Los Angeles. Every year, as spring turned to summer, the poplar trees in St. George Park would burst into a vibrant green. Beneath their shade, couples often sat on benches, while children played on the grass, some tossing frisbees. It was the favorite leisure spot for the residents of North Los Angeles, just steps away from the bustling Polari Street, crowded with people and lined with shops. The clanging of trams and the occasional sight of cars on the streets marked it as a city far removed from the quiet countryside.

  I sat beneath a statue of Venus, staring blankly at the clouds in the sky. The weather was mild, the breeze gentle against my face, but even such pleasant conditions couldn’t lift my spirits. I sat there, listless, like a beggar drained of all energy, my heart heavy with gloom.

  "Andre, where have you been? Gance and I have been looking for you forever! We thought you’d gotten lost!" A boy around 20 years old approached me with a grin. His name was Gance, my classmate. Standing at six feet tall but weighing only 140 pounds, he was so thin that everyone who saw him thought he was malnourished. Behind him waddled a chubby guy named Berg, my neighbor and close friend. Berg’s father was a wealthy landowner in Burbank, making him both rich and influential.

  I realize I haven’t introduced myself yet. My name is Zhang Yuan, a graduate student at the Beijing Film Academy, specializing in world film history and theory. At the end of the year, I had joined a film crew to Los Angeles for an interview and to attend a movie premiere in Hollywood (I was their screenwriter and assistant director). But when I woke up in a hotel across from the Chinese Theatre, I found myself in a student dormitory, sharing the room with a fat guy and a skinny guy—Gance and Berg. They called me Andre, and after two days, I came to the shocking realization that I had somehow been transported to Los Angeles in 1925.

  From the memories left in this body, I learned that I was now 20 years old, the youngest son of a middle-aged, portly man named Hall Corleone, who owned a movie theater in Burbank.

  You might not know Burbank, but you’ve definitely heard of the burgeoning area next to it: Hollywood! Yes, Hollywood in 1925. Back then, it wasn’t as famous as it would become in the 21st century. Silent films were still the norm, and among the major studios, 20th Century Fox and RKO had yet to be born. The legendary MGM, known for its roaring lion logo, had only been established the previous year. Paramount, founded in 1912, was the oldest and most financially robust studio. Columbia, established in 1920, Universal in 1912, and United Artists, founded by Charlie Chaplin and others in 1919, all had their headquarters in Hollywood.

  My father’s theater was a small one affiliated with Vitagraph Studios, which had just been acquired by Warner Bros., a studio that had been founded only two years prior. Thus, our family theater became part of what would later become one of Hollywood’s most renowned film giants.

  Gance was sweating profusely, and Berg was panting heavily behind him. It was clear they had been searching for me for a long time. The thought of returning to that dreary school made me even more disinterested. The Vitagraph Film Academy, established in 1900 by Edison (the guy who invented the light bulb) after he made a fortune from his "Kinetoscope," was primarily a training ground for Hollywood’s behind-the-scenes workers—everything from production assistants to assistant directors. In less flattering terms, it was a factory for "bit players."

  Our daily lessons covered what I considered outdated film production processes. I studied directing and screenwriting (at least it was somewhat related to my original field), Berg focused on cinematography, and Gance studied management. As Gance often put it, once we graduated, we could start our own film company, make a killing, and then head to Wall Street to live the high life. Gance had said this when we first enrolled, but now, with graduation looming in July, the future felt daunting. Life after school was a complete unknown, full of possibilities, and with the recent economic downturn and soaring unemployment rates, finding a job was no easy task. Berg had tried to secure a position at United Artists last month but ended up being exploited as cheap labor, leaving him fuming and muttering about going back to work on his father’s farm.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Of the three of us, I wasn’t as fortunate as Berg with his wealthy father, but I was still in a decent position. At worst, I could go back to running the family theater. Gance, however, had it the hardest. His father was a mechanic who had long declared that once Gance graduated, he’d be on his own. With graduation approaching, Gance grew increasingly anxious, often running off to Hollywood studios in hopes of landing a job, only to be turned away every time.

  "What do you want? Is it about the afternoon class?" I lazily stood up, brushing grass off my pants.

  Gance smirked, his face full of mischief. "Class? Who cares about class! The old man’s got pneumonia, so we’ve got some free time."

  The "old man" he referred to was our teacher, a self-taught filmmaker who had worked as a projectionist, run a theater, and even directed a few obscure films. Now in his 50s, he was always sickly.

  I glanced at them listlessly and clicked my tongue. "So, what do you want from me?"

  Gance looked at Berg and nudged his chin.

  Berg grinned. "My cousin’s getting married tomorrow, at our family farm. It’s been almost two weeks since we’ve been home. Why don’t we go back and have some fun?"

  "Sure," I said, following them out of the park. The three of us horsed around as we headed back to school to pack.

  The school wasn’t far from St. George Park, just a few blocks away. The gatekeeper shook his head as we sauntered in. The nickname "Vitagraph’s Three Musketeers" was well-known in this small community, and it wasn’t exactly a compliment.

  "Don’t cause any trouble today, boys. There’s a big shot visiting the academy," the gatekeeper said, stepping out quickly to pull us aside.

  Gance squinted. "A big shot? Who?"

  "Mr. Adolph Zukor," the gatekeeper said with reverence.

  "Who? Never heard of him," Berg frowned, grumbling.

  "Seriously? You’ve been in Hollywood for a while now, and you don’t know who he is?" Gance sneered.

  "Do you know? Tell me," Berg shot back, clearly annoyed.

  Gance was stumped and turned to me for help, blinking rapidly.

  "He’s the head of Paramount, Hollywood’s golden boy. They say there’s no film he won’t make and no actor he can’t get." As a film studies graduate, I knew a thing or two about such a legendary figure.

  "Yeah, that’s him," Gance said, rolling his eyes at Berg. "Hey, boss, why don’t we stick around and see what this guy looks like? Is he as dashing as you?"

  I shot him an annoyed look and sat down on a nearby chair. The founder of Paramount? Of course, I wanted to see him.

  After about ten minutes, a car slowly drove out from the depths of the courtyard. Inside, besides the driver, sat a young, beautiful blonde and a gaunt, balding man in his 50s, smoking a cigar and wearing a top hat.

  "D*mn! I thought the head of Paramount would be something special, but he’s just a balding old man. What a waste, with such a pretty girl next to him!" Gance lamented, as if he’d just lost his wallet.

  Berg and I ignored him, got up, and headed to the dorm.

  The next morning, before dawn, Gance yanked me out of bed. We hurriedly packed and left school, catching a horse-drawn carriage out of the city.

  Back then, outside Los Angeles, there were vast stretches of wilderness, nothing like the towering skyscrapers of the future. Knee-high grass and exposed yellow soil were everywhere, and the carriage kicked up clouds of dust as it rolled along.

  Gance and Berg were in high spirits, joking and laughing in the carriage, while I felt uneasy.

  I was about to meet the father I’d never known and the two brothers Berg had described as troublemakers. The thought made my head spin.

  "Andre, are you feeling okay? You seem down," Berg asked, touching my forehead with concern.

  "Nothing, just a bit carsick," I said, brushing his hand away and changing the subject. "Hey, Berg, is your cousin pretty?"

  Berg pouted. "Pretty? Have you seen the pigs on our farm? That’s what she looks like!"

  Gance burst out laughing, and even the carriage driver up front chuckled.

  Burbank was northwest of Los Angeles, and after about an hour, we arrived at a modest-sized town. There weren’t many cars, and the place had a quiet, almost pastoral charm.

  The carriage stopped in the town center. Gance and Berg scrambled to grab our luggage, while I stood aside, taking in the sight of this so-called hometown.

  The town was sizable, with wide, clean streets. As it was nearing noon, there weren’t many people around. The buildings were four or five stories tall, shops half-shuttered, and flocks of pigeons fluttered in the square. Cats and dogs lounged around the carriages. If Berg hadn’t told me the town had a population of 20,000, I wouldn’t have guessed it was a major hub near Hollywood.

  Supplies for Hollywood were constantly shipped from here, and film reels were first screened here before being distributed nationwide.

  "Andre! Berg!" A voice called out. Across the street, a portly man in his 50s, with a long beard and a large belly, waved at us. He wore a hat and had a jovial air.

  "Uncle Hall!" Berg waved back and walked over, carrying our bags.