Chapter Forty-Seven: The Bronze Age

America has entered the Bronze Age—not in terms of its economy or politics, but if you leaf through American history, you’ll see. Economy, politics, film, and comics all declined simultaneously; aside from the semiconductor industry, which was still at its peak, nearly every other sector in America was in retreat. It wasn’t until that blockhead made a blunder that America finally hit rock bottom and began to rebound. Personally, I think the Americans ought to give the blockhead a medal rather than string him up in a tree.

In a sense, the process of eliminating that blockhead restored America's confidence, which was soon followed by a full recovery. Those Americans who think life is unbearable now are in for disappointment: after the Bronze Age comes the Iron Age, which will be even more painful for them.

Though William White was by no means a destroyer, he eagerly awaited the arrival of the Iron Age because everyone would be in ruins and everything would be dirt cheap. Times were hard now, but still manageable—after all, people still had some reserves. A few years later, many would realize that the days of suffering were far from over.

The reckless audacity of the Hunter family had already tested Paul Volcker's limits. As the newly-appointed head of the Federal Reserve, his sole mission was deleveraging. Only through this could he restore investors' confidence in the dollar, especially those overseas.

Yet there was someone undermining him from within, so one can easily imagine Paul Volcker’s attitude. You still dream of returning to the silver standard? As long as I’m in this seat, you’ll never get the chance.

When it came to matters of great importance, the Hunter family’s choices were clearly misguided. If you don’t put American interests first and yet still fantasize about becoming the nation’s foremost family, it must be said—your way of thinking truly defies belief.

While everyone else was out of luck, there was one fortunate youngster: public interest in William White only continued to grow. After regaining his family’s business, the title of billionaire fit him perfectly.

Usually, those who come into vast wealth so easily are prone to all sorts of reckless self-destruction. Not this fellow. Not only did he avoid courting disaster, he was still working diligently to make more money.

This summer was especially fulfilling for him: he spent most of his time holed up in Toronto shooting a film, and from time to time, he’d have a blast with a group of classmates.

His close friends had noticed it too—William White was genuinely dedicated to making his film. Whatever they did in their free time was one thing, but on set, they behaved. The tales of the “set tyrant” weren’t just idle talk; when he scolded people, he didn’t hold back.

“Boss, can we finish before school starts? Do we need to request any leave?” Jason asked as he flipped through the script.

“Almost done. If all goes well, we’ll wrap in three days. If there are any surprises, five days at most.”

“But boss, there are still a lot of scenes left to shoot.”

“Good grief, have you looked at the backgrounds? The final airport reunion scene is set in winter. How am I supposed to make it snow right now?”

“Come on, just change it to a hurricane, set it in Miami—there’s a hurricane every year.”

“I’m planning to release this film during the Christmas season. You want me to put it on a bikini beach? Where’s the audience’s sense of immersion? The movie would flop for sure.”

Jason thought for a moment. “That actually makes a lot of sense. No wonder your films make money.”

“It’s all in the details, Jason. The details matter most.”

Filmmaking isn’t all that difficult if someone is willing to teach you. Of course, becoming a Spielberg or Cameron is out of the question—that level of director is mostly about talent.

Spielberg came up through formal schooling, while Cameron was a truck driver. Let’s not discuss Terminator for now—the script was top-notch. But Titanic? That was pure skill. If you swapped in another director, there’s a ninety percent chance it would’ve flopped.

William White’s shooting speed left Hollywood dumbfounded; anyone else would’ve been accused of shoddy work.

Hollywood producers had indeed made a subjective mistake with Police Academy. For a film cobbled together in just over a month, their instinct was to dismiss it.

Yet when the results didn’t match their expectations, they had to investigate—otherwise, they wouldn’t even know how they’d lost, and that would be truly pathetic.

After watching it, they really had no grounds for complaint. If you claimed it was some artistic masterpiece, that would be nonsense. But in no way could it be called slapdash—the effort clearly showed, and the attention to detail was admirable.

For a film with a production cost of two or three million, achieving this level was already impressive. Another director might not have managed it. Lest you forget, none of the team had directed before—virtually all of them were nobodies.

So this time, they learned their lesson and refrained from making any comments. You must be joking—this was the boss’s own project. Criticizing the work of a billionaire was highly inappropriate. And as for the film’s achievements, he was now a member of the hundred-million club—what right did they have to judge?

Commercial films live and die by the box office. It doesn’t matter if someone had a lucky break; only when you reach a hundred million dollars at the box office do you earn the right to speak. Otherwise, you’d be instantly shut down.

In Hollywood, you can talk about art and ideals, but box office is what matters most. Those numbers are more convincing than any award.

Hollywood was mired in confusion. They were sick of Police Academy by now, and still couldn’t figure out why it was so successful.

Raunchy jokes? There were plenty of films even more outrageous, yet they still flopped.

Marketing? Maybe, but word of mouth can’t be faked. If the quality isn’t there, box office receipts always drop off after the hype fades—there’s no reason for a film to keep selling out.

Regardless, they all tried their hand at this type of comedy, even the biggest studios. They had no quarrel with making money. Chasing trends was nothing to be ashamed of—if it meant making piles of cash, who cared about artistic integrity?

While film and comics entered the Bronze Age, the automotive and construction industries had already plummeted into the Iron Age. The related fields of automobiles, steel, and construction were suffering terribly—the unemployment rate had already surpassed 10%, and it was still climbing. If the economy didn’t improve noticeably next year, it would hit 15% for sure.

Americans generally believed that a 5% unemployment rate was acceptable; anything higher was cause for alarm. And now, the rate had doubled with no sign of relief.

Carter was well aware that his chances for reelection next year were nonexistent. With 10% unemployment, there was no way he could win another term—he could only hope his defeat wouldn’t be too humiliating.