Beverly Hills.
In a reception room at MGM's headquarters, Tony Tomopoulos, chairman of United Artists, leaned back into the sofa, cradling the coffee his secretary had just brought him. He looked across at Michael Ovitz and said, "Did you hear? That kid was sniffing around at the Warner Bros. party last night, trying to see if Terry Semel would sell him DC. And Pascal's apparently negotiating a TV series rights deal with Columbia for him—ten million dollars, and it didn't even scare him off. Tsk, tsk. Kids these days, the minute they make a little money they think they can buy the whole world."
[TL/N: I don't know who is this fucker, but i can't find him on google and the chairman on United Artists in 1978-1981 is Andy Albeck.]
Michael Ovitz listened to the distinctly sour note in the voice of the man well into his sixties. He didn't actually think Simon Westeros had let sudden wealth go to his head, but given the reason for today's meeting, he gave an obliging smile. "Hollywood needs people like that. Otherwise, how would we ever get all the movies we make every year funded?"
A glint of shrewdness flashed in Tony Tomopoulos's eyes. "Michael, I know you've been eager to get Rain Man off the ground, but that kid has been downright greedy in his deals with Fox and the others. A screenwriter asking for ten percent of the box office—there's no precedent for that in Hollywood history. As for this project, even if Rain Man keeps getting delayed, I'm not giving an inch on what belongs to UA."
Michael Ovitz nodded. "I understand, Tony. Truth is, I've always been a big believer in everyone getting their fair share. That's the only way business lasts."
As the two men talked, Tomopoulos's secretary showed Amy Pascal in.
After the usual greetings, the three of them settled onto the sofas. Michael Ovitz turned to Amy with a smile. "How did it go with Robin?"
Amy had come straight from a meeting with Robin Williams about Dead Poets Society. Though he was a CAA client, the still-second-tier star wasn't one Ovitz handled personally.
She wasn't surprised by the question. The man who liked to control everything—CAA's spider at the center of the web—always made people feel he knew every move in Hollywood.
"Robin's very interested in the script. We're planning to sign tomorrow."
Ovitz raised an eyebrow. "That fast?"
"Simon wants it locked in before the end of the year so he can start prep the moment he's back."
Tony Tomopoulos had no idea what they were talking about. "Westerosos isn't in L.A.?"
Amy turned to him. "Simon's in New York. Tomorrow night's Christmas Eve—he's with his girlfriend."
The secretary brought Amy her coffee. Tomopoulos waited a beat, then said, "All right, Amy, let's hear your development plan for The Hobbit. It's a classic novel. UA doesn't hand over something like that lightly."
"Tony, Daenerys Films has no intention of rushing The Hobbit into production. We want the rights first, then spend two to three years designing and perfecting the special effects a fantasy epic like that demands. Only then do we start shooting."
Tomopoulos shook his head. "Three years is too long. And that sounds exactly like an excuse just to secure the rights."
Amy pushed back. "Tony, if I told you Daenerys would go into production tomorrow, that would be the real excuse. A fantasy story with dragons, elves, and dwarves—without enough time to get it right, forcing it into production would only end in disaster."
"Fine," Tomopoulos said. "What's your offer?"
"I already put it in writing to UA—one million dollars. As an add-on, Daenerys Films will invest ten million into Rain Man."
Despite the posturing over The Hobbit, Tomopoulos didn't actually care that much about the rights. UA had picked up The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit back in 1969—almost twenty years ago. The books had been huge bestsellers, but the Middle-earth franchise had never shown any notable film potential, or UA wouldn't have transferred the Rings rights to Saul Zaentz in '76.
Hearing Amy so readily agree to ten million for Rain Man—and remembering a certain young man's fat bank account—Tomopoulos shook his head. "No, that's not enough. If you want The Hobbit, you put fifteen million into Rain Man."
Amy turned to Ovitz in confusion. "Michael, that's not what you told me on the phone."
Ovitz hadn't expected the last-minute hike either; he frowned. "Tony, you can't do that. You'll just stall Rain Man again."
Tomopoulos ignored him and looked straight at Amy. "If Westeros is willing to throw ten million at Columbia for a TV show that's barely worth anything anymore, he shouldn't mind another five million for a movie starring Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise—especially when he gets The Hobbit rights thrown in."
Amy's expression tightened. "Tony, we did not offer ten million for a TV show."
Tomopoulos thought for a moment, then sat up straighter. "Amy, I think this is something Westeros should discuss with me personally."
Amy shook her head. "I already explained—he's in New York."
Tomopoulos smiled. "This isn't the eighteenth century. We can just call him."
Amy picked up her bag from the side table. "If you insist, Tony, I'll go back and talk it over with Simon."
"No—I mean right now." Tomopoulos didn't want to give them time to strategize. "We can have a conference call."
Amy glanced at her watch. "It's five o'clock in New York. This is his personal time."
"Amy, I want this settled today. So call him. Or tomorrow, during Westeros's office hours, you can tell him the deal's dead."
Amy stared at Tomopoulos for a long moment, then reached for the phone on the coffee table and dialed.
On speaker, Simon's voice came through after a few rings. "Hello?"
"Simon, it's me," Amy said, glancing at Tomopoulos. "I'm at MGM headquarters. Mr. Tomopoulos wants to speak to you directly."
"Tomopoulos?"
"Chairman of United Artists."
"Oh."
Tomopoulos wasn't thrilled with the casual tone coming from the speaker, but he took the lead. "Simon, it's Tony Tomopoulos."
"Hi, Tony."
"Let's be direct. The Hobbit is a very valuable asset for UA. If you want the rights, Daenerys Films puts fifteen million into Rain Man."
A few seconds of silence, then Simon spoke again. "Tony, Rain Man's budget is twenty-five million, right? If Daenerys puts in fifteen, who does the movie belong to?"
"Simon, UA developed the whole project. The copyright stays with us. Of course Daenerys will get its fair share of the profits."
"Sorry, Tony. I don't like paying the bill and then having no control. If UA wants fifteen million, the project has to be under Daenerys—just like Basic Instinct."
"That's impossible," Tomopoulos said. "Unless Daenerys funds the whole thing."
"Tony, I'm not interested in the project. I just want The Hobbit. Ten million is plenty for UA. Raising another fifteen shouldn't be hard for you guys."
"Fifteen million, Simon. That's the price for The Hobbit."
Another pause. Then: "Fine. Twenty-five million. Daenerys produces, UA handles distribution, and you guarantee the release date, marketing spend, and a protected screen count."
Tomopoulos had expected to haggle on the phone for half an hour. He hadn't expected this.
UA already owned the Rain Man script. His plan had been to shop it around for co-financing, fall back on presales and loans if necessary, then produce it themselves and have MGM distribute. With Dustin Hoffman and Tom Cruise attached, the commercial prospects were decent enough—even if most people remained skeptical.
[TL/N: Rain Man box office is $354 Million.]
For a studio in UA's current position, good projects didn't just fall into their lap.
Under the original plan, they'd at least lock in solid distribution fees. Success would mean extra profit as producers; failure wouldn't hurt much.
And now—some rich kid had just thrown out a proposal he'd never even considered.
Twenty-five million dollars.
Just like that.
Warner, Universal, Paramount—everyone had passed. Even Spielberg couldn't raise the money and had backed out under the pretext of doing Indiana Jones 3.
Who would've thought the twist would come so out of nowhere?
A string of thoughts flashed through Tomopoulos's mind. He couldn't help asking, "Simon—twenty-five million, fully funded by Daenerys—are you sure you're not joking?"
"Tony, do I sound like I'm joking?" A hint of impatience crept into Simon's voice. "Anyway, that's it. Amy, close the deal. I'm taking Jen out to dinner. Talk later—bye."
Click. The line went dead.
After the soft click, the room fell silent.
Amy noticed Tomopoulos's expression flicker after a brief pause. She stood. "Tony, maybe we should talk later. Simon's decision was too hasty. I need to discuss it with him."
Something's off.
Tony Tomopoulos had been around Hollywood too long to miss a trick.
Sure, he was annoyed that a kid barely old enough to shave already had billions, but he also genuinely respected the young man's talent in film. And he'd studied Simon's previous deals with Orion, Fox, and Disney—bold, clever, daring, all of them brilliant.
So there was no way Simon Westeros would throw twenty-five million at a script nobody believed in just for some novel rights.
Either Simon actually believed in the script and had just played dumb to seize full control, or the money had finally gone to his head and turned a once-brilliant kid into a reckless trust-fund brat.
Hearing Amy speak, Tomopoulos added a third possibility.
Or maybe every one of Simon's previous moves had been masterminded by this woman, and the real Simon was exactly like the guy on the phone just now.
He was dying to see if Amy was playing him. When she stood, he stood too and extended his hand again. "All right, let's leave it here for today, Amy. I need to think as well. We'll, uh, set something up next week."
Amy shook his hand, nodded to Ovitz, and headed out.
With negotiations stalled, Michael Ovitz—who'd stayed quiet the whole time—stood to say goodbye as well.
Outside the MGM building, Ovitz spotted Amy's car pulling out of the lot. He walked over, tapped on her window, and waited for it to roll down.
"Mind explaining what just happened?" he asked with a smile.
Amy gave a helpless look. "Michael, you saw it yourself. Simon lately…" She shook her head lightly and sighed. "I don't even know how to talk sense into him anymore."
Ovitz's smile didn't waver. "If I remember correctly, on Monday you were complaining that ten million was too much. Today you didn't even try to negotiate it down."
Amy didn't miss a beat. "It's Simon's call."
They exchanged a few more words. Ovitz watched her drive off, smile still in place.
One way or another, Rain Man was funded.
And maybe—just maybe—judging by a certain young man's vision and track record, the film might surprise everyone.
Because no matter what, Michael Ovitz refused to believe the kid who'd felt like a kindred spirit from their very first meeting could lose his mind to money that easily.
As the thought settled, he suddenly remembered a detail Amy had let slip at the start of the meeting.
His smile deepened.
Little guy, if you're in such a hurry to sign Robin Williams… I'm definitely not letting you have your way.
Let's see if this brings any surprises first.
Hmm.
Robin Williams.
Ovitz's near-photographic memory instantly supplied a dossier.
Robin Williams—broke into movies with the live-action Popeye, hadn't had a real hit in years, still a solid second-tier comedy star. New movie coming out: Good Morning, Vietnam—hot Vietnam War reflection piece, satirical comedy, a bit like Robert Altman's Oscar-nominated MASH* back in the day.
Word from test screenings was strong. Release date: December 25—day after tomorrow.
Disney was planning a slow awards-friendly rollout like MASH*, starting with single-digit screens to build word of mouth.
His driver pulled up.
Ovitz slid into the back seat, picked up the car phone, and dialed his friend and neighbor, Disney CEO Michael Eisner.
Maybe tonight they could do a family screening—watch a comedy together.
[TL/N: Sounds gay to me.]