Chapter 84: Three-Way Collaboration
After signing the distribution deal for The Silence of the Lambs with TriStar, Aaron barely had time to approach the bank for a loan before receiving an unpleasant surprise — the MPAA had just rated Boyz n the Hood as NC–17.
That was a disaster.
Inside Dawnlight Films' office, John Singleton and Quentin Tarantino sat across from Aaron, both visibly upset, venting their frustration at the ratings board.
Aaron finally waved them down. "Alright, that's enough. These are the rules of the game — we can't change them. Just re-edit it. Cut a few of the more violent scenes and reapply."
There was no other way. An R rating was the bare minimum; an NC–17 label would kill the film commercially. A few million down the drain — no one could afford that.
John and Quentin exchanged helpless glances. They knew he was right. The MPAA was the ultimate gatekeeper — a wall every independent filmmaker had to climb.
In truth, the MPAA served as the major studios' invisible weapon against indie competition.
The louder the independents cursed, the more they secretly wanted to be part of that exclusive club.
Once the two left, Aaron called in Jessica Parker, his finance manager.
"Take the Silence of the Lambs distribution contract to the bank," he instructed. "See how much we can borrow. Anything we can get — I don't care if the interest is high, just not predatory."
Dawnlight's liquidity was running dangerously low — barely $300,000 left. It wasn't even enough to cover the $1.2 million in interest payments due soon.
On top of that, Aaron needed cash to buy scripts, option novels, and secure IP rights for future projects.
Jessica nodded briskly. "Understood."
Moments later, Aaron's assistant, Evelyn Beckett, walked in with a guest — a producer looking for financing.
It was Laurie Parker, an independent producer currently shopping around her project, hoping Dawnlight would bite.
"River Phoenix recommended me," Laurie said as she sat down.
Aaron raised an eyebrow as he accepted the script. "Phoenix recommended you? We only met once — over drinks, through Johnny Depp."
The script's title caught his eye: My Own Private Idaho.
While Aaron flipped through the pages, Laurie began her pitch with enthusiasm.
"It's directed by Gus Van Sant. The story follows two street hustlers who travel from Portland to Idaho, and eventually to Rome, searching for family and belonging. It's a raw, poetic exploration of love, identity, and isolation — with strong queer themes."
Aaron arched a brow. "Strong is one way to put it," he murmured as he skimmed a few more pages. The subject matter wasn't just bold — it was controversial.
"Gus Van Sant… he directed Drugstore Cowboy last year, didn't he?"
Laurie nodded. "That's right. Fox 2000 actually planned to invest about two million dollars after signing River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves, but once River went off to shoot another film, the studio pulled out."
Aaron leaned back with a faint smile. "Ms. Parker, a film like this is… let's say, artistically brave but commercially suicidal. The box office potential is low — it's an award film, not a moneymaker. I'm guessing most studios won't touch it?"
Laurie met his eyes, smiling faintly. "That's true. Which is why I'm here. What about Dawnlight? Would you take the risk?"
Aaron thought for a moment. My Own Private Idaho had earned rave reviews and eventually became a cult classic, even launching River Phoenix to international fame.
The budget was small enough that losses would be minimal. More importantly, supporting a respected independent filmmaker like Gus Van Sant could open valuable doors for future collaborations.
Still, Dawnlight was stretched thin.
Aaron spread his hands. "Honestly, Dawnlight's already juggling three releases next year. We don't have the spare funds right now."
He paused, a glimmer of calculation in his eyes.
"But… that doesn't mean I can't find someone who does."
Seeing the faint disappointment on Laurie Parker's face, Aaron leaned forward slightly and said,
"Don't look so defeated just yet. Dawnlight's in the middle of securing a bank loan, and honestly—this film intrigues me."
He paused, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
"Give me a few days. Once the financing's cleared, we'll talk details. I'll reach out to PolyGram and Heritage Entertainment—I have good relationships with both. They might be interested in joining us for distribution."
Laurie's eyes lit up. "Really? You'd do that?"
She hadn't expected much when she came. My Own Private Idaho was a daring, unconventional project—most producers wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole.
"Of course," Aaron replied with an easy grin. "But you'll have to guarantee that River Phoenix and Keanu Reeves stay on board."
He didn't intend to make money off this film. What he wanted was reputation.
For a young independent studio like Dawnlight, building credibility among indie filmmakers mattered far more than profit.
It was, as Aaron saw it, a "thousand-gold horse bone" investment—a strategic gesture that would earn goodwill and attract top talent later.
Laurie nodded quickly. "That won't be a problem. Both of them have already met with Gus Van Sant, and they're between projects right now. As soon as the funding's in place, we can start shooting immediately."
Aaron flipped through a few more pages of the script.
The settings were minimal—city streets, highways, open roads.
Perfect for a small-scale production.
"When should we set up the meeting with PolyGram and Heritage?" Laurie asked.
Aaron thought for a moment. "Give it a week. I'll have my office coordinate with you."
He leaned back, thinking aloud.
River's been sticking to art-house projects lately… and Keanu just wrapped an action film called Point Break, right? Directed by Kathryn Bigelow, produced by her husband—James Cameron?
A few days later, the financing came through.
Dawnlight secured a $7 million loan from Salomon Brothers Investment Bank, using The Silence of the Lambs distribution contract as collateral.
The interest rate: 8.5% over three years.
Jessica joked dryly, "Even the bank seems to think Ghost has better odds than Lambs."
Aaron didn't argue. Both films had similar budgets, but Ghost was a surefire hit, while The Silence of the Lambs was a gamble.
He just needed to survive six more months—then everything would fall into place.
---
A week later, inside the Beverly Hilton Hotel, Aaron hosted a meeting.
Present were:
Michael Kuhn from PolyGram,
Guy Martin from Heritage Entertainment,
Gus Van Sant, the director,
Laurie Parker, the producer,
and Aaron, representing Dawnlight Films.
After hours of negotiation, they reached an agreement:
Dawnlight Films, Heritage Entertainment, and PolyGram would jointly invest $2.4 million to finance My Own Private Idaho.
Dawnlight would handle production,
Heritage would manage North American distribution,
PolyGram would oversee international distribution.
Guy Martin, who managed Heritage's Landmark Theatres art-house chain, was particularly supportive.
"These kinds of films deserve to be shown," he said. "Art cinemas were built for stories like this."
Gus Van Sant looked thrilled, turning to Aaron.
"If all goes well, I'd like to start filming by the end of the month."
Aaron nodded approvingly. "Whenever you're ready, Gus. You have the green light."
After all, with three companies splitting the cost, each was only investing $800,000.
Michael Kuhn raised his glass. "A film like this will play beautifully in Europe. Gentlemen—and lady—to good cinema."
Guy Martin laughed. "Independent films with real substance need patrons like you, Aaron. You've got my respect."
Aaron smirked, lifting his glass. "What can I say? I'm an artist at heart."
The table erupted in laughter.
But as the toasts continued, Aaron's mind was already working.
Heritage's greatest asset isn't its catalog, he thought. It's that Landmark theater chain.
If Dawnlight could eventually acquire Heritage's theater network, he'd have the perfect foundation for his own distribution arm.
Once that happened, Dawnlight wouldn't need to rely on anyone to release its films.
Across the table, Guy Martin caught Aaron's subtle, calculating glance—and suddenly realized that his small art-house empire had just landed squarely in the young producer's sights.