Looking down at the crumpled copy in his hands, Ben Gosling let out a long, helpless sigh. In just over two weeks, he'd been turned down by more distribution companies than he cared to count.
"Even with all the success stories I remember from my past life, none of that helps when you're trying to sell an experimental short film shot on a home camera," he muttered bitterly.
He turned away from yet another distribution company's office and stepped out into the LA sun, the same copy still tucked under his arm. Maybe if he re-edited it again, polished it just a little more, someone might take a second look.
But he wasn't delusional. Theatrical distribution was out of the question. He'd be lucky if someone agreed to release it straight to videotape.
Hollywood was crowded—over a thousand production and distribution companies, churning out a relentless stream of content. Most of them never saw the inside of a theater. If a film was lucky, it might run for a weekend in a couple of cinemas before vanishing into the abyss of video rental shelves.
The harsh truth? For most studios and filmmakers, revenue didn't come from the box office. It came from videotape sales, and Ben knew it.
Still, there was something magnetic about this place. Hollywood was a movie paradise, a land where a thousand different paths could lead to success—or obscurity.
He thought back to his previous life on the other side of the Pacific. There, movies lived and died by their box office earnings. No video distribution, TV broadcast rights were barely profitable, and merchandise might as well not have existed. Even post-2020, online copyrights offered only a thin slice of potential income.
In Hollywood, though, the box office was only a piece of the pie—maybe 30% at most. Some films turned a profit purely through video sales, without ever playing in a theater. Then came the merchandise, the broadcast rights, the licensing deals. It was a machine with dozens of money-making gears.
He remembered it well—how he'd nearly bankrupted himself chasing his dream of directing. The film had never been released, but pirated CDs were everywhere, selling like hotcakes. The irony? A few streaming sites had reached out, offering to buy the rights dirt cheap. That pathetic little sum was enough to cover his costs and leave him with pocket change.
Even then, no distributor would touch him.
Eventually, online platforms began investing in their own productions, and he found himself working nonstop—five or six films a year to fill digital libraries. Until a car crash ended it all. A cruel twist of fate—and then, a second chance.
Now, he is Ben Gosling, a recent graduate from USC's School of Cinematic Arts. His mother had passed early, and while his father ran a sizable ranch in Texas, their relationship had gone cold—strained further by a distant stepmother.
Still, he had it better than most. His father's ranch brought in a decent income, and it had funded his first amateur film. Tens of thousands of dollars, all sunk into an experimental short no one wanted.
And honestly? It wasn't good.
Even with the experience of a past life, the film was dull, forgettable. Hollywood might embrace trashy blockbusters, but only if someone was willing to put them in theaters.
Ben's film had no such champion.
Worse, his funds were drying up. His credit card showed a balance of just over a few thousand dollars. After rent and daily expenses, that wouldn't get him far.
Still, he was better off than most of his peers—many of whom lived with negative balances, scraping by on monthly loan payments.
Ben had always been different. Since his first part-time job, he'd never leaned on family. Everything—from living costs to that first camera—he'd paid for himself.
But now he had to make a move.
"What now?" he asked the ceiling.
"Edit again? Take another swing at the distribution companies?"
"Or find a job—something quick. Preferably on a crew."
He considered it. Even background work could help—stand around as scenery, or play a corpse. It wasn't glamorous, but it was income.
More importantly, it was the access provided through their network. A job on set meant experience, contacts, and maybe—just maybe—a chance to get noticed.
He'd done it before.
Big productions never skimped on food or wages. Breakfast, lunch, dinner—sometimes even midnight snacks. It was a way to survive, save up, and study the mechanics of real filmmaking from the inside.
Reaching for his phone, Ben dialed the only agent he had—Kate.
She was no big shot, just a small-time agent with a roster of 20 or 30 extras and struggling hopefuls like him. But she'd gotten him gigs before.
The call connected.
"What the hell do you want, Ben Gosling?" Kate's voice was sharp, irritated. "You've got some nerve calling me."
Ben winced. "Okay, Kate. I know last time was bad. Totally my fault."
"If you can just find me something—anything—I swear I won't let you down."
There was a pause, followed by a scoff.
"Let me guess," she snapped. "You're still dragging around that trash fire of an experimental film? The one that pissed off the lead actress?"
Ben cringed. That had been a disaster. He'd tried to pass her a copy of his short film, begging for a recommendation. She'd been polite—barely—but word had gotten around.
Kate wasn't amused.
"You embarrassed me, Ben. You almost cost me a valuable contact. Do you think anyone's going to work with you after that?"
"I'm done. We're done. Don't call me again."
Click.
The line went dead.
Ben stared at the phone for a long moment, then slowly set it down.
So, partnership with CAA was not at all possible now. He had thought partnering with them, as a young director, maybe he could get more resources. But the world is harsh. They only viewed him as a rookie who's full of himself. Looking to make it big without putting in the effort.
He should've seen it coming. He'd pushed too hard—tried to hustle an unwatchable film onto the wrong people. No wonder he got tossed from the set and burned his bridges.
"Time to find another agent," he muttered, eyes on the ceiling.
In Hollywood, agents came and went. It was just another hustle, another restart. He only hoped the gossip about the Forrest Gump incident hadn't spread too far.
He'd made mistakes—but he wasn't done yet.
Not by a long shot.
-----
With Kate
The phone clicked off with a sharp beep.
Kate exhaled, leaning back in her cramped office chair, massaging her temples. Her desk was buried in headshots, coffee-stained call sheets, and a stack of resumes from fresh-faced hopefuls who still believed Hollywood was fair.
A ringtone buzzed. She glanced at the caller ID: Lance – CAA.
She picked up. "Yeah?"
"Please tell me the rumor's not true," Lance's voice came through with a chuckle. "Gosling tried to pitch his little camcorder film to Jenny from Forrest Gump? At catering? During her lunch break?"
Kate groaned. "Not only that, he cornered her. Gave her a burned DVD in a handwritten case and asked if she could 'get it in front of Zemeckis.'" She rubbed her forehead. "It was embarrassing. She thought it was a prank."
Lance laughed, unhelpfully. "Kid's got guts. Or brain damage."
"Both, apparently." Kate sighed. "Look, I tried. He had hustle at first. Some raw charm. But he's... too green. Thinks this town owes him something. Keeps talking like he knows what's going to be big. Total delusion."
"He still using that 'past life memory' thing as a gimmick?"
Kate scoffed. "He hasn't said it out loud, but yeah. He acts like he's seen the future. Thinks he's got a magic sense for what'll sell. The only thing he's selling right now is secondhand embarrassment."
Lance let out a low whistle. "So you dropped him?"
"This morning. He called asking for a gig, like nothing ever happened. After nearly getting me blacklisted from that Paramount assistant pool. I told him flat-out—don't call me again."
There was a pause. Then Lance said, "You know, Hollywood loves a redemption story. If he somehow survives this, he might actually make it."
Kate gave a dry laugh. "If. And only after everyone forgets his name."
"I'll put a note on the wall," Lance joked.
"You'll need a bigger wall," Kate muttered, and hung up.
She stared at the quiet phone for a long second. Another name off her list. Another hopeful sunk by his own ambition.
But that was Hollywood.
You either learned fast—or you disappeared.
------
Ben lay back down, arms folded behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it might give him the answer he hadn't found anywhere else.
Maybe he'd been going about this all wrong.
If nobody wanted his experimental film—hell, if they wouldn't even give it a pity watch—then maybe it was time to pivot. He still had one thing nobody else in town had: foresight.
Memories of his past life were full of the kinds of stories that had broken box office records, become cult classics, or launched entire franchises. The scripts behind those films had once been ideas—just outlines or drafts. And he had them all, beat by beat, stored in his head.
If no one wanted Ben Gosling, the scrappy director, maybe they'd want Ben Gosling, the screenwriter.
He sat up slowly, gears turning in his mind.
A thousand dollars. That's what he had left on his credit card. If he tightened the belt—ditched coffee runs, walked instead of taking cabs, stuck to rice and eggs—he could stretch it. Two months, maybe. Enough time to write two or three solid scripts. Enough to register them with the WGA and start pitching.
He'd need to protect them, of course. Hollywood had a long history of "creative borrowing," and even a great script wouldn't mean anything if someone stole the idea. He'd learned that the hard way once before.
This time, he'd be smart.
Careful.
Professional.
He made a mental checklist:
1. Get final draft up and running.
2. Outline the scripts.
3. Register every version with the WGA.
4. Maybe take the chance to direct your own script
5. Stay under the radar, at least until he had traction.
"Alright," he muttered to himself. "New plan. No more chasing scraps. I'll write the stories I already know will work."
It wouldn't be easy. Nothing about this city was. But for the first time in weeks, Ben felt something spark inside him.
Hope.