Passion for Movies

"You really like watching old movies?" Old John asked from behind the bar as he wiped a glass.

Though they hadn't known each other long, he'd come to understand Henry, this big boy. Maybe he had some secrets, maybe he wasn't "ordinary" either—but so what. Old John had a typical Western mindset: he was happy to pave the way for the younger generation, but how they walked that path was their own business.

Of course, a big prerequisite was that the person caught his eye, listened to advice, didn't have lofty ambitions without the skills to back them up, and knew how to live a steady, grounded life. That was what people of his generation called diligence and integrity.

In their eyes, Henry was that kind of person. So the interactions between them, and even the whole town, were simple, free of ulterior motives.

That was why, when Old John saw something and wanted to ask, he just asked.

Lately, compared to semi-official free news channels like CNN, Henry preferred watching those old movies.

And not just once—even reruns, he'd watch a second time, a third time, each time utterly absorbed.

At Old John's sudden question, Henry first shifted one eye over, then the other, then turned his face, and finally snapped back to reality like he'd just woken up, emerging from his immersion in the film.

Henry replied, "They're all so beautiful."

For a man who'd experienced the anime styles of the twenty-first century and been baptized by all kinds of D-slot goddesses, Henry had thought black-and-white movies—antiques no less ancient than dinosaur fossils—would be completely out of sync with him.

After all, he'd seen clips online, including Chaplin's classic silent films, and the exaggerated physical comedy had made him cringe unbearably.

At first, he watched them because he'd endured nearly twenty years of entertainment-free living, especially the latter half filled with nothing but pain—a compromise with no other choice.

But when he watched seriously, he understood why classics were called classics.

Cinematic techniques like camera movement and lighting needed no mention; every era had its praiseworthy aspects. To really study them would take a film PhD a lengthy dissertation. Henry wasn't that professional.

What truly captivated Henry were the women who, even in black and white, remained breathtakingly beautiful.

After nearly twenty years of entertainment starvation, Henry had irreversibly fallen into the spell of black-and-white movies.

Of course, objectively speaking, there wasn't much else to get hooked on. It wasn't like he could get addicted to pool or darts.

With Henry's current physical condition, for competitive or athletic activities, his only concern was how much to hold back, not how to win.

A Kryptonian's abilities weren't just about being stronger or faster—simple upgrades like that. It was about precise control over every muscle, even a degree of transformation.

It was like how an ordinary person's arm changes when extended normally versus flexed with force—the bicep shifts. A Kryptonian's adjustments were just far more refined.

On the face, that meant he could easily pull off so-called "facial acting"—all kinds of exaggerated expressions were a breeze. He could even tweak his features subtly enough to look like a completely different person.

In sports, it meant perfect control over force, combined with his reaction speed and thinking ability. Every world record in athletics was like tissue paper before Henry.

Take darts—hitting exactly where he aimed was the bare minimum. Pool too—sinking multiple balls in one shot, clearing the table in one go, was routine.

After a few rounds, Henry stopped. One, it was boring. Two, he didn't want to expose his abilities.

Old John could understand Henry's point. He agreed, "The women of the Golden Age really can't be compared to today's actresses. Not every woman who flaunts herself can become Monroe."

"Monroe, huh." Though not a direct criticism, Henry's tone carried a dismissive edge. He pointed at the woman on the TV screen and said, "Now that's a real man's dream, am I right?"

The TV was playing a rerun of Audrey Hepburn's Roman Holiday. The runaway princess was riding a little scooter through the streets of Rome with a scheming journalist.

To put it nicely, it was elegance blended with an innocent smile, enchanting with every glance and laugh. To put it bluntly, it was a noble air tinged with foolishness that made you want to protect that smile—or destroy it.

In that scene, all the director and cinematographer's efforts seemed meaningless. The forgettable male lead and extras were just background.

Everyone's eyes would lock onto Audrey Hepburn's face, marveling at every expression she made.

Unfortunately, Henry's opinion didn't get much support in the bar. A bunch of old men let out a chorus of boos like opening soda bottles.

"Young people, huh. Only care about faces. You don't know that a body as skinny as a stick just bruises you when you hug it. Monroe's the real deal."

But someone disagreed. "You're all clueless. Greta Garbo is Venus descended to earth. Just seeing her fills me with reverence."

"What kind of goddess is a cold face? Hedy Lamarr is the symbol of desire. Looking at her, my thoughts flow like a spring, gushing out uncontrollably."

Henry listened to everyone naming their goddesses and couldn't help sighing. "Everyone's tastes are that different?"

"It's not that our tastes differ, it's that the real beauties came out of Hollywood's Golden Age. What's in movies now? All those ugly freaks—like anyone with two eyes and a nose can get on screen."

"Yeah, too many choices, and none of them feel right."

"I think you're just arguing for the sake of it. Whatever someone says, you want to say something different."

"Anyway, we can only see them in movies. Can't even talk about them?"

"Of course you can. Do whatever you want. Just go home early and sleep—everything comes true in dreams."

"Hey, you think? At Hollywood's rate of decline, maybe someday a black-skinned one, or a square-faced, thick-browed, big-mouthed one with eyes that stare harder than your wife's, could become the Female Lead. And we'd still have to buy tickets to the theater."

Henry thought to himself furiously: Old man, don't jinx it. If you guys hold on long enough, you'll see that future. Not just movies—TV, games, every visual medium will get invaded. Exciting, huh?

Holding his head, Henry groaned, "Ah, don't say that. I really don't want to see that future."

Including Old William, everyone burst into laughter.

Suddenly someone said, "Henry, since you're so into movies, why don't you go to Hollywood?"

The laughter stopped. The bar fell silent.

New book—requesting follow-up reads, collections, recommendations. Thank you~