Chapter 152: Bitches

"Looks like they've cleared out over there?" Standing on a slightly elevated dirt mound, Sean Connery gazed toward the Saving Private Ryan set and said to Mel Gibson, "It seems they've been forced to change their plans."

The old man stroked his full beard. A rare, hearty smile broke across his face—which had been gloomy for the past few years—shining brighter than the approaching midday sun. What could be more joyful than seeing a sworn enemy run into trouble?

"It's just a minor trick," Mel Gibson said, seemingly indifferent. "They'll adjust to it quickly enough."

Although it would cause some trouble for the young director he disliked, Mel Gibson understood that this was no big deal. The opposing crew would soon finish adjusting, and it was impossible for the Braveheart production to keep their horses pinned in this spot every day. According to the original plan, Braveheart would conclude all its filming after a week of shooting here. If everything went as smoothly as today, they might even finish in about four days.

He remembered the name Duke Rosenberg very clearly. In recent years, even the most ignorant person in Hollywood had heard of him. The man had risen too fast; in just a few short years, he had achieved commercial success that ninety-nine percent of Hollywood directors could never attain in a lifetime.

If Tom Cruise was the face of the "greenhorn clique" among actors, then Duke Rosenberg was absolutely its representative figure among directors.

Mel Gibson never hid his dislike for the man. It wasn't just because Duke had risen so fast—naturally making him unlikable to those who had struggled for a decade or more to find success—or the rivalry between their respective agencies, but also because of their clash at Cruise's party.

Conflict was a constant part of surviving in Hollywood, and Mel Gibson was more than happy to cause a little trouble for Duke Rosenberg.

Deep down, what he wanted most was to crush his rival on the screen. Now that both of them were directors, they ultimately had to let their work speak for them. If Braveheart could completely defeat Saving Private Ryan in both box office and critical acclaim, he would feel much more satisfied.

Unfortunately, Saving Private Ryan still hadn't announced a specific release date, so it was unlikely the two would clash head-on.

For the unruly and arrogant Mel Gibson, this was a genuine regret.

The two didn't linger. Mel Gibson went to busy himself behind the director's monitors, while Sean Connery followed an assistant to a trailer for makeup; his scenes were up next.

Even though his gentlemanly image was entirely fabricated by CAA, Sean Connery's basic professional ethics were still decent. Moreover, he didn't have much capital to leverage right now. To re-establish his status in Hollywood, hard work was essential. Having navigated Hollywood for decades, Sean Connery understood this very well, which was why he prepared to perform the upcoming horseback riding scene himself.

Perhaps scenes requiring a full gallop needed a stunt double, but riding a horse at a slow pace posed no difficulty for him.

Taking the black horse led over by the trainer, Sean Connery affectionately patted its face. The horse snorted, seemingly responding to his touch. Man and beast appeared exceptionally harmonious.

"Sean..."

An assistant director's voice echoed across the set. Sean Connery mounted the horse, energetically maneuvered it in front of the camera to join several other actors, and prepared to start shooting.

Soon, the filming commenced.

Flanked by several attendants, Sean Connery rode toward the Scottish village. Although his expression was serious and a hint of anxiety marked his brow, the riding party's pace was leisurely...

The camera glided along its tracks, closely following the horses. Looking at the monitors, Mel Gibson nodded slightly.

Sean Connery's acting skills were average, and his public image had completely collapsed in recent years, but the gentlemanly aura he had cultivated over decades remained. Playing a Scottish noble was an easy task for him; this take should pass on the first try.

Just as Mel Gibson was thinking this, dense gunfire suddenly erupted in the distance. The gunshots were so loud that it sounded as if a fierce World War II battle had broken out right next door...

"Cut..."

"Boom..."

Just as Mel Gibson called the cut, an earth-shattering explosion reached his ears. The blast was louder than a thunderclap, and the ground itself seemed to tremble. His crew immediately ground to a halt!

Before the echo of the explosion could fade, crazed neighing rang out, even wilder than the blast. Several well-trained horses shrieked in succession. Even someone like Mel Gibson, who knew little about horses, could hear the sheer panic and chaos in their cries...

These horses were indeed well-trained, but they were not true warhorses; how could they endure such a fright? After whinnying, several spun in circles, clearly terrified.

"Boom..."

Another explosion went off. Like the straw that broke the camel's back, the already panicked horses completely lost control.

The more timid horses voided their bowels and bladders, sending a stench of dung and urine spreading across dozens of feet in an instant. But compared to the terrified horses spinning in place, this was merely a trivial inconvenience!

What happens to horses when they are overly frightened? They bolt!

Unfortunately, the horse beneath Sean Connery was one of them.

Although a bolting horse is far less exaggerated than depicted in movies and television, the black horse had clearly entered a state of mindless frenzy. In just two seconds, it bucked Sean Connery off its back, knocked over one of the crew's cameras, and charged toward the edge of the set.

The sudden turn of events threw many into a state of panic. Even though the fallen Sean Connery screamed continuously in agony, no one came to his aid. The trainers seemed just as helpless, chasing after the horse in vain.

However, this was not the end. Gunfire and explosions rang out from the distance once more, the sounds so deafening that they surpassed even a summer thunderstorm.

Mel Gibson stood there shouting himself hoarse, trying to control the situation. The crew could understand his words, but the startled horses paid him no mind.

The whinnying of horses, agonizing wails, frantic footsteps, and the dense gunfire in the distance formed a bizarre on-set symphony...

Lying on the freezing ground, Sean Connery was covered in a cold sweat. He felt a bone-deep pain in his right leg. Seeing a few bolting horses galloping nearby, he tried to crawl to safety, only to find that his right leg couldn't muster an ounce of strength. It felt completely broken.

"Help! Help..." he screamed with all his might.

But the set was in total chaos as everyone dodged the startled horses; hardly anyone noticed him.

The chaos lasted for nearly ten minutes before it was finally brought under control amidst the desperate shouting of Mel Gibson and several other producers. The people who had fallen from the horses were still lying on the ground, but the on-set doctors who had rushed over were already examining them.

"Boom..."

A fourth explosion echoed from afar. Mel Gibson gazed into the distance. Even from quite far away, he could see thick smoke and dust rocketing into the sky; it looked as if a real war had broken out next door.

His eyes widened, and his hands clenched into fists. His short directing career had brought him at least one benefit: he knew he had to control himself right now. Even if the fury burning in his chest was enough to incinerate the entire set, he had to try his best to stay calm.

"Fuck!" he cursed in a low voice.

Mel Gibson wasn't cursing anyone else, but himself. He cursed his own stupidity. Egged on by that piece of trash Sean Connery, he had actually overlooked one crucial fact: the director next door was a widely recognized explosion maniac!

"Are the injuries serious?"

Seeing executive producer Bruce Davey walk up to him, Mel Gibson asked with concern, "Will this delay the shoot?"

"It's a huge mess."

Bruce Davey frowned deeply. "The two stuntmen only suffered superficial wounds and will recover quickly. But Sean Connery's condition isn't very optimistic."

Hearing this, Mel Gibson looked toward a spot not far away, where several doctors were still gathered around Sean Connery to examine him.

"It looks like his right leg is fractured," Bruce Davey relayed the doctor's words. "It's very likely shattered. At Connery's age, recovery will be extremely difficult. If there's the slightest mishap..."

He stopped and shook his head. "Connery still has a few scenes left to shoot."

No crew wanted to see their actors injured. Handled poorly, it could become a massive headache. But since someone was hurt, they had to change their plans immediately to minimize the impact on the production.

Mel Gibson was well aware of this. "He doesn't have many scenes left. I'll figure out a solution."

Compared to financial losses, the crew could afford delays even less. Bruce Davey nodded. "I'll notify Paramount Pictures and CAA."

After carrying away the injured, securing the frightened horses, and cleaning up the excrement, the Braveheart set gradually returned to normal. However, Mel Gibson could not shoot properly. Unsurprisingly, scenes involving horses were out of the question, but even scenes without horses were severely affected. The sounds of gunfire and explosions could be scrubbed in post-production, but these noises—so completely at odds with a medieval atmosphere—constantly broke the actors' immersion.

After a few test takes, the work simply couldn't proceed. Moreover, Braveheart was nearing the end of its shoot; even if they wanted to temporarily shuffle the schedule, there were no alternative scenes left to shoot. Mel Gibson had no choice but to call Bruce Davey over.

"We're just about to wrap up production," he told the producer. "We can't keep waiting. Go negotiate with the Saving Private Ryan crew. Also, can we file a complaint with the relevant union organizations?"

"It'd be tough!" Bruce Davey shook his head. "Even if we complain, nothing will come of it."

Mel Gibson's expression was exceptionally grim. After he waved his hand dismissively, Bruce Davey led his assistant toward the Saving Private Ryan set.