Three days later, Pulp Fiction officially started shooting on a soundstage in the suburbs of Los Angeles.
The very first scene they tackled was the most stylish part of the entire film: the dance contest at Jack Rabbit Slim's, the "skinny rabbit" restaurant.
The set was a perfect replica of a fifties-style diner: spinning neon signs, chrome booths, waitstaff dressed as Elvis and Marilyn Monroe hustling around, and the air thick with the smell of whiskey and grilled meat.
But the vibe was totally frozen.
The problem was John Travolta.
When the music kicked in, he stood in the middle of the dance floor, stiff as a board, eyes wandering. He was desperately trying to recapture his Saturday Night Fever groove from back in the day, but he just got more and more tangled up. Sweat dripped down his temples, looking like his dignity was melting away.
"Cut!"
Quentin snapped, annoyed. That was the fifth time.
"John, I need Vincent! A total jerk who doesn't care about the world! Not some washed-up star trying to prove he can still dance!"
Travolta went pale. He slumped off to the side, defeated, and lit a cigarette.
The tension on set was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Bender looked anxiously over at Link.
Link just kept staring silently at the monitor, watching the playback. After a few seconds, he got up. Instead of consoling Travolta or trying to talk down the director, he walked straight to the Director of Photography—Emmanuel Lubezki.
"Emmanuel," he murmured, keeping his voice down, "The lighting is too bright. I don't want that sunny, Hollywood dance-floor look. I want Rembrandt light—shadow, breath, blurred edges.
Pull the extra lamps. Leave only a few spotlights. I want the audience to feel like they're peeking into the souls of two dangerous people, not watching a high school dance."
Lubezki's eyes lit up immediately. He quickly ordered the lights adjusted, and the dance floor fell into patchy shadow.
Just then, Quentin suddenly rushed over to Uma Thurman, gesticulating wildly: "Uma, let's try a new shot. Take your shoes off. Barefoot on the floor.
Yeah, that precise moment of arching your foot—I want to see your toes twitching with the music!"
Uma raised an eyebrow and smiled: "Quentin, you certainly have some… specific tastes, don't you?"
"Hey, it's about texture!" Quentin declared, completely straight-faced. "A fifties dance hall needs that kind of grit!"
Lubezki chuckled softly as he adjusted the focus. The impromptu comic relief diffused some of the tension on set.
Link rubbed his temples and let out a quiet sigh—
The guy's fetish is going to be known all over Hollywood eventually.
But, dang it, that shot did have real flavor.
He walked over to Travolta and set a bottle of Coke in front of him.
"John," he said softly, "Do you remember why you danced the very first time you hit a dance floor?"
Travolta paused, answering instinctively, "To have fun. To get the girls."
"Exactly." Link nodded. "So what are you dancing for now?"
Travolta went silent.
He knew the answer: To prove himself. To stick it to all the people who said he was "done."
But every move he made only reminded him that he really was past his prime.
Link smiled, took the cigarette out of his hand, and gently stubbed it out.
"Vincent doesn't care about winning or losing, or what anyone thinks. He dances only because, in that moment, he wants to dance."
He clapped Travolta on the shoulder and said calmly, "You're not here to recreate history, John. You're here to say goodbye to it."
The lights came back on. The music swelled.
Travolta walked onto the dance floor and closed his eyes.
This time, he wasn't stiff. He just swayed his body lazily, a slightly cynical smirk playing on his lips.
Uma Thurman's eyes met his. She smiled softly, her smooth bare toes tracing an enticing arc on the floor.
A strange, beautiful chemistry sparked between them.
"Cut—!"
Quentin suddenly jumped up, raising both fists in the air.
"Perfect! Holy sh that was perfect!"
Bender let out a breath of relief, and the whole crew erupted in applause.
In that moment, everyone knew a legend was being born.
---
After wrapping up, the lights were dimmed, and only the residual warmth remained on the stage.
Link stood at the edge of the empty dance floor, looking at the light patches reflecting off the ground, and suddenly felt a little empty.
Success came too fast, like a gust of wind.
That night, he got back to his hotel.
His jacket was tossed casually on the couch, and the smell of whiskey filled the room.
He turned on the TV, just wanting some background noise.
On the screen, a tall, skinny young man was performing.
His face stretched and contorted like rubber—exaggerated, hilarious, and incredibly explosive. The audience was roaring with laughter.
Link froze.
Is that… Jim Carrey?
In his mind, the blue interface flashed silently.
> [Potential opportunity detected. Use "Spotlight" to scan.]
He steadied his breathing: "Scan."
> [Target Locked: The Mask]
> [Potential Rating: A (Phenomenal Box Office Hit)]
In a flash, the green mask, the chaotic whirlwind, the cartoon eyes popping out—all of it flashed through his mind.
Link took a deep breath and put out his cigarette.
He grabbed a stack of blank pages from the desk and started writing—character profiles, plot beats, scene descriptions.
His pen flew across the paper, as if he were trying to catch up with fate itself.
Neon lights flickered outside the window; the night was deep.
He looked up at the image of that green smiling face and murmured to himself:
"This is going to be Panggu Pictures' next golden ticket."
The phone rang just after midnight.
"Hello?"
"Mr. Li… I'm so sorry to bother you. It's Cameron Diaz."
Her voice held a hint of nervousness, but she couldn't hide her excitement. "I… I got an A rating."
Link smiled: "Congratulations, Ms. Diaz."
A brief silence followed. The girl then quietly asked, "Do you… do you have time tomorrow night? I'd like to take you out to dinner."
"Sure. I'll see you tomorrow."
---
The next evening, at Spago.
Cameron looked more put-together than ever. A light blue bodycon dress, subtle makeup accentuating her bright features, and her golden hair falling over her shoulders. She looked like she was wrapped in light.
She walked into the restaurant and turned a lot of heads. But when she saw Link, her eyes suddenly became flustered. She carefully handed him a piece of paper.
"I really… did it."
Her hands were shaking slightly.
Link read the paper seriously and nodded: "Very good. It looks like you didn't waste these past few months."
"I just… didn't want to let you down." She bit her lip, her voice a little shaky.
Link smiled and pushed another stack of pages toward her.
The cover had a drawing of a green smiling face.
The title: The Mask.
Cameron was stunned, hardly daring to believe it: "This… what is this?"
"Your graduation present."
Link leaned back in his chair, his tone calm but firm.
Her pupils slowly widened, tears welling up in her eyes.
"This… is this for me?"
"Go get 'em, Ms. Diaz."
He raised his glass and gently touched it to hers.
"Go make all of Hollywood go crazy for you."
The neon lights outside the window flickered, her reflection shining in the glass.
In that moment, the trajectory of her destiny quietly changed.