madnovel Chapter 53 London's Counterattack
Chapter 53 London's Counterattack
While Los Angeles was still asleep in the warmth of the night, London, across the Atlantic, was already experiencing a damp and chilly morning.
In an apartment in Kensington, Emily Blunt was curled up on the sofa, staring at the computer screen, her face pale.
After the harsh beeping of dial-up internet, the glaring headlines on Hollywood gossip websites nearly shattered her.
"Down-on-her-luck country girl", "A British newcomer with absolutely no star quality", "A casting that brings shame to Fox".
She subconsciously touched her face.
In the eyes of Hollywood casting directors who judge actors based on their looks, her appearance, with its cool, misty London suburbs, even with improved acting skills, is indeed less appealing than Lindsay Lohan, the Disney girl with a face full of collagen, dressed in Juicy Couture.
But before she could even shed a tear, the phone rang. It wasn't her agent, but an old classmate who worked as a culture reporter for The Guardian.
"Emily, stop reading those trashy American newspapers. Look at today's Daily Mail and The Times; all of London is in your support."
Half an hour later, on Fleet Street in London.
The British media's reaction was far more intense than Hollywood had anticipated.
For the British, who pride themselves on being the cultural hegemon, the American media's humiliation of Emily Blunt was accurately interpreted as a collective bullying of British academic acting by American popular culture.
The Daily Mail published street photos of Lindsay Lohan during her audition on its front page, accompanied by a scathing headline:
"Hollywood's aesthetic anemia: Manhattan is truly beyond saving when Americans consider terry cloth sweatshirts to be fashionable."
In the article, the sharp-tongued British commentator wrote: "NBC commentators seem unable to distinguish between popular idols and professional actors."
Ryan Lam, the director from China, displayed surprising taste; he rejected a walking sweet candy and chose a genuine British scalpel.
If Hollywood considers Emily Blunt's British sophistication to be tacky, it only shows that their fashion sense is still stuck at the level of fast-food restaurant uniforms.
The Independent went a step further, interviewing several veterans of London's fashion scene, such as Sir Paul Smith and Zandra Rhodes:
"The top magazines in Manhattan need a sense of class. Emily Blunt's chilling London accent is the best interpretation of the aesthetics of power."
We should thank that young Eastern director; he not only understands film, he even understands what "Old Money" means better than Americans do.
Los Angeles, Fox Studios.
Producer John, sweating profusely, pushed open the door to Lin Ruiyang's office, clutching a stack of foreign newspaper clippings that had just come out of the fax machine.
"Lin! They've gone mad, they've all gone mad!" John's voice was filled with an unbelievable excitement.
"The British media has collectively switched sides! They're now hailing Emily Blunt as the jewel of British entertainment, and condemning NBC and other media outlets as ignorant bumpkins!"
Lin Ruiyang was sitting behind his desk, slowly tearing open a tea bag he had brought from China, steam rising gently.
"Isn't this great?" Lin Ruiyang didn't even look up, his tone as calm as if he were discussing the weather.
"We didn't spend a single penny on publicity, yet the top media outlets on both sides of the Atlantic argued about our first assistant for a full 24 hours."
Now, people all over America, all over Britain, and even all over Europe know that Emily Blunt was the person I chose, and that she's part of the cast of "The Devil Wears Prada."
"But what about the PPR Group...?"
"They just made a phone call."
John was stunned. He had thought this was going to be a disaster, but Lin Ruiyang's expression told him that things had never gone the way he expected from the start.
"What did they say?"
"They said Mr. Pinault saw the reports from both sides in Paris this morning, and then he asked them a question:"
Why did we spend five million dollars sponsoring a film, only to be accused by the British media of having anemic American tastes?
John's lips twitched.
"PPR people say that Mr. Pinault believes this is a golden opportunity. The British and American media are inadvertently helping them accomplish something, turning 'The Devil Wears Prada' from a Hollywood movie into a cultural event that is being discussed on both sides of the Atlantic."
He instructed the brand department to leverage this momentum and align the next season's GG concept for brands like Gucci and Saint Laurent with a focus on a dialogue between British and continental fashion.
"So PPR not only didn't withdraw its investment, but is actually going to increase it?"
"It's not just them." Lin Ruiyang pushed a newly printed email onto the table.
"Representatives from Chanel and LVMH contacted Patricia this morning. They said they would like the clothing and accessories, if they could provide them, to be worn by several of the lead actors, especially this British elite at the center of the storm—that's their exact words."
John picked up the email, scanned it, and put it down; his hand was no longer trembling.
In his eleven years as a producer, he has witnessed countless media crises: actor scandals, directors and studios falling out, filming going overtime, budget overruns—each of which could derail a project.
But he had never seen anything like it: a casting controversy turned into a culture war by the media on both sides of the Atlantic, and then, just when everyone thought the production team would be forced to replace the actors, this war turned out to be the film's biggest free surprise.
"John, I think we can gather some of the lead actors and take some time to shoot their costume photos ahead of schedule."
John looked up, his expression indicating that he hadn't quite caught up with Lin Ruiyang's pace yet.
"Now? The media outside are still making a fuss, and the media in the United States, led by Disney, are also fighting back."
"I know," Lin Ruiyang interrupted him.
"We're filming precisely because they're making noise. John, media attention has a half-life. Today the whole country is talking about the casting of Emily Blunt, about her looks and accent, and tomorrow they'll be chasing other gossip."
What we need to do is give them the answer before their attention fades, and let them see for themselves what Emily looks like in front of the camera with the official photos.”
John paused for a few seconds, then picked up the phone on the table and began to contact Patricia Field.
At 2 p.m. in Los Angeles, inside Cecil B. DeMille Studio, in the prototype of the Runway editorial office, the air conditioning was blasting.
Patricia arrived three hours early, accompanied by three assistants and two rows of mobile clothes racks filled with garments.
She stood in front of a row of clothes racks filled with haute couture, holding a measuring tape in her hand, directing her assistant to hang up several new Saint Laurent autumn/winter collections that had just been flown in from Paris.
The stylist who rose to fame in "Sex and the City" is currently in a state of extreme excitement.
"Lin, you're a genius." Patricia strode over as Lin Ruiyang entered, her signature red hair swaying slightly with her movements.
"I was worried that all those Hollywood sweethearts would make this movie feel like a cheap cheerleading documentary, but you gave me Emily... oh my god, her energy!"
Lin Ruiyang glanced at the pile of expensive jewelry on the table. "We don't want it to look good, Patricia. We want a sense of oppression."
"I understand," Patricia said, her eyes shining.
"Those stupid media outlets say she's down on her luck? I'll show them what elegance that can make someone lose their job really means."
Just then, the studio door was pushed open again, and Emily Blunt walked in.
She still looked somewhat reserved, her hands gripping the straps of her handbag tightly.
This was her first time playing a key supporting role in such a high-profile Hollywood production, and the cardboard boxes around her bearing the logos of Gucci and Balenciaga gave her an almost surreal sense of pressure.
"Director." Emily walked quickly to Lin Ruiyang, her voice low.
"I...I just saw a few reporters with telephoto lenses at the door. They said I'm a Waterloo for Chinese directors' aesthetic sense."
Lin Ruiyang stopped, turned around, and looked directly into Emily's eyes.
"Emily, you must remember one thing." Lin Ruiyang's voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable power.
"In Hollywood, if you act like a victim, they'll tear you apart like a hyena. But in my movies, you're the one wielding the whip."
He pointed to the dressing room behind him.
"Go in. When you come out, I don't want to see that British girl tormented by her failed audition, but the gatekeeper of the Manhattan fashion empire. If Andy is an outsider who has trespassed into forbidden territory, you are the clergy who decides her fate."
Emily took a deep breath, her previously tense shoulders slowly relaxed, and she nodded heavily.