21 Dreams Will Never Die (1/2)

Sadly, it seemed at that point that Jessica's birthday wish to God had partially, if not totally, fallen on deaf ears.

”We're sorry Mr. Wang, we don't think your movie is suitable for the big screen. I mean, who'd ever want to see such a bunch of blurry sequences?”

”Sorry, forgive my bluntness, but comparing your work to a real movie is like comparing a dashing gentleman with proper etiquette to a clown with his funny faces and silly antics. And as far as I'm concerned, clowns belong in the circus, not cinema.”

”Publish your movie? No, of course we can't… No, that's completely out of the question. Look, kid, the movie business isn't as simple as you think. You don't want us to get into trouble, do you?”

It had been over half a month since Jessica's birthday. During this time, Wang Yang had been relentless, calling on one film company after another. Despite speaking with dozens of companies and scouring the entire city of Los Angeles for opportunities, all he'd gotten in the end was rejection after rejection.

For all the confidence and drive he'd started out with, rejection eventually took its toll. He'd begun to feel weary, desperate, and deprived. Nevertheless, he remained steadfast, waking up every morning with a sense of purpose, making the rounds through the film companies in Los Angeles, spending the rest of his day working odd jobs, and eking out a living, however meager it might have been.

Due to his unstable work schedule, he had been forced to take up other more tedious jobs in addition to his night shift at McDonald's. In the afternoon, for instance, he'd hand out flyers in the streets under the scorching sun, his body over-upholstered in a mascot costume. The heat, the stuffiness, and the sweat would have caused a lesser man to pass out. He also had a job hauling furniture at a furniture store. His arms would become so sore and weak by night that he had trouble falling asleep.

There were times when fatigue had drained all the feeling from his body. Admittedly, there were also times when he felt frustrated and ready to give up. D*mn it. Was all that hard work for nothing?

That day was just like any other, with the same old routine and travails. He'd visited yet another film company during the day and was mercilessly laughed at. ”Childish. Naive. Are you out of your mind?” As soon as the meeting ended, he rushed downtown to McDonald's to begin his night shift.

His part-time job at McDonald's was his main source of income. It was also his only part-time job with fixed working hours—from seven in the evening until midnight. He'd work for five hours, day in, day out.

Working at a McDonald's was physically demanding and financially unrewarding, and part-time positions were always easy to come by. For his troubles, Wang Yang received an hourly salary of seven dollars, which was just a hair above the minimum wage in California. Moreover, the McDonald's where he worked at was conveniently located in an entertainment district, with a cinema and a parking lot nearby. That meant an endless stream of customers until the wee hours of the night and hardly any time to take a breather during his shift. Sometimes, Wang Yang couldn't help but grumble. ”God, why couldn't there be a KFC around the area?”

Momentarily distracted by Ronald McDonald sitting on the bench in front of the shop, beaming with his ravishing head of red hair, Wang Yang stepped through the golden arches and into the fast-food restaurant. The first sight that greeted him was that of a chubby white man in a McDonald's server uniform.

He had to have weighed at least 300 pounds. His face was round and full. A full beard hung from both his chins. He was just about to carry a tray of hamburgers to a customer when he saw Wang Yang in his business attire. ”Hey, dude. Whoa, what's with the get-up? Back from Silicon Valley? Or was it Wall Street?” he jested.

The chubby man's name was Harry George. He was in his twenties and was a full-time employee at McDonald's. ”Not a bad guy” was perhaps the best way to describe him. After spending almost a month working together, Wang Yang had grown familiar with him, and the two of them had become rather close acquaintances. That said, they've never had a deep, personal conversation, and the fatty knew neither of Wang Yang's predicament nor his passion for film.

”The White House!” Wang Yang rolled his eyes. Holding his briefcase, he made a beeline for the staff locker room at the back of the restaurant. The rejection he'd received from the film company earlier that day was the most scathing he'd ever received. Ego still stinging with pain, he was in no mood for banter.

”Did he get dumped?” Harry George muttered under his breath with a shrug. Head turned, he looked at Wang Yang as he walked away and shouted after him, ”Dude, cheer up. It's no big deal. Trust me, I've been through it many times!”

Without even turning his head to look back at him, Wang Yang merely responded with a backhanded wave that meant ”leave me alone”. He made his way to the locker room, donned a black-brown uniform, and put on a black cap with the signature ”M” on it. Then, he looked at himself in the mirror with a sigh before heading out to the counter for his shift.

There were still a few minutes left before seven. Precious windows of time like these offered brief respite from work, for once the pace picked up after seven-thirty, there was no possibility of rest. With the few existing tables served and no new customers entering the premises, Wang Yang, Harry, and the rest of the staff got to take a short break.

On the television in the restaurant, a movie called Donald and Heaton was playing. It was a romance movie. Just as the male and female protagonists were about to kiss on screen, something came over Harry George. Bursting out in a high, animated tone, he said, ”Just look at that shot, you guys. It sucks! What were the director and cameraman thinking?” Then he ranted on, ”I can't believe my own glasses. Are their brains filled with horsesh*t or what? What a crappy movie!”

Wang Yang glanced at him, forcing a smile. Every time the fatty watched a movie, he would act out of character, cursing and swearing in such a way that one might think he had a grudge against the director. Wang Yang usually kept to himself under such circumstances. However, feeling particularly hostile that day, Wang Yang couldn't help putting in his nickel's worth. ”Is that so? Enlighten us then, what makes the movie so crappy?”

Eyes fixed on the television screen, unblinking, Harry George replied Wang Yang, ”Oh, there are so many things that are crappy about it. Like that cross montage just now where the male and female protagonists ran from opposite sides of the town, met in the center, and kissed.” He then critiqued, ”I would've used an eye-level medium shot to capture their faces when they're running, then cut to a high-angle full shot, giving a full view of the couple together with the town's scenery. And once they've found each other, I'd switch to a close-up. That's how you get the best effect using camera framing and shot sizes!”

Throwing his hands up, he looked at Wang Yang and said with demoralizing casualness, ”But instead, we get a camera that's stuck at eye-level and medium-range the whole time. God, isn't it crappy?”

Wang Yang looked imbecilic with shock. He hadn't been expecting such a well-thought-out and professional response from fatty. Moreover, he agreed with him; the movie would look so much better with the shots he suggested. He smiled and said, ”Harry, you're absolutely right.” As pleased as punch, Harry George said, ”Of course I'm right.”

Just as Harry was starting to feel pleased with himself, Wang Yang threw him a curveball. ”But you've forgotten something. Minimizing cost is very important for a low-budget movie like this. How do you suppose the shots you've suggested, like the high-angle full shot, are accomplished? That's right, with a helicopter.” As he said that, a sense of sorrow suddenly welled up in him and he lamented, ”So, you see, crappy movies aren't always a result of foolish directors and incompetent cameramen. Sometimes, you have a vision and know the best way to achieve it, but you just don't have the means to do so.”

”Oh please, what do you know?” Indignation clearly written on his chubby face, Harry George said in a huff, ”It's just for one shot. How much would it cost to rent a helicopter, anyway?”

”Sure, you can pull out all the stops and hire a helicopter for this shot, but what about the other shots? There are at least 90 minutes in a movie, Harry,” said Wang Yang as he shook his head. ”It's a question of class. It's the reason why a hamburger meal at McDonald's doesn't come with a table-side violin serenade.”

Harry George started to reply, but he was overridden with a smirk by Smith Sean who worked the cash register, ”Yang, quit arguing with Harry. He's a cameraman, you know. If he ever got admitted to a university, that is.” He shrugged a little shrug and said in long, drawn-out syllables, enjoying the look of discomfiture on Harry's face as he did so, ”Yep, that was his dream all right.”

Upon hearing the word ”dream”, Harry George's face deflated like a football. Shamed and woebegone, he made a shushing motion with his hand and said, ”Don't talk to me about dreams. My dream is dead. Reality killed it.” No longer in the mood for television after the conversation, he went surlily back to attending to customers.

A cameraman? Did that mean Harry had given up on his dream? Wang Yang considered in silence. Then he recalled Anne Darren out of the blue—the girl with freckles on her nose and a head full of yellow hair. He remembered how lost and desolated she had looked when she'd asked him that night, ”Director, do you think I should just go home?”

Should I just go home? Wang Yang let out a sigh. Having been met with constant rejection for the past few days, he finally understood Anne's pain. To be struck down again and again in pursuit of his dream, without any hope in sight, to toil away day after day and night after night, lost, confused, fretful…

Perhaps it would be better to give up on his dreams and start his life anew. It might be boring; it might not be what he'd wanted, but at least he would break free from the struggle and the suffering. Just like that cross montage, there was a gap between what could have been and what really was. After all, who could argue with reality? It was reality that killed the movie. It was reality that had killed Harry's dream.

Suddenly, something stirred within Wang Yang, snapping him out of his negative thoughts. No, that can't be right! His eyebrows furrowed. How did I reply to Anne Darren the other day?

”If that's what you love to do, do it. Not even God can stop me from pursuing my passion for film. No way am I going to look back in regret when I'm old…”

Would he have regrets when he was old? Or would he become like Harry, cynical and disillusioned, living vicariously through his critique and condemnation of other people's films, hissing and cursing at the directors, ”Oh please, that's no way to make a movie! If it were up to me, I'd have done a much better job than he.”