn't that be a better ending than storming their doors now?
Death isn't necessarily punishment. Sometimes, living is the real hell.
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