Chapter 18: A New Year.
The 1980s vanished in the blink of an eye, and the 1990s slipped in quietly. Ryan Jenkins had turned ten. The sad part was that although he knew he had been born in 1980, he had no idea what day his actual birthday fell on. It was, he had to admit, a rather depressing situation.
After the calendar flipped to 1990, the world saw one major event after another. In the Middle East, tensions exploded as Saddam Hussein looked ready to set off the powder keg. The Soviet Union had entered its final twilight and was clearly on the brink of collapse. The revolutions sweeping Eastern Europe could no longer be stopped, and another enormous market was about to throw its doors wide open to Hollywood films.
None of it had anything to do with him, though. The thing that made Ryan happiest about the new year was the long winter break—no more of that miserable school.
After finishing The Sixth Sense and returning to class, Ryan sailed through the placement tests without breaking a sweat. But just as Nicole had once predicted, only a week later the principal called her in. The old headmaster listed Ryan's offenses one after another: he didn't listen in class, he refused to interact with anyone, he showed no respect for teachers, he always worked on his own projects, and he never told anyone what he was doing.
"Miss Kidman, as his guardian, we hope you will have a serious talk with Ryan Jenkins," the principal had said at the time, looking genuinely pained.
How could Nicole not know about Ryan's old habits? She had been summoned to school countless times back in London. What really gave her a headache was that she had no idea how to solve the problem. Ryan's grades were all A's, and apart from his wild imagination and occasional eccentric behavior, he was the most outstanding child in his age group—or even among older kids—in every possible way.
Sometimes she wondered whether she should pull him out of school and hire a private tutor. But the moment she remembered how much he disliked spending time with children his own age, and how doing that would only make him more isolated, she quickly killed the idea.
"Dear Nat, congratulations on stepping back onto the community theater stage again. Unfortunately you're all the way in New York, so I can't come watch your performance. In your last letter you shared your thoughts on art, and I have to disagree. In my opinion, every form of art begins as entertainment. Any art that cannot be accepted by the public—no matter how rigorous, how profound, or how meaningful—will eventually die out. History proves this time and again. If possible, I would love to sit down with you face-to-face and have a real debate…"
After returning from Philadelphia to Los Angeles, Ryan and Natalie wrote to each other almost every week. They cheered each other on, but most of the time they were arguing—or rather, straight-up debating.
Their views on art in particular were worlds apart, and every letter was filled with arguments meant to crush the other's opinion.
Ryan folded the letter, slipped it into an envelope, and sealed it. Just then he heard the front door open—Nicole must have finished shooting that commercial.
"Hi, Nicole. You look tired. Want something to drink? Juice or coffee?"
He walked into the living room, saw the exhaustion written all over her face, and headed straight for the kitchen.
"Juice is fine. I don't dare let you make coffee again, or the neighbors will definitely file a complaint!"
Ryan's face darkened. Just after New Year's he had discovered his worst talent—cooking. The one and only time he had tried to brew coffee, he had nearly blown up the entire kitchen.
"Fine." He poured two glasses of strawberry juice and set them on the coffee table in front of the sofa.
"Ryan, what did you have for lunch?" Nicole had been in Malibu all day and hadn't come home at noon.
"I ordered takeout from that place Tom told me about."
Tom Cruise had actually been pretty decent about it. If not for him, Ryan would never have known about that great little restaurant.
Speaking of Tom Cruise, he still hadn't given up on Nicole. After Christmas he had called to ask her out again. Unfortunately Ryan had answered the phone. The mischievous boy hadn't stood him up this time—he simply asked how the chili-water face wash had felt. Mr. Tom Cruise had hung up immediately.
"Nicole, I wrote a new song today. Want to hear it?"
As time passed, Ryan's composing skills had improved at an astonishing speed. Even though his voice hadn't changed yet, it sounded far more mature than before. The songs he sang were much more pleasant, and the neighbors hardly ever came knocking anymore. Quite a few of them even said listening to him sing was a treat.
Nicole Kidman was naturally one of them.
He fetched the handmade rosewood guitar from his room, sat on the tall stool, and strummed the strings. Bright notes filled the air.
It was a simple tune, leaning toward upbeat country-folk. After a short intro, Ryan's slightly youthful voice began:
"Life is like climbing, the road ahead is full of obstacles. Those who never give up keep their heads high and keep running until they reach the highest, most beautiful place…"
The lyrics were short and straightforward, but they carried a strong motivational feel. Paired with the lively rhythm, the song gave off a positive, uplifting energy.
"What do you think, Nicole?" Ryan looked at the elegant woman with hopeful eyes.
"Ryan, you keep surprising me more and more." Even though she had grown almost numb from years of his shocking talents, Nicole Kidman still couldn't help sighing. "I know a little about music. This song is simple, but it's already at a professional recording level!"
"Wow, guess I really am a genius!" This time there was no awkward flush on his face.
"Ryan, what I'm trying to say is that you're learning too many things at once. A person only has so much energy. Are you planning to become a singer someday too?"
"Why not?" Ryan spread his hands in a perfectly natural gesture. Before Nicole could speak again, he quickly added, "I know what you mean—don't bite off more than you can chew. Don't worry, I have plenty of time and energy."
"Plenty? In the past month alone the principal at St. John's Elementary has called me in three times. How am I supposed to relax?"
That was life. You couldn't have everything. If you wanted to gain something, you had to give something up. Besides, for a child, time was incredibly precious. He couldn't waste the most valuable years on schoolwork that was almost meaningless.
Of course, in the near future—or once he reached middle school—he would probably have to spend some time studying so his grades didn't look too ridiculous. But that definitely wasn't necessary during elementary school.
Compared to the brutal cramming education he had endured in his previous life as Alex, American elementary school was ridiculously easy. It was basically just an introduction to learning. Even the American history he hadn't known in his past life was simple enough to handle after reading the textbook once.
During the holiday, Ryan finally had time to finish polishing the two unfinished screenplays he had started. There was no rush, though. Just as he had told Nicole, everything could wait until The Sixth Sense was released.
Ryan still believed that even though David Fincher was directing a feature film for the first time, and the project had been moved up several years from his previous life, it might turn out just as good as—or even better than—the version directed by M. Night Shyamalan. Besides, producer Harvey Weinstein was famous in his past life for having an incredible eye. As long as neither of them lost their minds, the movie wouldn't be much worse than the original.
What's more, the subject matter was still extremely rare right now and perfectly reflected the one issue American mainstream society cared about most—family.
A week later, Ryan went to Miramax's studio in Burbank to record a few dialogue loops for the film, which was now in post-production.
"Wow, David, are you guys editing?" Ryan stared at the room full of equipment, including the flatbed editor, and bombarded the supervising director with questions.
"Yes, Ryan."
"What does this machine do?"
Ryan fired off question after question like a walking encyclopedia. By the time David Fincher had answered them all, his throat was raw.
Post-production on a film was just as time-consuming and exhausting as shooting—sometimes even more tedious. For big sci-fi spectacles it was ten times worse.
David Fincher didn't have much say in the editing room anyway. Every cut had to be approved by Harvey Weinstein. That was Hollywood. This wasn't Hong Kong—directors didn't hold that kind of power here.
The studio system revolved around producers. Unless a director was also a producer, final cut was almost impossible to get. A newcomer like David Fincher had zero chance.
"Harvey, when is the movie coming out?" Ryan asked when he finally saw the producer.
"As soon as possible, of course." After nearly six months, Harvey Weinstein had learned exactly how to talk to Ryan. Never treat him like a child when discussing business, or you would end up in a trap. "We're aiming for early April, depending on how post-production goes."
Ryan pinched his small chin. In his opinion the film would have been perfect for summer, but he was only the writer and star; he wasn't stupid enough to forget his place. He kept his mouth shut.
Besides, an April release wasn't all bad. There were almost no major blockbusters in that slot, and they could sign a long theater run to keep the movie playing longer. As long as the box office hit the minimum he had in mind, it would be enough.
Ryan remembered the contract he and Nicole had signed with Miramax—the one that had seemed like a joke at the time. If the movie really performed the way he expected, he wondered whether Harvey Weinstein would fire the agent who had negotiated that deal with them.