My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 179 A Soul-Shaking Long Shot

"Qin! Quickly, tell the driver to back up! We can't leave Sylvester out here alone!"

Fred's voice trembled uncontrollably as he frantically tried to pull on the truck bed door handle: "These guys really do smash people's heads!"

"Quiet." Qin Han ignored Fred's panic and put a hand on the photographer's back.

"Keep the camera steady, focus on his back. Don't worry about what's happening outside, just keep filming as long as he doesn't push open the car door and rush out."

A fine layer of cold sweat appeared on the photographer's forehead and slid down the corners of his eyes.

He didn't make a sound, but pressed the viewfinder even tighter, his heavy breathing sounding particularly clear in the small space.

In the alley, Sylvester Stallone stopped in his tracks as four local thugs pressed closer.

After a week of relentless hammering of raw meat in the cold storage, Stallone was now completely consumed by the soul of "Rocky."

"Can't you understand human language, you bastard?" Scarface tapped the hood of the pickup truck next to him with a metal pipe. "This is our neighborhood. Whatever crap you're filming, ditch the cash in your pockets."

Otherwise, I guarantee you won't make it out of this alley today.

Faced with this arrogant provocation, Stallone slowly raised his head and looked at Scarface as if he were looking at a piece of dead meat hanging on a hook in a cold storage room.

He suddenly took a big step forward, twisted his waist violently, and with this violent torque, his right fist, which was wrapped in blood-stained bandages, slammed hard into the hood of the pickup truck next to him!

"boom!"

The hood of the old pickup truck was dented inward by this relentless punch, leaving a deep dent!

The scarred man holding the iron pipe froze on the spot, his mocking smile still lingering, his eyes almost popping out of their sockets.

The other three thugs instinctively took a half step back, their hands gripping the baseball bats trembling uncontrollably.

How much explosive power would it take to punch a car's hood and create a deep dent?

Standing before them was not an actor with a script, but a monster in human skin, a desperado!

Stallone slowly withdrew his fist, a trace of fresh blood seeping from the rough bandage, but he seemed to feel no pain at all. He simply stood there, his emotionless eyes sweeping over the four thugs in front of him once more.

Inside the carriage, Qin Han withdrew his left hand from the door handle.

He knew he no longer needed to get off the bus.

To ensure that the intimidated thugs wouldn't act rashly, he turned to the side and pulled open a crack in the black blackout curtain on the side of the carriage.

The car window slowly rolled down, and he casually rested his right hand on the edge of the window so that the light could illuminate the object in his hand.

It was a Colt large-caliber pistol.

Scarface caught a glimpse of the dark gun muzzle out of the corner of his eye, and felt the hairs on the back of his head stand on end.

He didn't dare utter a single harsh word to save face. He threw down the iron pipe in his hand and scrambled to open the pickup truck door.

With a screeching sound as the tires rubbed against the ground, the pickup truck fled the alley like a stray dog.

Stallone stood there, watching the taillights flee in panic, and took a deep breath of the cold, biting air of Philadelphia in the early morning.

He looked up, and at the end of the alley, the eastern horizon finally cracked open—the sun was about to rise.

Stallone pulled his beanie down, tucked his blood-stained fists back to his chest, and continued running towards the heart of the city—the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

"My God—"

Inside the carriage, it was only then that Fred finally regained his breathing.

He slumped into the chair like a lump of mud, wiping away a bead of cold sweat.

"Did you get the picture?" Qin Han ignored Fred and went straight to confirm with the photographer.

"Not a single frame missed, sir." The photographer's voice was filled with barely suppressed excitement. "That punch, and the moment he looked up at the sky. It's all on film!"

"Well done, keep up the good work." Qin Han patted the metal sheet of the carriage.

Half an hour later, in front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.

This magnificent ancient Greek temple-style building appeared solemn and majestic in the morning light.

The massive staircase leading to the main gate, consisting of seventy-two wide stone steps, stood like an insurmountable mountain blocking everyone's way.

Here, one of the greatest running shots in film history will be born.

The truck stopped outside the square. Qin Han opened the door and got out. Fred wrapped his coat tighter and followed behind, his brows furrowing again as he looked at the long staircase.

"Qin, we're in big trouble." Fred pointed to the steps. "This is such a long distance, and we don't have a smooth track. If the cameraman has to carry his equipment and run up behind him, the shaking will make the audience nauseous!"

In 1970s Hollywood, there were only two ways to shoot a long, moving shot: either lay heavy, time-consuming rails and use a trolley, or use a large crane.

However, neither of these methods works in this kind of guerrilla-style, surprise filming.

"Who told you we needed to lay tracks?" Qin Han turned around and snapped his fingers at the photographer in the truck bed. "Get that equipment out."

The photographer nodded and pulled a strangely shaped metal box from the bottom of the carriage.

Opening the case reveals a sophisticated set of equipment: a heavy black canvas vest, a mechanical cantilever connecting shock-absorbing springs and dampers, and a universal joint stabilizer with a counterweight metal module.

This is the industrial revolution in Hollywood cinematography—the Steadicam camera stabilizer!

Originally, this amazing device was supposed to be created by inventor Garrett Brown two years later.

However, due to its simple principle, Qin Han directly handed over the design to a mechanical engineering laboratory in Los Angeles, where the prototype was assembled before filming.

"What kind of monster is this?" Fred stared wide-eyed as the cameraman, with the help of the crew, put on the heavy vest and fixed the camera to the complicated universal joint.

"This is the magic that keeps the camera steady while running."

Qin Han walked up to the photographer and carefully inspected the spring tension on the mechanical cantilever.

"Listen, you don't need to look at the road ahead. Just stick close to his back and synchronize your ascent with his breathing. These seventy-two steps are a pilgrimage for him. You need to record this struggle and strength, bit by bit."

The photographer, feeling the heavy yet wondrous equipment on his body, took a deep breath and gave an "OK" sign.

In the distance, Stallone was already running along the wide tree-lined avenue.

After running through the streets for nearly an hour, his physical strength had reached its limit.

My lungs felt like they were on fire, and sweat poured down my face, soaking through my gray clothes.

He arrived at the bottom of the steps.

The seventy-two stone steps stood tall in the morning light, as if mocking the ant's overestimation of its own abilities.

"start!"

Stallone gritted his teeth, let out a low growl like a wild beast, and charged up the first step.

The photographer, wearing the mechanical exoskeleton, followed closely behind.

Fred stood in the square, watching the photographer running up the steps carrying a heavy machine. The camera, suspended on the robotic arm, seemed to float in the air like a ghost, incredibly steady!

Level 10 — Level 2 —

Stallone's steps grew heavier and heavier.

This wasn't acting; it was his body's true reaction. His legs felt like they were filled with lead, and every time he lifted a leg, he had to squeeze out the last bit of strength from his very bones.

Level 30 ————

He slowed down, sweat blurred his vision, and his muscles ached as if they were about to tear apart.

At this moment, Sylvester Stallone and Rocky Balboa's souls became one.

What flashed through his mind was the despair of not being able to afford a slice of bread in the snow in New York; the desolation of almost having his dog sold.

This damn world has never given him any chance!

Until I met that young Chinese man!

And now, this staircase is the last heavy punch he throws at fate!

"Ah—!" Stallone roared, tearing his throat apart.

Level 60 — Level 7 — Level 72!

He reached the top!

The photographer, operating the Steadicam, made a perfect semi-circular maneuver, shifting the camera from his back to his front.

At this moment, the sun completely leaped above the horizon.

The golden rays of dawn cascaded down like a waterfall, piercing through the thin mist of Philadelphia and showering Sylvester Stallone with unreserved light.

He stood at the highest point of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, overlooking the vast city.

He suddenly turned around, facing the rising sun, and raised his blood-stained fists high into the sky!

There was no background music, only his heavy, wild breathing.

Below the steps, Fred stared blankly up at the back of the figure with arms outstretched, until a cold wind blew past, jolting him awake. He raised the back of his hand to wipe his cheek.

This veteran producer, who had spent most of his life in Hollywood, found his face covered in tears.

He can't remember the last time he was moved by a movie he helped produce.

In money-driven Hollywood, movies have long become a cold business.

But today, in this early morning, without clearing the area, without lighting, and without even a filming permit.

He was struck hard in the heart by a poor boy from the bottom of society, with his clumsy yet genuine running.

"Qin—" Fred turned his head and looked at Qin Han, who was also staring at the top of the steps beside him: "I believe it now."

This is more than just a movie.

"Rocky—he will bring a true spiritual earthquake to this scarred America."

Qin Han looked at the figure at the top, completely absorbed in the role, and smiled from the bottom of his heart.

"One take."

He turned around and waved to the crew members who were still waiting: "That's a wrap. Everyone go back to the hotel and rest. Tonight, we'll go to the ice rink."

Night falls.

An old indoor skating rink in South Philadelphia.

The daytime hustle and bustle has faded away, leaving only a few dim neon lights crackling in the empty venue.

This is where Rocky and Adrian had their first date; the film crew rented the ice rink for ten minutes after it closed.

Qin Han sat on a folding chair by the sidelines, holding a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

After a day of intense filming, everyone on the crew was in a strange state of extreme exhaustion yet also unusual excitement.

On the ice, Renée Russo wore a red beanie that covered half her face and an old coat that was several sizes too big for her.

She didn't change into ice skates; she simply wore her clumsy leather shoes and carefully stepped onto the smooth ice.

Sylvester Stallone, wearing roller skates, glided alongside her.

The time they spent living together in the West Hollywood villa fostered an extremely natural and unspoken understanding between them.

Stallone was still that rough, somewhat clumsy boxer. When Renee slipped and was about to fall, he stretched out his thick arm and steadily caught her elbow, muttering a few awkward words of comfort.

There are no intense dramatic conflicts, and no fancy lines.

Only two marginalized individuals, abandoned by the world, tentatively approach each other for warmth on the empty ice surface.

Qin Han did not have the photographer put on that heavy Steadicam again, but instead found a wheelchair.

The cameraman sat in a wheelchair, holding the camera in his arms, while two crew members pushed the wheelchair from behind, slowly gliding around Stallone and Renee on the ice.

The camera remained at chest height, and the unedited long take perfectly unified the tone of the entire scene with the previous shots.

This is a documentary-style, raw yet incredibly sincere romance.

When the ten-minute rental period was up, all the stadium lights suddenly turned on with a "snap," the blinding white light shattering the tranquility on the ice.

"Stop. Perfect."

Qin Han stood up, clapped his hands, and the scene went even more smoothly than he had expected.

It seems that the tacit understanding between the two played a crucial role.

Late at night, the film crew returned to their hotel.

Qin Han drew the curtains tightly shut and typed rapidly on the typewriter.

"Knock knock knock".

There was a gentle knock on the door, and Sylvester Stallone walked in.

He had already showered and changed into a clean black T-shirt, but the bruises on his face and the bandages on the back of his hands still bore the marks of the frantic filming during the day.

He was carrying a bottle of chilled beer and a bottle of soda.

"Still not asleep? I thought after today's intense schedule, you'd be so exhausted you'd just collapse onto the bed."

"I knew you were inspired at night, so I came to check on you."

Stallone opened his beer, took a big gulp, and pushed the soda water in front of Qin Han.

"Today in the alley—thank you. If you hadn't rolled down the truck window, I might have really smashed that bastard's head in. If that had happened, the movie would have been ruined."

"You did a perfect job, Sly. That's the kind of reaction Rocky should have." Qin Han looked up from the typewriter. "Save that anger. When you get back to Los Angeles, you need to unleash it all in the ring fight at the studio."

Stallone nodded heavily, his gaze falling on the old-fashioned typewriter.

In the very center of the top draft, printed in bold, are the words: "Chinatown"

"This is... a new script?" Stallone asked, somewhat surprised.

He knew that Han's Film Studio operated at an astonishingly fast pace, but he didn't expect that during the intense location shooting of "Rocky," Qin Han would still be working late into the night to create a brand new story.

"An old dream about Los Angeles." Qin Han reached out and picked up the manuscript paper with the title printed on it, and casually flicked it.

"Chinatown? An action movie? Like Mr. Li?" Stallone leaned closer curiously.

Qin Han looked at him, smiled and shook his head, put the paper back on the table, and leaned back in his chair.

"Sylvester, what kind of story do you think Rocky is?"

"It's the story of a thug at the very bottom of society who, for the sake of his dignity, throws a punch at those high above him. He's in darkness, but he desperately tries to grasp that glimmer of light."

"That's a very accurate summary." Qin Han raised his soda water and saluted him: "If Rocky is a story about someone in darkness who yearns for the light..."

"So this script is about someone who thinks they're standing in the light, but is ultimately enveloped by boundless darkness."

A story of devouring.