My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 166 New York Again

At 30,000 feet, soothing background music played in the first-class cabin.

Outside the porthole, the Californian sunlight, which seemed to never fade, poured in without reservation.

Martin Scorsese, slumped in the large, soft airline seat, irritably tugged at his tie as if it were a noose on a gallows.

He turned his head and stared through the porthole at the receding west coastline below, his thick eyebrows finally relaxing.

"Hypocritical. Pretentious. Utterly disgusting. Thank goodness I met you, otherwise I would never have come to this godforsaken place again."

The Italian director seemed to be enduring immense torment as he launched into a barrage of criticism at Qin Han.

"I swear, if I had to stay in Los Angeles for another week, my brain would have been completely ruined!"

"Look at those people in Beverly Hills, wearing Armani suits, carrying LV bags—even their smiles seem artificially created!"

Martin became increasingly agitated as he spoke, even drawing sidelong glances from several passengers in the rows in front of him, but he paid no heed: "They have no idea what reality is! Only the stench rising from the Manhattan sewers, and the piercing sirens—that's the true American soul!"

Faced with this highly destructive "artistic manifesto," the onlookers raised their newspapers and pretended not to see anything.

After Martin had vented his anger, Qin Han calmly replied, "Martin, your fascination with pain and quagmire is precisely why Han's Film Company is willing to foot the bill for you. Great art is often born from the dirtiest soil."

Martin was about to nod in agreement when the other person's next sentence struck like a knife: "But you'd better face this reality. Without the dollars you call trash as fuel, your observations of suffering are utterly worthless in this world."

"Film costs money, cameras cost money, and closing the streets of New York costs even more money. The million-dollar budget you're about to squander in New York for your first-class cabin all comes from those 'plastic men' drinking champagne in Beverly Hills."

Martin opened his mouth, but the words he wanted to say got stuck in his throat. In the end, he could only groan, grab the ice water in front of him, and drink it all in one gulp.

Seeing the director's discomfiture, Qin Han smiled and shook his head, his gaze casually sweeping over the briefcase placed at his feet.

Inside the interlayer, a “Power of Attorney” signed by Disney President Card Walker lay quietly.

A few hours later, the Boeing aircraft landed smoothly at New York's John F. Kennedy International Airport.

The leaden sky pressed down overhead, and the thick clouds seemed poised to collide with the towering skyscrapers at any moment.

Qin Han and Martin got into a yellow taxi and headed towards the heart of Manhattan.

As the vehicle ventured deeper into the city, the most decaying aspects of this megacity were laid bare before our eyes.

It's much more chaotic here than it was a few months ago!

New York City Hall is on the verge of bankruptcy due to a severe budget deficit, and sanitation workers have been on strike for two weeks.

In the corners of the streets, black plastic garbage bags were piled up as high as two stories, like small mountains exuding an aura of death.

In broad daylight, rats the size of house cats roam freely between garbage heaps and sewer openings.

Every red brick wall in sight was covered with messy graffiti left after gang fights, and in some places there were dark red patches, making it hard to tell whether they were spray paint or dried blood.

However, faced with such a hellish scene, Martin Scorsese was like a fish that had been parched for a long time finally returning to the water.

His eyes gleamed with excitement, and he was practically pressed against the car window.

"God! This is the feeling!" He excitedly pounded on the car door and couldn't wait to get the driver to stop when they passed through Little Italy.

"Qin, I have to get off here to meet some old buddies. I need to start location scouting for 'Alice Isn't Here' right away, and while I'm at it, find a few street thugs to give some direction on 'Taxi Driver'!"

Martin, carrying his travel bag, rushed into the chaotic streets like a whirlwind.

The car door closed again, and the taxi continued driving forward.

Qin Han sat alone in the wide back seat, coldly scrutinizing the desolate scene outside the window.

He knew better than anyone the economic pain and security collapse the city was experiencing.

This is a huge disaster for theater owners who have lost their middle-class audience.

"Sir, we've arrived."

Qin Han pushed open the car door, tossed a few US dollars onto the front seat, and stepped onto the asphalt of 42nd Street, his gaze fixed on Broadway, once hailed as the "Crossroads of the World" and representing the highest temple of human stage art.

Along the main road, the gold leaf on the exterior walls of those magnificent old theaters has peeled off, revealing the mottled base color.

Without box office revenue, many theaters are closed, their windows covered with court seals and bank demand notices.

In order to survive, some stages that once staged Shakespearean plays now hang new signs on their neon signs above their entrances—"Striptease show, only two dollars."

Posters featuring scantily clad women were brazenly overlaid on the posters for Romeo and Julia.

He turned his gaze away from the few well-known theaters still struggling to stay afloat on the main street—those old-fashioned remnants of the past couldn't possibly write what he needed.

I turned straight into a small alley behind the main road, and a strong smell of urine hit me.

He walked along the mottled brick wall towards the deeper "Off-Broadway".

The geniuses who will save Disney's music empire in the future don't even have the right to step onto the wooden floors of the grand theater. They can only endure harsh treatment in a rat-infested basement for a meager salary of a few dozen dollars a month.

At the end of the alley was a half-closed iron gate.

Suddenly, a powerful and penetrating melody from a piano, passing through the door, struck Qin Han's eardrums.

There are no mournful arias, no somber symphonies; the rapid melodies leap wildly across the black and white keys, carrying a strong Caribbean flavor.

Joyful and unrestrained, like waves crashing against rocks under the tropical sun.

Qin Han stopped in his tracks instantly. When he heard the beginnings of that familiar melody, his heart skipped a beat.

It's Under the Sea!

The hit song from the future "The Little Mermaid" that swept the Oscars and drove the world crazy!

He didn't rush in, but stood quietly outside the door, listening to the beautiful melody.

"Stop! Stop right there! What kind of garbage are you playing?!"

In the basement, a violent roar interrupted the beautiful piano music.

Qin Han frowned and pushed open the door.

This is an extremely dilapidated underground theater. The water pipes on the ceiling are dripping rusty water, and two of the three spotlights on the stage are broken, with the remaining one emitting a dim and flickering glow.

In the center of the stage, several pale and thin young actors stood helplessly to one side.

Opposite them was a secondhand upright piano with badly chipped paint.

Sitting on the piano bench was a young man with messy hair that looked like a bird's nest.

His hands were still frozen in mid-air, his chest heaving violently, and his bloodshot eyes were fixed on the theater producer in front of him.

"I hired you to write the soundtrack for that family drama about the urban underclass next month!"

The producer waved his fat arms, spitting all over the young genius's face: "Look outside! That's New York! Not some damn Hawaiian beach!"

"People here can barely afford a loaf of dark bread, and there are hitmen lurking in the subway every day! And you write me this cheerful music?!"

"What? You expect those penniless bastards driven mad by life to sit in the audience and wiggle their butts to your music?!"

The young composer clenched his fists tightly, his lips trembling, as he tried to defend his masterpiece: "This is music about breaking free from the cage—it's a yearning for the unknown world! Only in the deepest, most oppressive mire is this yearning truly real!"

"I crave shit! I want something that can sell tickets and make people cry!" The producer interrupted him mercilessly, ready to kick him out of the basement.

*Slap.* *Slap.* *Slap.*

A burst of crisp applause suddenly rang out at the door.

Qin Han slowly emerged from the dim light.

His handcrafted cashmere coat and well-tailored French shirt made him seem out of place in the dark basement.

The entire theater fell silent; no one dared to inquire about the identity of this uninvited guest.

Qin Han ignored the stunned producer and fixed his gaze on the young man, bypassing the crowd.

"Although I don't understand music theory, I can tell that you are using this cheerful appearance to cover up an emotional tension that wants to break free from constraints."

"The yearning for freedom" and "rebellion against convention" are like a soul imprisoned in the deep sea, struggling to swim upwards to see the sunlight above the water.

The young genius, the future god of film scores, Alan Menken, who had just been thoroughly scolded, instantly had tears in his eyes.

His chest heaved violently, and tears welled up uncontrollably in his eyes.

In this dilapidated city where people can't even get enough to eat, there are actually people who truly understand all the effort he poured into the black and white keys!

The producer finally snapped out of his daze, looked at the imposing stranger, and said in a stern but ultimately weak voice, "Who—who are you? This is a private theater; we don't welcome unauthorized personnel!"

Qin Han didn't even spare him a glance, his gaze remaining fixed on Alan Menken's face.

"This city, this dilapidated theater, is utterly unworthy of the value of this melody."

Qin Han turned his head slightly, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather: "I think we could talk privately? After you finish this pointless work here, let's go out for a nice meal together. I bet you haven't had a proper dinner in a long time."

Faced with the triple blow of money, opportunity, and a "kindred spirit," Alan Menken didn't hesitate at all.

He suddenly stood up from the piano bench, ripped off the cheap silk scarf around his neck, and threw it hard at the producer's face.

"Screw your family dramas! I quit!"

Two hours later.

Inside a tastefully decorated French restaurant on Manhattan's Upper East Side.

The warm fireplace dispelled the lingering chill of the outside world, while elegant classical music played from the gramophone.

Alan Menken was stuffing the last piece of filet mignon, drizzled with rich black pepper sauce, into his mouth without any regard for appearances. His oily face was filled with reverence and satisfaction for the food.

Qin Han sat opposite him, the red wine in front of him barely touched.

He watched quietly as the future master finished his meal, until the waiter cleared away the plates and brought out two steaming cups of black coffee. Only then did he lift the leather briefcase that had been beside him onto the solid wood dining table.

He pulled a thick document from his briefcase. On the upper right corner of the pristine white coated paper was printed a logo that the whole world...

The identifying symbol is a round head and two round, large ears.

Qin Han gently pushed the document in front of Alan Menken.

The young artist, who had just finished eating, stared at the paper. When he saw the Mickey Mouse pattern and the gold lettering below that read "Authorized by Walt Disney Studios," his already bloodshot eyes widened instantly.

I was frozen in my seat as if under a spell, my breath stopped.

Qin Han leaned forward slightly, his hands crossed and resting under his chin.

"Let me reintroduce myself. I'm Qin Han from Han's Film Company in Los Angeles."

"I currently have a big-budget A-list animated film that's fully funded by Disney, with no budget limit. As for the singers for the theme song and promotional song, I've already decided on Elvis Presley—the King of Pop."

He looked at the young man opposite him who had completely lost the ability to think, and threw out his last card.

"Now, tell me, would you be willing to participate in this project, bringing your incredible melody with you?"

Alan Menken felt as if his throat was blocked by a wad of cotton.

A Disney A-list production? Elvis Presley as lead singer? Unlimited budget?

Just minutes ago, he was enduring insults for composing a soundtrack for a family drama to fill his stomach; now, Hollywood's top resources are laid bare right next to his plate.

"This—this isn't a joke?" He swallowed hard. "You want me, a lowly writer who can't even get through the doors of Broadway, to be a lead writer?"

"Han's Film Company never looks at background, only talent."

Without wasting any words, Qin Han pulled a Montblanc pen from the inside pocket of his coat and casually placed it on the document: "As long as you sign your name, I can prepare an extra plane ticket for you when I return to Los Angeles."

Alan Menken lunged at the table, grabbed the heavy pen, and quickly signed his name in the signature area.

"A wise choice, Allen. Top-notch melodies need equally top-notch lyrics to give them soul."

"This is a huge project. You need a partner who truly understands your music and can weave stories into the notes. Do you have any suitable candidates to recommend?"