制霸好莱坞

"I want to play Roxy," Jenny said. "Not just because Roxy is the heroine of Chicago, but because she's the most complicated character I can play right now. And more than that, I love Roxy. To be honest, I love the era in which Chicago takes place—ignorant, flashy, and morally corrupt. They think they live in a civilized age, but from our perspective, it's just the Middle Ages in America."

Rob was surprised, and Jenny knew that her choice of words, along with the cultural literacy she demonstrated, far exceeded that of a typical public high school graduate. (In her district, most graduates are at best marginally literate.)

"You know, Chicago is essentially a story about two criminals escaping legal punishment through public attention, Rob," Jenny continued. "It's so ironic, especially because it's based on a true story. I noticed that you made some changes in the movie, softening Roxy's character. Of course, it's a necessary sacrifice for popular appeal. Movie audiences don't want an irritating heroine."

She paused slightly, and Rob nodded involuntarily. Jenny continued, "But Roxy and Velma are both criminals at their core. Roxy is naive, impulsive, selfish, greedy, shallow, vain, vulgar, and ignorant. She's gullible enough to be tricked by a salesman, impulsive enough to shoot someone, and selfish enough to let her husband take the blame. But she tries her best to extract innocence, pity, and weakness to manipulate the public. In the musical version, Roxy's singing is artificial and sharp. Although she's beautiful, she's annoying—not a complete hatred, but a disgust for her ugliness combined with curiosity. Her beauty and her ugliness conflict, yet they unify. This contrast makes Roxy the most fascinating and complex character. I really want to play her. It would be a great challenge for my acting, and a great opportunity to refine my skills. This is a good role. I'm an actor, and actors want to portray their roles well—that's all."

Rob stared at Jenny for a long time, as if seeing her for the first time. Jenny made an innocent face and spread her hands, "Have I convinced you?"

"It seems you have a deep understanding of the role," Rob said after a moment. He didn't directly answer her question. Instead, he took a sip of wine and shifted the topic. "You even noticed the changes I asked Renee to make. Indeed, Renee emphasized Roxy's innocence and ignorance in the portrayal. The crime of shooting someone was understated. I wanted to focus on the glitz and glamour of the whole movie, with beautiful songs and dances, glossing over the ironic elements. I even cut Velma's song about the 'baby.'"

He seemed a little drunk now. "Do you know why I did this?"

Jenny said sincerely, "Because the times now are actually not that different from the 1920s. People just want to see what they want to see—beautiful actors, amazing songs and dances, and gold. It's just a glittering spectacle, but who cares about the underlying message?"

Rob burst out laughing and even clapped his hands. "You're absolutely right, honey. Who cares about the message? Tony, Emmy, Golden Globe, Oscar—they're all the same. Give people what they want: a show full of highs, and then throw in a little sarcasm and dark humor. Let them think they've seen through the glitter's hypocrisy, so they can feel enlightened. Then you get the box office and awards. Milan Kundera was right, this is an era of flattery, but the definition of elegance has changed, hasn't it? In the past, a child saving a dog was considered 'elegant,' and we were expected to force our tears. Now Hollywood sells that kind of bland sentiment in bulk. Who cares about genuine emotion? Directors making those kinds of films can only rule at Sundance, thinking they're above it all, like they're the only ones who truly get it. This is Hollywood, baby, and what people want are commodities—not highbrow art! The only truth is getting both box office and good reviews."

Jenny was a bit taken aback by Rob's language, especially since he kept swearing. She hadn't expected the conversation to shift in this direction.

She glanced at Cesare for guidance. He gave her a slight nod and smiled, agreeing with Rob. "It's the fault of the middle class—pretentious and obsessed with superficiality. Greenspan and his messed-up monetary policies. Everyone's trying to squeeze into the middle class these days. The market needs middle-class aesthetics. We have to give them elegance. On the bright side, this is definitely more exciting than making those boring films about justice being served or Roxy getting her comeuppance."

Rob waved his glass and called over the waiter. "No, I'll pay the bill. Listen, no one's leaving. Let's go to Lubitsch and get wasted."

They didn't talk about the audition again. After paying, they headed straight for Lubitsch. Despite the long queue, Cesare led them straight in. In the vodka-only bar, Robert became quite drunk. Jenny wasn't much better off. Although she had tried to pace herself after a few drinks, vodka is basically pure alcohol. By the end of the night, Jenny was in the bathroom vomiting.

Cesare, on the other hand, displayed remarkable alcohol tolerance. He was flushed but still managed to walk with some steadiness. After paying the bill, he helped Robert into a cab, ensuring he didn't vomit inside.

Once Robert had been safely dropped off at the hotel, Cesare returned, and Jenny moved to the back seat with him.

"Home address?" Cesare asked, although he was drunk, he still remembered the small details. Jenny asked, "Are you not drunk?"

"The alcohol's pretty much worn off," Cesare replied, rolling down his sleeves, his tie long since loosened and forgotten. "You did well tonight."

"Not bad?" Jenny asked, still somewhat shocked by the turn the evening had taken. "I'm not even sure if I earned that audition."

"What else do you need?" Cesare responded. "Robert begged you for an audition? Don't be ridiculous. What you said proves you're fully qualified to compete for Roxy. Rob has no reason not to recommend you. Don't tell me you can't see that he likes you."

"If you ask me, he's under a lot of pressure," Jenny said, not thinking herself very likable. "His adaptation of Chicago was risky, and the critics might not go easy on it."

"Of course, you know this, I know it, and he knows it," Cesare said. "Movie critics can be ruthless. But his ideas didn't come easy in Weinstein's world. Rob and I have talked about this before. Sometimes, he doubts his own ideas. But I think his vision can work. Chicago is essentially an art film, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't appeal to audiences. At best, it caters to a different kind of audience. No one would make an art film with a nearly $50 million budget otherwise."

Jenny nodded, agreeing with Cesare and Rob's perspective. "Rob just lacks experience as a director. If he had more, he wouldn't have these doubts."

"It's because his circle was too 'noble,'" Cesare shrugged. "You know how Broadway circles can be. They see movies and TV as too vulgar. Rob has more pressure to move toward the mainstream than others. This is his first film, so his performance on set is understandable."

"Director," Jenny said knowingly.

Cesare chuckled. "I have to say, your performance tonight was surprising—Jefferson, you keep surprising people."

"I didn't go to a good high school, but that doesn't mean I don't have ideas," Jenny replied, a little self-conscious. She had only a few tricks up her sleeve. Whether as Jenny or Chen Zhen, she'd never been very literary. She hadn't read Milan Kundera's novels or followed along with discussions about middle-class aesthetics.

"I'm talking about your research on Chicago—what you said is also true. It's a good quality, and you should keep it up," Cesare nodded. "Although Hollywood doesn't prioritize cultural literacy, it can help you win favor with many directors."

Indeed, Hollywood doesn't care about an actor's academic background, but it's difficult to make a good film without some cultural depth. If Jenny hadn't shown an understanding of the material, Rob might not have gotten so drunk—or at least, not so comfortably. Drinking together once is one thing, but the more dinners they shared, the more their friendship would grow. In an industry where connections matter, what could be more valuable than a director friend like Rob Marshall?

"So, are you satisfied with my performance tonight?" Jenny asked, shifting the conversation.

"I'm very satisfied," Cesare said, unusually generous with his praise, perhaps due to his state of inebriation. "Going to the restaurant with me in the car, calling me by my nickname—these are all good ways to protect yourself."

Jenny had indeed protected herself. Cesare, ever observant, had caught on. "Thank you. A girl always has to know how to protect herself."

"Very cautious, commendable," Cesare said, not looking at her but half-napping with his eyes half-closed. "But you could have asked me first. Jefferson, you should trust me more."

"You mean..." Jenny frowned.

"If there was anything in that regard, I would have told you," Cesare said. "Of course, it's my fault for not telling you, but you could have asked first. If you had, I would have told you."

He stood up and turned to look at Jenny, a fleeting smile passing over his face—not the kind of smile he'd give Robert, but one that shouldn't have appeared on Cesare's face at all. Jenny decided it was probably just her imagination.

"Tell me what?" she asked, feigning ignorance.

"Robert is gay," Cesare said bluntly.

Jenny froze, and after a moment, she muttered, "No wonder… no wonder he noticed your cufflinks and my earrings—and figured out my earrings were fake..."

Cesare leaned back, "On Broadway, it's not easy for straight men to succeed. But with gays, you can treat them like friends."

Jenny had no response. "I see."

They sat in silence for a while before Cesare asked, "If Rob hadn't been gay tonight, if he showed interest in you, and if he represented Titanic instead of an audition for Chicago, how would you have reacted?"

Of course, Titanic had already been filmed, but Cesare's meaning was clear. Jenny thought for a moment before responding, "I don't know. Maybe I wouldn't make a decision until then."

"Good," Cesare said.

"What's good about it?" Jenny asked, slightly annoyed. She often overreacted when Cesare applied too much pressure.

"You're cautious with sex," Cesare said. "It means fewer problems later. You trust me enough to tell me the truth. You can trust me more, okay? I'm doing this for your own good."

He was right, but Jenny couldn't help feeling a little irritated. "How can I trust you, Mr. Vigeri, when you still call me Jefferson?"

Cesare laughed—this time for real, his amusement genuine. "Okay, okay, Jenny. Jane. Is that better?"

"It's okay for now, Cesare," Jenny replied calmly. "Ah, we're here."

Before Cesare could speak, she added, "If you say, 'Don't let me down' again as your parting words, I'll make you pay."

Cesare's mouth closed, and after a brief pause, he said, "Good night, Jenny."

"Good night, Cesare," Jenny replied sweetly, exiting the car. She gave him a subtle wave, feeling like she had won a small victory.

And she had won—five days later, Cesare called her and told her to pack for New York to audition for Chicago.

Author's Note:

Kitsch is a concept proposed by Milan Kundera. It's a bit complicated, but in simple terms, it describes the type of sentimentality that's shallow yet designed to make people feel "deep." You can search for more about it.

Middle-class aesthetics: The U.S. is a country dominated by the middle class, who also make up the majority of moviegoers. Hollywood's mainstream movies are often made to appeal to middle-class tastes, and understanding this is vital in the industry.

Consumer credit, as advocated by Greenspan, played a major role in creating the illusion of upward mobility for the poor, contributing to the subprime mortgage crisis. The middle-class lifestyle, symbolized by suburban homes and cars, became a goal many people aspired to.