Chapter 21: The Essence of Valley Films
"What the fuck is this trash?"
After flipping through just two pages, William slammed the script onto the table.
"How would I know?" Katya shrugged. "He just told me to hand it to you."
William fell silent for a moment, then rubbed his temples.
"Fine. I got it."
With that, he turned and went back to his room.
After William left, Katya picked up the script and skimmed through it herself, mimicking his earlier motions.
The story was a tired cliché—about a Guatemalan illegal immigrant who becomes the lover of a powerful American official.
There was nothing particularly impressive about it, but Katya couldn't immediately see what was wrong either.
In her eyes, all Valley films more or less looked the same anyway.
---
The next day — the studio lot
Inside William's office, the clacking of a typewriter filled the room.
He was hammering away at the keys, fully focused.
Several completed scripts lay stacked beside him.
On the top page was the title:
The Black Slave and the White Plantation Owner's Wife
The script from last night had been submitted by Ramirez—intended as the next production proposal.
This had been part of an assignment William gave earlier: to groom someone capable of handling the Valley film division independently.
He had never truly planned on cultivating Ramirez—but he hadn't expected the idiot to turn in something this bad.
In 1989, Latino immigration hadn't yet reached massive scale.
And even if it had, pairing a Latina female lead with a white male protagonist was practically guaranteed to flop in the Valley market.
So what was the most important thing about Valley films?
Controversy.
Ordinary white male audiences might be curious about other ethnicities—but films shot from that perspective offered no real sense of thrill or taboo to them.
William needed only a glance to know the script was dead on arrival.
The typewriter continued its relentless rhythm.
William stayed locked in, writing.
---
Meanwhile — another soundstage on the lot
Nicole Kidman stood in front of Top Gun director Tony Scott.
Tom Cruise was there as well.
"Miss Kidman, are you sure you don't want to reconsider?" Scott asked.
"This is a rare opportunity."
"Yeah, Nicole," Cruise chimed in. "I really think you'd be perfect for the female lead."
It was obvious—he was interested in her.
Nicole could read that intention clearly in his eyes.
She smiled politely.
"I'm sorry. I really would love to work with you both, but I checked my schedule last night and realized it conflicts with another film I've already committed to."
Scott frowned.
"But when I contacted your agency earlier, they said your schedule was open."
"Mr. Scott," Nicole replied calmly,
"I'm not exactly a priority client at Shannahan. Mistakes like that happen."
"Can't you drop the other project?" Cruise pressed again.
He clearly wanted her in the cast—after all, having a beautiful actress at his side didn't hurt his image either.
To be honest, Scott didn't care all that much.
The reason he frowned wasn't because Nicole Kidman was walking away, but because Top Gun was about to begin shooting. Losing the female lead at this stage was inconvenient—finding a replacement on short notice would be chaotic. At best, they could only push the heroine's scenes to later in the schedule.
As for Nicole's withdrawal, Scott simply regarded it as her loss.
"I'm sure you wouldn't want to work with someone who lacks integrity either, would you, Mr. Cruise?"
Nicole's words were polite—yet unmistakably distant.
"Well then, it can't be helped," Scott said calmly.
"I hope we'll have the chance to collaborate in the future, Miss Kidman."
He made no effort to keep her.
At this point, she wasn't famous. The production would run just fine without her. Top Gun revolved around Tom Cruise—not Nicole Kidman.
After exchanging courteous goodbyes, Nicole left the Top Gun soundstage with graceful steps.
Watching her slender figure disappear, Tom Cruise felt a twinge of regret.
"Director… are we really not going to try a bit harder?" he asked.
Clearly, Cruise was reluctant to let her go.
"Cruise," Scott said, patting him on the shoulder with a teasing smile,
"if you like her, you can always ask her out privately. She doesn't have to be your on-screen partner."
---
Meanwhile, after an intense bout of writing—
William finished his new script.
For Valley films, drawing on his past-life experience as a seasoned director, writing this kind of material was almost effortless.
Once done, he stepped to his office door and shouted:
"Ramirez! Get in here."
He returned to his seat.
Moments later, Ramirez walked in.
He had a stereotypical Latino look—slightly shifty eyes, short stature, and an air of sleaziness.
"Take this script to production. This is the next one we're shooting."
William said nothing more, placing The Black Slave and the White Plantation Owner's Wife on the desk.
Ramirez picked it up—and frowned.
"Director, why isn't it My Latin Lover?" he asked, clearly displeased.
"What did you just say?" William lifted his head, his expression icy.
Ramirez, like a reckless hothead, completely missed the warning signs.
"I said—why aren't we using the script I gave you yesterday?
Do you know how much effort I put into that?
I'm telling you, Latinos would love that movie!"
He looked at William with absolute confidence.
In his own mind, he was self-assured.
In William's eyes, he was ignorant.
"Shut the fuck up.
You idiot.
I pay you to work—
not to tell me how to make movies."
William didn't indulge him in the slightest.
Truth be told, William had already begun to sense something was off about Ramirez.
The actresses on set had started avoiding him—there was something in their eyes.
William had even begun to wonder whether Ramirez had joined the team with ulterior motives.
"If you want to keep learning here, then shut up and do as I say.
Otherwise—get the hell out."
His tone was ice-cold.
Ramirez's face flushed red, like an enraged rhinoceros.
"Now—get out of my office."
Whether Ramirez felt humiliated or furious was none of William's concern.
He simply wanted him gone.