Post-production on Pulp Fiction wrapped up smoothly in just two weeks.
Dick Dale and his old musician buddies worked through the nights in the studio, and those surf rock notes felt like they were reigniting the heart of an entire era.
When the guitar riff of "Misirlou" first exploded from the speakers, everyone knew—the movie was complete.
Link didn't have time to savor the small victory.
He knew the true destiny of that soundtrack and this movie lay not in Los Angeles, but on the French Riviera.
Cannes was calling.
---
Cannes, France.
The blue coast, the golden beaches. Producers in suits and puffing on cigars were everywhere, and reporters in sunglasses gathered in cafés, debating which film was most likely to win the Palme d'Or.
On the Boulevard de la Croisette, luxury cars flowed ceaselessly, catching the fleeting reflections of stars in the windows, the flashbulbs popping like crazy.
The air was thick with the mixed scent of perfume, cigar smoke, and sea breeze—that unique Cannes aroma.
The core team from Pangu Pictures was setting foot in this holy temple of world cinema for the first time.
Quentin was excited as a kid, dragging Lubezki to stop by the poster wall, practically bowing before the giant images of Fellini and Godard.
In the lobby of the Carlton Hotel, Harvey Weinstein was already waiting.
He was beaming, acting like a generous host, bustling around to arrange everything for the group.
The moment the team sat down, a French reporter approached with a microphone, looking eager:
"Excuse me, who was the first to discover and back the Pulp Fiction project?"
Quentin was about to answer, but Harvey quickly jumped in, patting his chest as he announced loudly:
"That would be Miramax, of course! We saw Quentin's genius from day one; that's our vision!"
His publicist immediately shoved promotional materials into the reporter's hands, clearly marked with the headline—
"Miramax: Discovering New Stars."
The name "Pangu Pictures" was shrunk into a corner, practically lost in the layout.
Link watched calmly, without interjecting.
But as the older reporter turned to leave, Link suddenly spoke in fluent French, keeping his voice low:
"Sir, perhaps you might be more interested in the project's original investor."
He handed over a business card that had no extra titles, just a gold-embossed "Pangu Pictures" logo and his name.
The reporter paused, looked at the card, then gave Link a knowing look and carefully slipped it into his pocket.
Harvey's smile froze for a second, but he was quickly drowned out by the surrounding flattery.
---
At the dinner party, champagne glasses clinked everywhere, and flash photography intermittently lit up the room.
Harvey raised his glass and told Link, full of swagger:
"Li, see this? This is Cannes. You newbies just need to stand behind me and learn how to smile and applaud."
His tone was like a teacher scolding a student.
Link raised his glass, his hand perfectly steady, the bubbles rising clearly inside.
He knew that in this performance, a smile was also a weapon.
He calmly touched his glass to Harvey's, keeping his glass slightly lower, a very humble posture.
"Of course, Mr. Harvey," he said with a smile. "After all, applauding a film that is destined for greatness is an honor in itself. We are delighted to... share this honor with you."
He stressed the word "share" ever so lightly, but it landed on Harvey like a pinprick.
---
A few days later, the Lumière Grand Theater at the Palais des Festivals in Cannes.
The world premiere of Pulp Fiction was about to take place.
Outside the screening room, ushers in tuxedos checked the badges, each stamped with a gold palm leaf emblem.
On both sides of the red carpet, reporters and fans were packed shoulder-to-shoulder, the shutters of the disposable cameras clicking with the density of daylight.
Harvey walked at the front, striding confidently, keeping Quentin and the main actors tightly by his side, like a conquering king. He intentionally created the image of "The Miramax Godfather arrives with his four disciples."
Link and Bander were squeezed at the end of the line, looking like two regular producers, practically ignored.
Bander muttered under his breath, gritting his teeth, "That guy practically has 'thief' written on his forehead!"
"Take it easy," Link's gaze swept over the crowd and settled on the distant Palais des Festivals.
The lights were blazing like a temple.
"A crown stolen by a thief will only make the true coronation more magnificent."
He paused, then added softly, "Just watch the show."
With that, he walked steadily into the Palais des Festivals.
---
Everyone was seated; the theater was packed. Chairman Clint Eastwood and Jury Member Catherine Deneuve sat ramrod straight.
The lights dimmed.
The screen lit up.
"Pangu Pictures Production."
The enormous logo lingered in the darkness for a full five seconds—a deliberate choice by Link.
The next second, the guitar riff of "Misirlou" exploded like a tidal wave.
The low bass notes made the audience's chests vibrate slightly.
Link's fingertips were pressed against his knee, feeling a slight tremor.
Initially, many people looked confused. The hitmen talking about hamburgers and rambling on—the dialogue seemed both trivial and bizarre to them.
Critics' pens scratched across their pads, leaving notes like "Disjointed" and "Drawn-out."
Link held his breath.
Even though he knew the answer from the future, at this moment, he was still waiting for that spark to ignite the air.
A few minutes later, the screen cut. The timeline was scrambled and reassembled, and the narrative pace suddenly shifted.
Whispers began to rise—
Some stopped writing, others leaned forward.
"A madman's... this is a madman's poem," a French director murmured quietly, as if witnessing the birth of a new language.
On the jury panel, Deneuve's confusion was gone, replaced by focused concentration.
Eastwood sat with his arms crossed, his expression stern, but occasionally showing a thoughtful look.
Until—
Vincent plunged the adrenaline syringe, slamming it down!
Mia's body jolted up as if struck by electricity, and the hall erupted!
Some screamed into their hands, others were so excited they dropped their pens.
Link's knuckles were white.
He knew—that jab wasn't just medicine; it was the dividing line of destiny.
From that moment on, the audience was completely sucked into the crazy vortex woven by violence, humor, and a sense of fate.
They forgot time, they forgot to breathe.
The credits rolled, and the screen went black.
The hall fell into a ten-second silence.
Link's heart was gripped by an invisible hand.
A success, or a failure?
—Clap!
A single, isolated clap broke the silence.
Then came a roar of applause and whistles, like a tsunami.
The entire audience rose to their feet, giving the film the most fervent tribute.
Quentin burst into tears, hugging his actors tightly.
Chairman Eastwood slowly stood up. He didn't applaud; he simply turned around, his hawk-like gaze cutting through the crowd, landing on Link in the back row.
That look held scrutiny, appreciation, and the silent understanding of peers.
Link's eyes felt hot, and he gave a slight nod in response.
---
At the exit, reporters swarmed.
Harvey adjusted his tie, ready to rush to the front again and soak up the glory of victory.
But Link stopped Bander, who was about to lose it.
He said in a low voice, "Now..."
His fingertips gently rubbed an invitation card to the Carlton Hotel in his pocket.
A cold smile played on his lips.
"The show begins."