"Do you like watching old movies?" asked Old John, who was standing at the bar, wiping glasses as he spoke.
Although Henry hadn't been in town long, Old John had already gotten a good sense of him. Maybe Henry had secrets, or maybe he wasn't ordinary, but to Old John, that didn't matter much.
With his typical Western mindset, Old John believed in paving the way for the next generation. But how far one goes down that road is ultimately up to the individual. His only prerequisites: the person had to be likable, willing to listen, not overly ambitious, and grounded—someone who understood the value of diligence and responsibility, as his generation did.
To him, Henry was exactly that kind of person. As a result, their conversations—indeed, all of Henry's interactions in the town—were simple and unburdened by ulterior motives.
So Old John just asked whatever came to mind.
Henry, for his part, had developed a fondness for old films over time. Unlike the half-official news channels like CNN, which he avoided, old movies held his attention. Not just once—he'd rewatch them multiple times, each time with full focus.
When John suddenly posed his question, Henry first shifted one eye toward him, then the other, followed by a slow turn of his head—as if waking from a trance. It took a moment for him to come back to reality, finally pulling himself out of the movie he'd been immersed in.
Henry replied simply, "They're all so beautiful."
Coming from a man who'd grown up on 21st-century anime styles and had been dazzled by various digital "goddesses," Henry had once thought black-and-white films were nothing more than ancient relics—on par with dinosaur fossils.
After all, he'd seen a few clips online—Charlie Chaplin's silent films, for example—and had cringed at the exaggerated gestures. It all seemed painfully awkward, the kind of entertainment you'd accept only after enduring decades of boredom.
But on deeper viewing, he came to understand why classics are called classics.
It wasn't about camera movements or lighting techniques—though each era had its innovations. To truly analyze them would require a PhD in film studies. Henry wasn't that kind of expert.
What captivated him most were the women—the timeless beauty captured even in monochrome frames.
After nearly two decades of entertainment starvation, Henry had become utterly addicted to black-and-white films.
To be fair, there wasn't much else he could get addicted to. He couldn't very well obsess over billiards or darts.
Given his physical condition as a Kryptonian, Henry's only consideration in any sport or game was how much effort not to use—not how to win.
Kryptonian power wasn't just about strength and speed. It was about controlling every muscle with surgical precision, altering body mechanics at will.
Think of how a normal person's biceps change when stretching an arm versus flexing it—Henry could do that with any muscle, consciously and more subtly.
He could perform "facial art," too—making exaggerated expressions or even subtly altering his entire face to resemble someone else.
In sports, this meant total control over strength, speed, reaction time, and calculation. World records in any category were like tissue paper—fragile and easily torn.
Take darts, for instance. Hitting any target was trivial. With billiards, he could sink multiple balls with one shot, clear the entire table effortlessly.
After playing a few times, Henry got bored. It wasn't just dull—it risked revealing too much.
Old John understood Henry's sentiment. He nodded and said, "Women from the Golden Age really are incomparable to today's stars. Not every pretty face can be Monroe."
"Monroe?" Henry's tone clearly showed his disagreement. Pointing at the woman on the TV screen, he said, "This is a real man's dream, alright?"
The television was replaying Roman Holiday, and Audrey Hepburn was riding a scooter through the streets of Rome with a slyly manipulative journalist.
One could call her smile elegant and innocent—enchanting, even. Or you could say it had a kind of naive nobility that made you want to protect it... or destroy it.
In this scene, all the efforts of the director and cinematographer faded into the background. The male lead and the passerby extras were mere props.
Every viewer's eyes were drawn solely to Audrey Hepburn's face, enchanted by her expressions.
But not everyone in the bar agreed with Henry. A group of old men booed playfully, sounding like soda bottles being opened.
"Young people. Always obsessed with the face," one said. "Try hugging someone that skinny and see if you don't break your back. Monroe's got the real goods."
Another chimed in, "You guys don't get it. Greta Garbo—now there's a goddess. Cold and divine. Like Venus herself."
Someone else laughed. "Come on, a cold face? Give me Hedy Lamarr any day. She's pure lust incarnate. Just looking at her, my brain short-circuits."
Listening to the commotion, Henry couldn't help but ask, "Are everyone's tastes this different?"
"It's not just taste," someone responded. "Hollywood's Golden Age produced real beauty. These days? Any plain face can end up on screen."
"Yeah, there's too much choice now. No matter who you pick, someone will say you're wrong."
"Oh, please," another retorted. "You're just trying to be contrarian. Saying something different for the sake of it."
"Whatever. We only see them in movies now. Might as well talk about them."
"Exactly. Just go home, sleep, and let your dream girl come to life."
Then, someone joked, "Hey, with how fast Hollywood's sinking, don't be surprised if the next leading lady has dark skin, a square jaw, thick eyebrows, a big mouth, and bulging eyes—and you'll still have to buy a ticket."
Henry groaned and held his head. Oh no, he thought, don't go there. Just wait a few more years, old man. You'll live to see that future. Not just movies, but TV, games—every form of visual media will be 'invaded.'
Exciting times ahead.
He muttered, "Please stop talking. I really don't want to see that kind of future."
The whole bar burst into laughter.
Then someone said, "Henry, since you love movies so much, why not go to Hollywood?"
The laughter stopped.
The bar fell silent.
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