The Best Movie Actor In Hollywood!

Chapter 433

As an aspiring professional film critic, Clift Rothschild had a rather prominent last name. Unfortunately, that name—rumored to be the one that ruled the world—had brought him neither wealth nor fame. So, in a desperate bid to make a name for himself, he now stood in a boxing ring, ready to face off against that German bastard, the so-called worst director of all time.

"Don't panic! This guy is no better than you are!"

In the corner of the ring, the temporary coach hired by the film critics' union shouted to Clift, "Uwe Boll is over forty, you’re a decade younger. Just drag him through the first round, and you’ll be the winner!"

Clift glanced across the ring at Boll, who was dressed in black boxing gear, foregoing any head protection.

Clift briefly stretched his joints, his eyes scanning the venue. Everywhere he looked, as far as he could see, camera lenses were pointed his way.

He understood perfectly well that he was famous now, in this moment, and he would become even more famous if he beat Boll, the man who had insulted the professional critics' community.

Clift had been a film critic for several years, specializing in sharp, scathing reviews. Unfortunately, with the rise of the internet, the profession itself was in decline. He hadn't managed to make much of a name for himself, and his annual income was severely limited.

He had been on the verge of giving up until this rare opportunity fell into his lap.

Clift had heard the stories. One of the top ten critics in the industry had once publicly kissed a donkey's ass just to make a name for himself.

It was a clear example, a template for how a critic could achieve fame. The opportunities were endless if one was shameless enough.For Clift, such shamelessness was no great feat. Many critics, himself included, wrote reviews without even bothering to watch the movie they were critiquing. They wrote whatever the press outlets or their clients paid them to write.

"Come on, Clift! Knock the old man out!"

In the same row as Matthew and Leonardo, a man in his thirties was cheering on the film critic, who was decked out in protective gear.

Leonardo, taking in the scene, immediately yelled toward the nearby ring, "Uwe, hit him harder! Knock him out in the first round!"

The venue was packed, a chaotic scene of noise and bodies, but Matthew and Leonardo were in the second row, close to the ring. Uwe Boll seemed to hear the shout and glanced over.

Matthew cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, "Boll, I believe in you!"

Uwe Boll had clearly heard Matthew and Leonardo, and he flashed a smile in their direction.

Their shouts reached Boll, and naturally, the people in the front row heard them too. Several heads turned to look, including the thirty-something man who had been yelling earlier.

Ilana scanned the men, then leaned close to Matthew's ear and whispered, "Those have to be the film critics."

Matthew nodded. "I can see that."

Four or five people glanced back, and among them was a face he recognized—Rex Reed, a man he’d had dealings with in the past.

"Matthew Horner?" Rex recognized him immediately.

"Hello, Rex." Matthew smiled at him.

Leonardo shot him a curious glance, and Matthew lowered his voice to explain, "That's the famous critic who kissed a donkey's ass because of me."

"Oh, right." Realization dawned on Leonardo. "I saw that."

Rex fixed his gaze on Matthew. "So, am I to understand you're supporting Uwe Boll?" he asked.

Matthew didn't deny it. "Naturally."

The critic in his thirties sputtered indignantly, "You’re supporting such a mediocre director?"

The words had barely left his lips when Leonardo jumped in. "Got a problem with that?"

His tone was dismissive. "We're all in the film business. Of course we’re going to support one of our own."

Leonardo's words left the critic momentarily speechless.

After all, there was nothing wrong with critics supporting critics, just as actors supported directors.

Matthew looked at Reed and asked, "And who are you supporting?"

"The critics, of course!" Rex pointed at the man facing Boll. "Clift Rothschild will definitely win!"

"Clift Rothschild?" Matthew privately thought the surname sounded ridiculously pretentious.

He remembered reading countless articles online that spoke of the Rothschild name with a kind of reverence, claiming they were the family that secretly controlled the world, pulling all the strings.

Then and now, he had no access to that level of information, so he had no idea if any of it was true.

He figured this Clift Rothschild had nothing to do with the real Rothschilds. Otherwise, based on those articles, why would a descendant of such influential, shadowy magnates stoop to being a mere film critic?

These thoughts flashed through Matthew's mind.

Across from him, the handful of critics, including Rex, presented a united front, glaring at him and Leonardo with thinly veiled hostility.

The thirty-something critic piped up, "He makes bad movies. Why can't people say that?"

"Of course you can say what you think," Matthew replied calmly. "When a film is released to the public, everyone who sees it has the right to judge it. But that right doesn't extend to personal attacks."

Rex chimed in, "Our reviews are meant to keep the industry healthy!"

The tone was grating, as if critics were the masters of the film industry, and actors and directors were merely parasites clinging to it.

Leonardo couldn't help but remark, "So, it turns out we have the critics to thank for Hollywood's success."

Matthew didn't bother arguing. Critics were a slippery bunch; some could write reviews that tore apart directors, actors, and even their families without using a single curse word.

It was true that Uwe Boll wasn't a good director and had made some terrible films. Calling him the worst in history might be an exaggeration, but some of the critics' points were entirely valid.

But in the days leading up to the match, Matthew had specifically looked into the feud between Boll and the critics. It was easy to see that, with a few exceptions, most of the reviews of his films were nothing more than a masterclass in insults, a litany of abuse delivered without a single swear word.

It wasn't just Uwe Boll, either. He himself had received similar treatment in the past, though not with the same intensity. Besides, he’d never bothered to respond.

But not responding didn't mean he wasn't aware of it. And that was the main reason he was willing to cheer for Uwe Boll, even knowing the man was a terrible director.

There was a certain professional solidarity at play, evident in the reactions of Leonardo and even Tom Cruise.

"Rex." Matthew looked at the most recognizable film critic in front of him and said, "How about this? We make another bet. I'll bet on Boll to win, you bet on Rothschild. The stakes are simple."

He added with a pointed grin, "The loser publicly kisses a donkey's ass."

Helen had discovered earlier that Boll had been an amateur boxer for a decade.

Matthew had also done some boxing and knew that the difference between a trained and an untrained boxer was immense.

Rex froze, not expecting Matthew to dredge up the past. But he wasn't the same Rex from a few years ago, the one who had been desperately seeking attention to build his reputation. Now, he was part of the most renowned circle of critics in the country.

Besides, could this Clift fellow really beat the stout, powerful-looking Boll?

Seeing Rex hesitate, Matthew pressed on. "Worried Clift might lose? I'll make it easier for you. Boll is fighting four critics in a row today. If he loses to even one of them, I lose the bet."

He applied a little pressure. "What do you say?"

Rex opened his mouth, but not a single word came out.

"One against four? We’re guaranteed to win!" the critic in his thirties declared. "I accept!"

Rex shot him a look but still said nothing.

Seeing that Rex had lost his nerve, the younger critic said to Matthew, "I'll take that bet!"

"You?" Matthew’s expression instantly shifted to one of pure disdain, the kind befitting an A-list Hollywood star. "You’re not important enough to make a bet with me."

Even Ilana and Bar saw nothing wrong with his dismissal. What right did some small-time critic from an obscure media outlet have to make a bet with a major Hollywood star?

At that moment, the referee entered the ring and called Uwe Boll and Clift to the center.

The referee laid out the final rules. "No blows below the belt! And no punches to the back of the head!"

A smile spread across Boll's face. The fight he had been waiting for, for far too long, was finally about to begin.