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Bringing up the movie, Henry asked, "If I remember correctly, your training period is four months, under Master Yuen—brought in from Hong Kong as both martial arts director and film director. Getting used to it?"

"It’s alright. Just... a bit tough," Charlize Theron replied naturally. Keanu Reeves nodded in agreement beside her.

Henry looked them both up and down, then reached out to feel along Charlize’s back and arms. "I think I should arrange a physical therapist for you—someone to assist with your training."

"Is that really necessary? Wouldn’t that just add to the cost?" Charlize asked.

Henry explained, "Hong Kong martial arts directors are top-tier when it comes to choreography and professionalism. You can see that from their films.

"But their training methods? They’re intense—borderline life-risking. Without the proper foundation, forcing yourself to adapt through sheer effort and professionalism can easily lead to injury.

"And once you’re injured—whether it affects your performance or stops you from acting altogether—that’s far less professional, isn’t it? Same goes for you, K.C."

He glanced at Keanu. "Your neck and shoulders look abnormally stiff—too tense, not relaxed like a normal person. Have you been having headaches or numbness in your arms?"

Keanu was startled. "Actually... yeah, recently. Is it serious?"

"Get it checked by a neurosurgeon," Henry advised. "If it’s still early, a good physical therapist can help correct it without interfering too much with training.

"But if it gets worse, it could delay filming. In severe cases, the pain can leave you unable to move. This is all for the sake of the film."

For most adults, advice from someone they barely knew might not carry much weight.

But from a professional standpoint, Keanu didn’t want to risk delaying production because of his own condition. In the worst-case scenario, he could even be replaced.

So he nodded. "Looks like I should book a doctor’s appointment in the next couple of days. Thanks, Henry."

"I’m just playing Dr. Zhivago here," Henry said lightly. "Go see a real doctor—their opinion will be far more reliable."

"Dr. Zhivago" was a self-deprecating reference—like calling oneself a quack doctor.

"Got it." With that, Keanu returned to his seat as the film was about to begin.

Henry turned to Charlize. "Same goes for you. You might not need a doctor yet, but having a qualified physical therapist is essential.

"Remember what I told you? The most important thing in action films?"

Charlize thought for a moment. "...Don’t get injured?"

"Exactly. You can’t overemphasize safety and health."

After a brief pause, Henry added, "And I think it’s time you got an assistant—or even built a small team.

"You can’t rely on Jen to be everywhere with you, or handle every little thing yourself. And hiring a random makeup artist last minute? That didn’t really work out."

Charlize looked surprised. "Was it that bad? My makeup today?"

"Well... your face alone passes. But the overall look is a bit..."

"A bit what?"

"Let’s just say—you’d better hope Cruella didn’t see you. Otherwise, you can imagine what she’d say."

Charlize winced. Even if she didn’t assemble a full team, she definitely needed someone who could give her proper advice.

---

The film began.

At 144 minutes, The Devil’s Advocate proved itself a truly outstanding work.

The most eye-catching performance, without a doubt, was Al Pacino as Satan.

His commanding presence and masterful delivery drew the audience in completely. His lines perfectly conveyed a devil’s contempt for the world, provoking reflection.

Keanu Reeves, acting opposite him, couldn’t quite match Pacino’s aura—but he convincingly portrayed an ordinary man struggling under the Devil’s manipulation.

Charlize Theron, meanwhile, delivered a powerful performance as someone dragged into darkness—capturing the journey from confusion and despair to ultimate collapse and self-destruction.

Though she had acted in it, this was her first time watching the full film.

After the premiere, back at Henry’s home, she asked nervously, "So... how was it?"

"It’s an excellent film. Your performance was flawless. It should do well—both commercially and critically."

From Henry’s memory before transmigration, the film held a 7.5 rating on IMDb and grossed $150 million on a $57 million budget—already a strong success.

Even if this world differed slightly, it likely wouldn’t be far off.

And Charlize knew—Henry wouldn’t offer empty praise. He wasn’t just her boyfriend; he was also her acting mentor. Honest feedback was the only way she could improve.

So his approval made her beam with pride.

After a bit of wine, she grinned. "So? It’s not worse than your other big-budget movie, right?"

...Comparing it to Titanic?

Aside from losing to an iceberg, that film crushed everything in its path—and held records for over a decade before James Cameron broke them himself.

In Henry’s memory, the top four box office films were: Cameron, Marvel, Cameron, Cameron. That said enough.

Marvel only got there after building up twenty-one films over eleven years for Endgame. Who else could compete with the "King of the World"?

Of course, Henry wasn’t about to crush his girlfriend’s enthusiasm.

After all, Titanic was still in post-production—its visual effects being painstakingly rendered on the "Hollywood Kid" supercomputing systems.

Thinking about how he’d been dragged into helping with VFX work lately—stuck at a workstation alongside a group of young recruits—Henry felt like crying.

Then he made a decision.

Tomorrow, he’d deliberately pick out a few continuity errors and point them out to James Cameron.

Let that obsessive perfectionist lose sleep over fixing them—pacing around, pulling his hair out trying to patch every flaw.

Hey—don’t call it petty.

It’s all for the sake of the film.

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