My teacher is Bruce Lee, who dominated Hollywood.

Chapter 184 Trip to Tahiti

The roar of the engine was gradually drowned out by the whooshing sound of the airflow outside the cabin.

A seaplane pierced through the thick clouds, and below, the vast, deep Pacific Ocean stretched out like a giant blue gem.

As the flight altitude decreased, a huge coral atoll gradually appeared on the sea surface.

The white sand beach reflects a dazzling halo under the direct sunlight of the equator, and the central lagoon is a transparent mint green, so clear that the texture of the coral on the seabed can be seen from the air.

This is Tetiaroa Atoll, 30 miles north of Tahiti in French Polynesia.

Despite the air conditioning in the cabin, Coppola's forehead was still covered in fine beads of sweat.

Clearly, the pressure and anxiety brought about by filming The Godfather Part II were not relieved by seeing this paradise on earth.

"Relax, Francis. This scenery is so beautiful, you should settle down and enjoy it," Qin Han said sincerely, looking out at the lagoon.

The floodgates of memory slowly opened in my mind, revealing an island that holds one of Hollywood's most famous reclusive legends.

In 1960, Marlon Brando visited Tahiti while filming Mutiny on the Bounty.

At that time, he had already won two Academy Awards for Best Actor and was being hailed as a god by the entire Hollywood.

But he saw through the studio system of the time and loathed the greed of the capitalists. So, in 1966, he spent a fortune to buy the atoll that had once belonged to the Tahitian royal family, exiling himself to the depths of the Pacific Ocean, far from his homeland.

The hustle and bustle of Freehill.

It would be a pipe dream to expect Marlon Brando to do anything on this island using worldly interests and fame.

"To deal with a madman, you have to use his language." Qin Han patted his black briefcase. "At least you should have some faith in my script."

The seaplane's floats landed on the calm surface of the lagoon, splashing up large white waves, before coming to a steady stop beside a simple wooden pier.

The two of them carried their luggage off the plane, and the humid sea breeze, mixed with the rich fragrance of tropical flowers, wafted towards them.

There was no red carpet, no flashing lights, and no modern amenities.

An elderly Polynesian servant with dark skin stood barefoot at the end of the pier, holding two freshly cut coconuts in his hands.

The two men, carrying coconuts, followed the old servant through a dense coconut grove, where their view suddenly opened up.

At the edge of the beach, in front of a local indigenous-style wooden house, a slightly overweight man was sitting in a worn-out wicker chair.

He was wearing an oversized printed shirt with the collar open, revealing thick chest hair.

With his feet casually treading the sand and a twig in his hand, he was intently teasing a blue parrot perched on his lap.

If it weren't for that face that has left countless classic impressions on the screen, anyone would mistake him for an ordinary island native.

Marlon Brando, one of Hollywood's greatest geniuses.

Hearing footsteps, the parrot flew away in fright. Malone threw the branch he was holding onto the beach and slowly raised his head.

His eyes lacked the unfathomable, imposing presence of the "Godfather" on screen; instead, they conveyed a weariness and indifference born from seeing through everything.

"Francis, the smell of gasoline from the plane is polluting the air here." His voice was very deep and a little hoarse. He made no attempt to get up to greet him, and his gaze passed over Coppola and landed on Qin Han.

Coppola casually tossed his luggage onto the beach and strode forward: "Marlon, long time no see. This is Qin, the founder of Han's Film Company, and the reason I flew here specifically to see you today."

Qin Han stepped forward, nodded slightly in greeting, and stood quietly to the side.

"Han's Film Company? Never heard of it." Malone's rough fingers tapped on the armrest of the wicker chair, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "But I heard your frantic voice on the phone perfectly clearly. You said you got a script comparable to The Godfather?"

"Those money-obsessed idiots at Paramount are practically calling me non-stop to try and get 'The Godfather Part II' released. And now you've brought a complete stranger to my private property just to tell me you're betraying the Corleone family?"

Coppola felt a little suffocated by Malone's aura, and opened his mouth, trying to organize his thoughts to explain.

Qin Han stepped directly in front of Coppola, unzipped the black briefcase, and pulled out the script for "Chinatown".

"Betraying a fictional Mafia family is nothing, Mr. Malone. What Francis really wants to do is tear off the most hypocritical mask of the entire United States of America."

"And he believed that this script was the most suitable."

Marlon Brando's gaze sharpened slightly as he looked into Qin Han's calm, black eyes. A few seconds later, he reached out and took the script.

The sea breeze rustled through the coconut palms, while in the distance, waves crashed against the rocks, creating a deep, rumbling sound.

Time seems to lose its sense of perception on this secluded island.

Ten minutes, half an hour, an hour —

Coppola paced back and forth on the beach in front of the cabin, leaving a trail of messy footprints. Every time he turned to look at Malone, his heart would race.

Qin Han, on the other hand, seemed unusually relaxed. He sat in a rattan chair, picked up a coconut prepared by the old servant, and savored the sweet coconut juice while enjoying the rare tropical scenery.

Malone read slowly, and when he turned to the middle section, where the corruption of the Los Angeles water system was intertwined with that disgusting family incest scandal, his brows furrowed tightly.

When he turned to the last page and read about Jack's despairing ending in the darkness, he let out a long sigh.

"It's covered in putrid mud."

"The greed of the water authority, the incompetence of the police system, and the double rape of land and humanity by capitalist oligarchs —"

"In this story, justice is kicked aside like a stray dog, while the real devil continues to give speeches under the spotlight."

He stood up, walked to Qin Han, and finally smiled slightly: "Young man, you and I have both seen through the hypocrisy of this country. The freedom and justice that politicians talk about are nothing but fig leaves used to cover up the dirty deals in the sewers."

Three months ago, at the Dorothy Chandler Theatre, those self-important old academics tried to use...

"They're trying to recruit me with a Best Actor award."

"They thought that by giving me the honor of 'The Godfather,' I would wag my tail like an obedient dog and thank them for the bullshit system they established."

Malone's eyes burned with an indomitable rage as he swung his thick arm.

"So I had Sachin Little Feather stand on that stage for me. I was going to give them a good slap across the face at that grand event!"

"I want the whole world to see how they vilify and massacre Native Americans in their movies! They're using movies to whitewash the blood on their hands!"

Malone sneered, continuing with utter contempt, "That hypocrite John Wayne actually tried to rush onto the stage backstage and drag that Native American girl off! This is their so-called civilization! A bunch of robbers in tuxedos!"

Upon hearing this, Coppola instinctively shrank his neck.

The aftershocks of the Oscars night are still reverberating in Hollywood, and the two key figures in this storm are now standing before him.

Faced with Malone's anger, Qin Han put down the coconut in his hand, stood up, and stared intently at this uncrowned king of Hollywood.

"They treat not only Indians this way, Mr. Malone. In their eyes, everyone who doesn't belong to that Ansar white circle..."

"All races are only fit to serve as backdrops to embellish their sense of superiority."

Qin Han recalled the scene when he first transmigrated and was harassed by security guards at the entrance of Warner Bros. Studios, as well as the countless cold shoulders and suppression that Bruce Lee encountered when he first struggled in Hollywood.

"My master was Bruce Lee. A martial artist with a martial arts philosophy ahead of his time. He taught those big stars in Hollywood how to box and helped them design their moves."

"But when he wanted a leading role, the studio executives told him, 'Sorry, American audiences can't accept a yellow-skinned person as a screen hero.'"

Qin Han's tone grew increasingly harsh, each word like a knife: "They would rather find a white actor who knows nothing about kung fu, put on a fake beard, and play a stereotypical Eastern clown than give a real strongman a fair stage."

"Protests and boycotts are your weapons. But Bruce and I are armed with smashing their tables."

"They wouldn't give us the lead role, so we went back to Hong Kong to film it ourselves, and then used the box office bomb to blow up their theaters! They sent assassins to kill us at the press conference, and we beat the assassins to death!"

Qin Han reached out and slammed his hand heavily on the script of "Chinatown".

"In this world, there is only might, not fairness. Only by becoming stronger, strong enough that they cannot ignore us, strong enough to set the rules, can we trample their hypocritical facades underfoot."

"This script is the next knife I've prepared for them."

Marlon Brando stared at Qin Han, and in this young man, he saw a more pure form of aggression than he had ever seen.

He suddenly burst into laughter, startling a flock of seabirds in the coconut grove.

"Good! Very good!" Malone patted Qin Han on the shoulder forcefully. "You're so much better than those spineless Hollywood cowards who only care about profits! You're a true fighter!"

He turned his head and looked at Coppola, who was still standing there in a daze.

"Francis, stop looking like you just lost your father." He pointed to the book "Chinatown" on the wooden table. "What's written in this book is worth all your energy."

"Go ahead and film it! Go ahead and rip out all the ugly guts of those people in Los Angeles and show them to the entire nation!"

"Tell that idiot Frank that I, Marlon Brando, am currently experiencing extreme depression and am unable to get into the role of Vito Corleone."

"I need to recuperate on the island of Tahiti for an extended period. I refuse to participate in any filming schedule related to 'The Godfather Part II' this year, and I will not set foot on the set!"

"Without me, The Godfather Part II would be a pile of waste film! They didn't dare to start filming and could only wait for me to recover my composure like dogs."

He pinched Coppola's shoulder, which was trembling with excitement: "Go film 'Chinatown.' With this perfect excuse, Frank even had to beg you, beg you to wait for me to recover."

During this "downtime," I helped them complete this dark epic, which is worthy of an Oscar.

"Anyway, as long as 'The Godfather Part II' is made, it's bound to sweep Hollywood no matter when it's released. Let him wait!"

Coppola felt like he had just experienced an extreme roller coaster ride, and now he had finally come to a steady stop at the finish line.

He can finally create the Chinatown he has always dreamed of without any worries!

Coppola let out a long sigh of relief, looking completely exhausted, and slumped onto the beach with a fervent smile on his face.

"Now that we've finished discussing serious matters, you two 'traitors' who have traveled from afar, would you like to give me a tour of my kingdom?"

In high spirits, Ma Long adopted the demeanor of a host and extended an invitation to the two with a smile.

Over the next few hours, Malone personally drove an old Jeep, taking Qin Han and Coppola between the various islands of the atoll.

He showed off the ecological research station he had established, explaining how to protect sea turtle nesting sites and how to maintain the island's power supply.

In Hollywood, he was an incomprehensible madman, but here, he was like a devout believer in nature.

Qin Han sat in the back seat of the jeep, but his attention was not entirely focused on the beautiful natural scenery.

Maintaining this modern, secluded lifestyle inevitably requires an enormous amount of material support.

The diesel fuel needed for the generator, the precision instruments for the research station, and even the freshwater purification equipment could not possibly be transported in little by little by those light seaplanes.

"Mr. Malone, the infrastructure on this island is enormous." He asked loudly, facing the sea breeze, "I'm curious, how did all that heavy equipment and massive fuel supplies manage to get here safely, bypassing those greedy commercial ocean shipping companies?"

Upon hearing this question, Malone stepped on the brakes, and the Jeep stopped in front of a deep-water pier.

He glanced back at Qin Han, a hint of admiration in his eyes: "You're very perceptive, Qin. Of course, I won't use those commercial fleets controlled by Wall Street."

"I have some very personal connections in Europe. They have plenty of ocean-going equipment, whether it's heavy machinery or tons of diesel fuel. As long as the money is right, they can ship things to any corner of the earth."

A barely perceptible glint flashed in Qin Han's eyes: This is truly a glimmer of hope after all the darkness!

Their shadow fleet had been struggling to procure large oil tankers, but they had found a way to do so here.

To purchase such strategic-level mega-tankers, he needed precisely such a secretive underground channel, operating outside of US regulation.

"This is fantastic." Qin Han stepped out of the jeep, gazing at the deep blue sea. "To be honest, Han's Film Industry has a major project coming up that requires the construction of an extremely large-scale overseas set. And—"

"I personally have a very large interest in ocean shipping. Would you be willing to introduce me to this mysterious shipping merchant?"

"Why not?" Malone smiled, took a pen out of his pocket, and then took a piece of white paper from the glove compartment. He placed it on the hood of the Jeep and wrote down a long number and a name.

"A Greek named Alexei, one of Aristotle Onassis's men."

"Go contact him. As long as you have enough US dollars, even a supertanker, he can deliver it to you without alerting any customs officials."

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