Chapter 15: Selling the Script

[Chapter 15: Selling the Script]

The flight from Los Angeles to New York took 4 hours and 50 minutes. By the time he took a cab from Queens to downtown Manhattan, it was already six in the evening.

New York City was located further north than Los Angeles, so at six o'clock, the sky was dim and dreary. Surrounded by towering skyscrapers, the streetlights seemed weak.

Still, New York was the most bustling city in the world and one of the most densely populated, especially in Manhattan, which was far more vibrant than sprawling Los Angeles.

As dusk fell, traffic surged through the downtown streets, honking horns filled the air, and the sidewalks bustled with people of all styles and backgrounds. The ratio of good-looking men and women was no less impressive than that of Hollywood.

Link spent eight dollars at a corner store for a bottle of cheap red wine and headed to Quentin's apartment.

...

The building on 45th Street was taller and more decrepit than the apartments in West Hollywood. It had more than ten floors, with exposed walls on the side, resembling the building where the six main characters of Friends lived.

It was likely the place Quentin had stayed in when he worked in New York before becoming a director.

Before that, Quentin was an aspiring actor at James Best's film company in Los Angeles. Every time he attended acting classes, he would critique the teacher's methods, insisting that they were incorrect. Eventually, he got kicked out of class.

After being a production assistant at the film company for over two years, Quentin felt like he wasn't learning anything new and wasn't getting any roles. He left the company and took a job as a clerk at a video store in Manhattan called Video Archives, which was similar to a librarian.

During his four or five years as a clerk, he took advantage of the job to watch tons of Westerns and Hong Kong films. After accumulating a wealth of knowledge about film, he began writing scripts and making movies. Last year, he sold his script for True Romance for $50,000. Earlier that year, he became famous for Reservoir Dogs, officially stepping onto the path of being a director.

...

Link took the elevator to the 8th floor of the apartment complex, turned right at the third apartment door, and rang the bell.

After about ten seconds, the blue door swung open, revealing Quentin Tarantino's fierce yet comical face and his messy hair.

"Oh my God, Link! You really came to New York?"

"Of course. I told you I would come."

"Well, this is insane. Come on in."

As Link entered the apartment, he noticed someone else was there -- a woman dressed provocatively, wearing black stockings and reclining with her feet up on the coffee table. Quentin was also in his open pajamas.

"Quentin, you said you were alone on the phone. What's this? You're going to have to pay for two now."

The woman twisted her waist and scanned Link up and down with a flirtatious gaze.

"Debbie, I have things to do. Our date ends here."

"What a buzzkill! I'm not giving you your money back."

The woman slipped on high heels and sashayed out of the room.

...

"Sorry to interrupt your date."

"Haha, no worries, I was writing a script. You see, I have this quirk -- I like to have a woman listen while I tell her my story. If she thinks it's good, I write it down, then try it on other women. If they all like it, then I know I have something good."

"Good method. I'll have to try it sometime."

Link nodded and took a seat on the sofa, pulling out the script for Kill Bill from his backpack to show Quentin.

"You flew all the way from Los Angeles to New York just to get my opinion on your script?"

Quentin took the script, looked at the cover, and displayed a surprised expression.

"Just check out my new script first; we can talk about other things later."

"Okay, let me see your script. You can watch some TV or grab a bite. Make yourself at home."

"I will."

...

As Quentin flipped through the script, Link stood up and began to pace a bit.

The sofa was too soft, and he worried he might doze off and miss the chance to discuss the script with Quentin.

He poured himself a glass of instant coffee and leaned against the half-open back window. The sky had turned completely dark, and the night breeze flowed in. Many windows across the neighboring apartment lit up, and he could see stars in the distance, while nearby, he almost had a clear view into someone else's living room.

On the sixth floor of the opposite building, a woman leaned out over the windowsill, and behind her, someone was moving to and fro, with loud shrieking that could be heard from the window.

Link instinctively looked away, trying not to peer into anyone's private business. But then he thought, since they chose to put on such a spectacle in public, they must want an audience to add to the drama.

Sipping his mildly sour coffee, Link gazed out at the scene across, feeling a bit of a pleasant detachment.

Unfortunately, it didn't last long; with a thud that sounded like a wild boar crashing into a wall, everything went quiet.

"Dude, that's just weak."

"Hahaha!"

Teasing voices echoed from above and below.

...

Link returned to the sofa. Spotting another script on the coffee table, he asked Quentin if he could take a look, to which Quentin responded casually.

He picked it up and caught a whiff of foot odor. The script didn't have a title, but from the character names, dialogues, and scenes at the beginning, it was clear this was Quentin's second film script, Pulp Fiction.

The pages were heavily marked with edits and riddled with grammatical and spelling errors. If it wasn't for Link's deep understanding of Pulp Fiction's plot, he wouldn't have been able to tell it was a script.

He managed to read a few pages and confirmed it was indeed the story of Pulp Fiction, but plenty of elements varied from the final film; the completeness was less than one-third of the film's plot.

...

"How do you think my script is?"

As Link put the script down, Quentin did the same.

"Not bad; it's a pretty good story."

"You understood my writing?"

"Barely, but you're employing a multi-narrative technique, right? Each story has its protagonist but turns into a supporting character in another story, just like in real life. From my perspective, I'm the main character, while from someone else's, I'm a supporting one.

By utilizing familiar relationships, you've tied together multiple stories, forming a logical loop. That design is really cool. I can't wait to see your new film."

"You really got it? My story is so simple that you could piece together the whole plot just from a glance?"

Quentin had an expression of disbelief, grappling with the idea.

He had spent over a year crafting that story, convinced it was profoundly intricate. He had expected many viewers to walk away confused at the screenings, only to have their realizations dawn upon them later, praising the film.

Like a mastermind of a maze, he had spent years crafting something he thought was grand, expecting no one could easily figure it out.

Instead, that was not the case. Link casually flipped through the script, barely thinking, and articulated the story's plot and logic clearly.

This indicated that the maze he created wasn't as complex as he thought.

Realizing he had accidentally revealed his genuine feelings about the experience, Link felt he may have inadvertently hurt Quentin.

"Is it really that complicated? Stanley Kubrick's 1956 film, The Killing, uses a similar structure. After reading the second story in your script, I figured you might have drawn inspiration from Kubrick's style."

The Killing employed a multi-narrative structure to showcase a robbery at a racetrack from different characters' viewpoints. This film greatly influenced later violent noir films, especially those of Quentin's.

Quentin had often expressed his admiration for Kubrick's work.

"Alright, you got me there. I did adopt Kubrick's multi-narrative technique, but my setup is more complex and interesting than in The Killing. I'll let you read the script when it's finished."

"Okay! How about my script? What do you think?"

Link reclined on the sofa, legs crossed.

"Your script is pretty good; while it's not as complex as mine, the story is interesting, especially the revenge plot. That fits my taste. Is this for your next movie?"

"No, I'm short on cash. I plan to sell the script. If you like it, I can sell it to you."

"Sell it to me? You flew all the way from Los Angeles to New York to ask me to buy your script?"

"Yep. I saw Reservoir Dogs, and I believe you're the only one who can do this type of script justice. I wouldn't trust it with anyone else, so I wanted to sell it to you."

Link was straightforward, showing no signs of beating around the bush.

Quentin looked at him, then down at the script, his rough features displaying confusion.

"Link, this script is of high quality. Whether you keep it for yourself or sell it to other companies, it's a solid project. Why do you want to sell it to me? You said you're low on cash, how much do you need?"

"Honestly, I'm looking to self-fund a release for Buried. I've already reached out to a theater but need a deposit."

"Damn it, it's Buried again. After so many days, you still haven't given up on it. You are even selling a good script for it and are ready to release the film at your own expense. What's your purpose in doing this?"

"First, it's about making money. If Buried makes it to theaters, I believe it can do as well as Reservoir Dogs at the box office."

"Hmm."

"Second, I want more people to see Buried, to appreciate it, and prove that my view is correct -- it shouldn't be shelved."

"You really are a crazy guy!"

"Well then, are you willing to buy this script? If you're not satisfied, I have a few more scripts."

Besides Kill Bill and Django Unchained, he had written several other scripts and submitted them to different companies, although they were different genres that Quentin might not prefer.

"How much are you asking for?"

Quentin rubbed the cover of the script thoughtfully.

"How much are you willing to pay?"

"Are you sure you want to sell this script for that movie Buried that no one sees?"

"Absolutely sure."

"$50,000 sound fair? That's all I have at the moment."

"Deal!"

Link extended his hand with a smile.

Quentin hesitantly looked at him before reaching out his hand, uncertain.

*****

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