Insomnia had quickly become the unexpected success story Warner Bros. had hoped for, even by the middle of March. The reviews practically gushed with phrases like controlled, precise, and unshowy brilliance. Critics who had liked Memento now wrote that Christopher Nolan was "one of the most interesting young directors in the business." For Harry, it was a great turn of events. The better Insomnia did, the stronger Fox's Oscar push for Memento would become.
The phone in Harry's office at FunTime rang almost non-stop that week. Toni was relaying notes from Fox's awards team. Gregory was calling about casting updates for The Blind Man's Gambit. James called in every evening from Burbank about the DC negotiations.
It was chaos—but the kind of chaos Harry loved.
In the Fox boardroom, the campaign meeting for Memento had morphed into something like a low-level war council. Publicists were sketching ad mock-ups on legal pads. Someone who was responsible for awards strategies was fully reading aloud quotes from The New York Times review of Insomnia.
"Play the Nolan connection to the fullest extent," said Gail Berman, making little taps of her pen against the surface of the conference table. "If people make him an author, then Memento becomes the launchpad for an author."
An executive sat nearby perusing through the competing studios' output suggestions. "Miramax has Gangs of New York, Chicago, and The Hours. Harvey's buying dinners for half of the Academy. But ooooh boy, at least the buzz around Memento is authentic; rooting for the underdog is human nature. We captured the brilliant puzzle angle- no prestige films could lay claim to the puzzle angle."
Harry had settled towards the end of the long conference table, letting the earlier statements and arguments float along. He expressed no interest in political actions; he was more concerned about the film going on to be recognized, not winning statues.
Still, however, whatever minor amusement it brought, he enjoyed at a certain level seeing, this questionably incomparable little $5 million puzzle desks all of a sudden, enter the ring with Scorsese, Weinstein, and Kidman.
When it wrapped up, Toni fell in stride beside him. "You do know if it works out, you and Nolan will be a target on someone's back? Weinstein doesn't lose nicely."
Harry produced a mild grin, putting thought into just a couple of seconds. "Then we just won't lose," he considered.
------
Later that afternoon, Greg called to confirm the official initiation of pre-production of The Blind Man's Gambit. Sets were being constructed in a small soundstage in Culver City, and casting calls were quietly going out through CAA.
The rest of the day was focused on lists—shooting locations, camera notes, and a topic that confused nearly everyone around him, music.
When Lisa came to his office with a series of production papers, Harry was bent over a yellow legal pad full of scribbles and crossed-out names.
"Is this another casting list?" she asked.
"Composers," Harry said. "I want someone who's new. Someone who can build the sound from the ground up."
Lisa looked through the pad. "You don't want pop songs? Everyone pulls a pop song these days for marketing."
"That's why I don't want them," Harry said, looking up. "The whole movie is about rhythm and tension. We need music that feels like guilt and romance and not something that tops the charts."
Lisa frowned. "James is going to think it's strange."
"He already thinks I'm weird." Harry smirked. "Tell him to trust me."
When James joined their conference later, Harry brought it up again. "Original score, no needle drops, no pop filler."
James raised an eyebrow. "That'll cost you more."
"Then I'll pay more," Harry replied. "I'm not making a jukebox. I'm making a movie."
James exchanged a glance with Lisa through the speakerphone. "You're the boss, but maybe think about what sells."
Harry's tone softened but stayed firm. "Emotion sells. The music should belong to the story, not the radio."
James sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine. I'll talk to some composers. See if we can find someone hungry enough to do something original."
Harry smiled. "That's all I'm asking."
The next day, Harry was going through revisions on the second act when the phone on his desk rang again. Maria poked her head in the door. "James is on line one," she said.
Harry picked up the receiver. "Hey, James," he said. "What's wrong now?"
"Nothing is wrong," James said, and there was something light in James's tone that Harry wasn't used to. "We got an answer from DC."
Harry sat upright in his chair. "And?"
"It's a yes."
For a moment, Harry was silent. He was staring at the sunlight on his desk, trying to grasp it. "A full yes?"
"They're going to start small—animated stuff first, and then they will move to collaboration on live-action once there's a first stage metrics achieved. But it's a yes."
Harry let out a slow laugh. "That's—oh, god, that's fast."
"They like your plan," James said. "Levitz signed off for yesterday. DiDio is on board as well. They are still cautious, but they are believing the TV angle. Fox will have to clear up some of the scheduling, but after that, it's on."
Harry leaned back, running a hand through his hair. "From the kid watching Batman reruns to the man who gets to bring him back. Not bad."
James chuckled. "Try to enjoy it before the lawyers make it miserable."
"Too late for that," Harry said. "This calls for a drink."
"Make it a coffee," James replied. "You've got a film to make."
Harry hung up and stared out the window toward the Los Angeles skyline. For all his big talk, the deal felt unreal. He'd gone from a fading network assignment to launching his own studio, from an indie thriller to a potential comic-book empire. And somehow, people were still saying yes.
Lisa poked her head in again. "You look like someone just handed you a puppy."
"Better," Harry said. "DC said yes."
Her eyes widened. "You're serious?"
"Dead serious. We're going to make cartoons now."