"Mr. Jackson, we've begun renovations across the office," Lisa, his new assistant, said while holding a tablet, "as per your directives we've also adjusted the salaries of a few underpaid employees. Morale improved significantly. The staff's already responding with longer workdays and less sickness."
Harry nodded from behind his desk, his eyes glued to the spreadsheet on his screen.
"How long will the renovations take?" he asked without looking up.
"At least a month. Five weeks at most if the plumbing doesn't spring more surprises on us."
"And the budget?"
"So far, we've burned through three million. We have twelve million left for operations and projects."
Harry leaned back and rubbed his temples, "Twelve million. We won't even get half-way to commercial licensing for a second-rate mid-tier show if we burn it wrong."
Lisa stepped in slightly, "That said, it's the first time in a number of years anyone has felt taken care of by the company. This people are appreciative."
Harry offered a slight smile. That was his aim from the start-make his people trust him. If nothing else, he certainly knew one thing from his first life: a good crew of followers could move mountains.
"Excellent. Now, send out an invitation; nationwide. I want open submissions for screenwriters, freelancers, amateurs, whoever. I want short-form ideas, pilot scripts. I want original, low-cost, watchable. I don't want anything grand—we can't afford heroes or spaceships."
"I'm working on the announcement now," Lisa said as her fingers were already typing.
"And Lisa," Harry said as she was walking out, "if any of the scripts show even the slightest potential, I will personally read them."
"Understood." She gave a slight head nod and left.
Harry let out a breath and leaned forward. The weight never lifted.
____
Somewhere in East London
In a small flat illuminated by shimmering lamps and sustained by aging cups of instant coffee, Richard Curtis peered over the last page of a script. A smile emerged.
"This is it," he proclaimed to his writing partner, Rowan Atkinson, who was reclining in a crooked chair, leaning back with his arms folded - less than convinced.
Rowan tilted his head. "It's absurd, you know. No dialogue, a lunatic for a lead, powerful slapstick throughout..."
"It's different," Richard defended. "It's simple. Visual. There's not much you can spend on a blow-up or fireworks. Just one unique man doing unique things in unique but ordinary locales."
"And this is exactly why every single studio rejected it."
"Perhaps," Richard conceded, "but now there's a company from America, JTV, which is taking submissions now. Low budget, no expectations, you never know."
Rowan sighed, "We're not losing anything."
Richard smiled then clicked Send on his old broken but functioning computer.
Three Days Later – JTV, Script Review Room
Harry gazed at the enormous pile of manila folders and printouts scattered around his desk. He flipped through another script, groaned, and yelled.
"This one is a drama about a devil falling in love with an angel. Who approved this for my desk?"
Lisa winced. "It at least had good formatting..."
"Formatting? Lisa, I could gold-plate this story, and it would still be horrible." He picked up another. "And this one... 'A princess leaves her throne to marry a commoner and finds the power of love.' What's next? Their child becomes a vigilante that dresses in pink feathers and calls himself Don Flamingo?"
"Doflamingo," Lisa said quietly.
Harry looked at her. "Not helping."
A few employees outside the office heard the raised voices from their new boss and exchanged nervous glances. Their new boss, who was the actual heir of the company they worked in, had raised salaries, fixed bathrooms, bought them real coffee (not jet fuel), and now they couldn't find him one good script.
"I swear," Harry shouted, as he tossed aside another draft, "We publicized the announcement to a hundred thousand aspiring writers. Is this really the best they could send us?"
"I swear," Harry said, throwing another draft away, "We told this to hundreds of thousands of aspiring writers. Is this the best they can do?"
Lisa paused for a moment. "Well...? There's one that's... different."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Different bad or different good?"
"It's hard to say," Lisa said. "It's... about a guy. A really weird guy. He doesn't talk much. He's a little eccentric. He lives by himself. He definitely has a teddy bear, but... it's funny. At least it made me laugh."
Harry squinted at Lisa, curiosity piqued.
"And the approximate production cost?"
"Very low. Most of the scenes happen in an apartment or on the street. No CGI. No extra star actors. Just one guy doing weird stuff and messing stuff up that should be easy."
"Sounds like my childhood," Harry muttered. "What's the title?"
Lisa looked to the title page.
"Mr. Bean."
Harry stared at the page for a moment... and then it clicked.