After finishing the fax, Simon called Amy, shared a few thoughts, and asked how the casting for Batman's lead was going.
Few films at this year's Cannes truly caught his interest. He skipped scheduling any screenings and decided to spend the next two weeks refining his ideas for the Batman script.
Though production was set for the following year, the timeline was tighter than it appeared.
For the rest of this year, beyond endless script revisions, Simon had to oversee the creation of Bruce Wayne's high-tech gadgets, most urgently the Batmobile. Batman's signature ride had to be fully drivable, not merely a static prop. From design and fabrication to road testing, the process might not finish before cameras rolled next year.
Many of the planned stunts and practical effects would also demand months of preparation.
Over the next several days, Simon holed up in the mountaintop villa in Le Cannet, drafting the script and staying in touch with the States. Janet and Jennifer, by contrast, threw themselves into exploring Cannes with unabated enthusiasm. Janet had genuinely struck up a friendship with Natasha Kinski. Though there was no repeat of that overnight stay, on Saturday midday Natasha joined Janet for lunch again, yet her manner toward Simon remained politely distant.
Meanwhile, the festival's events rolled on at full throttle after the opening ceremony. The main draw, naturally, was the screenings.
Beyond the official competition and out-of-competition selections, theaters, beaches, and auditoriums across the city hosted hundreds of additional screenings funded by individual companies each day, a true cinema feast.
Still, the official selections commanded the most media attention.
The programmers scheduled competition titles with deliberate pacing, expertly shaping the festival's rhythm.
Placing Pulp Fiction's premiere on the first weekend was no accident. Weekends drew the largest crowds; launching the film then maximized public buzz and kept conversation alive through the closing ceremony.
In the days just before Pulp Fiction, the press fixated on Kieślowski's A Short Film About Killing and a British production titled Patty Hearst.
The Polish director had not yet reached the heights of his later Three Colors trilogy. A Short Film About Killing was widely seen as his breakthrough. Critics showered it with near-unanimous praise, and many outlets tipped it as the frontrunner for the Palme d'Or.
Patty Hearst, meanwhile, dramatized the infamous 1970s kidnapping that had stunned the world.
The Hearst media dynasty's heiress, Patty, was abducted, subjected to brutal degradation and brainwashing, then astonishingly joined her captors and took part in armed robberies. The scandal made her the most famous exemplar of Stockholm syndrome.
After her arrest, the family deployed money, connections, and even a presidential commutation to free the young woman who had originally been sentenced to thirty-five years.
Where A Short Film About Killing earned universal acclaim, Patty Hearst drew nothing but scorn.
Clearly wary of the Hearst family's influence, the filmmakers had chosen a volatile subject yet handled it with glaring timidity. In training scenes, other female members appeared nude while Patty remained fully clothed, as though she were royalty rather than a hostage.
A Le Figaro critic wrote with biting sarcasm: "From this film, one gathers the kidnappers treated the Hearst name with reverence. By that logic, Miss Hearst should have been released immediately rather than brainwashed into crime."
Cannes in the 1980s had no official festival publication with numerical ratings. That began in 1997. French press outlets, however, ran their own five-point polls. Among screened titles, Patty Hearst took an unsurprising 1.3, the lowest mark; Kieślowski's film soared to 4.6.
So matters stood until Sunday, May 15.
Pulp Fiction's red-carpet premiere was set for nine in the morning.
No one yet knew the film's quality, but as Simon Westeros's follow-up to the $400 million–grossing Run Lola Run, its spotlight was assured.
By eight o'clock the Palais was already thronged. The press turnout rivaled the opening ceremony; fans without invitations waved signs offering top dollar for tickets.
Beyond the Pulp Fiction team, most main-competition jurors and numerous Hollywood stars who had flown in promised to attend. The glittering red carpet felt worth the journey for many onlookers.
Simon felt little pressure amid the spectacle. Orion Pictures president Mike Medavoy, however, was visibly on edge.
Since January, Orion had released six films. Despite the slow season, only the initially dismissed Colors, starring Robert Duvall and Sean Penn, had succeeded, grossing over $26 million in four weeks. The other five flopped. The House on Carroll Street, led by Top Gun's Kelly McGillis, recouped just $450,000 against a $14 million budget.
Six releases already accounted for more than a third of Orion's yearly slate: one hit, five misses, projected losses exceeding $50 million. Without a breakout or two in the remaining lineup, the studio faced another deficit, potentially worse than two years earlier.
Times had changed.
After last year's crash, entertainment investment had contracted sharply. Even the majors were struggling. Coca-Cola was quietly negotiating to sell Columbia to Sony; Universal, solid the past couple of years, was sliding and banking on the next Back to the Future sequel.
In such a climate, new capital would favor the Big Seven. A second-tier player like Orion, once in trouble, would find recovery far harder than before.
Pulp Fiction represented the studio's best hope for the year.
Yet compared to crowd-pleasing blockbusters, the film was wildly unconventional. Simon's firm control left Medavoy and other executives powerless to impose their preferences.
With a June 3 release looming, Cannes reviews and awards were critical.
Though friendly jurors had offered encouraging early reactions, Medavoy had worked nonstop. The previous night he hosted a lavish media party at the InterContinental Carlton, courting key journalists in hopes of softening any harsh verdicts.
Against the film's $8 million budget, Orion had already spent $5 million on marketing and PR. If word of mouth proved strong and box-office promise emerged, further investment would follow, likely matching the production cost.
Anxious but resolute, Medavoy greeted every major guest with forced warmth, his assistant trailing with a long checklist of names.
Only as nine o'clock neared did he finally settle beside Simon. Everything possible had been done; the rest was out of their hands.
The packed Lumière Theater darkened. The screen glowed.
Orion and Daenerys logos appeared, followed by the dictionary definition of "pulp fiction." Credits rolled. Sean Penn and Madonna filled the frame.
...
At roadside diner.
Penn sprawled gracelessly in the booth; Madonna sat opposite, fidgeting. They rattled on at breakneck speed about topics that baffled at first listen.
The audience froze.
Many journalists vividly recalled the fallout from Madonna's earlier starring roles. Seeing the pop icon, their immediate thought was simple: mistake.
Promotional materials had revealed the couple's cameos, but few expected Simon Westeros to open with them.
Their nonstop banter played. Some unbiased viewers noted Madonna seemed far better than feared, fully committed, even inspired, yet the scene remained perplexing.
Then the pair erupted. Madonna, shrieking like a crazed rabbit, launched the holdup. A portion of critics finally caught the sly intent.
Yet the prologue ended as abruptly as it had ignited.
Main titles rolled. The image cut to John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson as Vincent and Jules.
Driving, they chatted about hamburgers like ordinary commuters, the same relentless rhythm as the opening. Interest sparked by the robbers faded into boredom until they reached the apartment. Then, without warning, guns blazed.
The story jumped to boxer Butch, played by Robert De Niro.
Butch listened stone-faced to boss Marsellus Wallace's instructions, yet the audience sensed coiled rebellion beneath the calm. De Niro's mastery shone in the daring long take.
His brief encounter with Vincent planted seeds for later.
After De Niro's short appearance, focus returned to Vincent. Task complete, briefcase retrieved, high fading, he escorted the boss's wife Mia at Marsellus's request. At her insistence they went to Jack Rabbit Slim's.
Half an hour in, many suddenly realized the chatty, information-dense, constantly shifting film had quietly pulled them in. Vincent and Mia's iconic twist contest left some hooked, hungry for what came next.
Yet unlike any familiar pattern, no one, save the few who had seen it, could predict the story's path.
Sexual tension between Vincent and Mia peaked after dinner.
Convention demanded an intimate scene next. Instead, absurdity reigned. Mia overdosed on Vincent's heroin and came near death. The sudden adrenaline shot jolted the audience like a stimulant.
Ketchup jokes closed their evening.
The narrative shifted again to the gold watch.
When Christopher Walken's Captain Koons recounted the watch's history, The Deer Hunter veterans grinned at Simon's wicked nod. De Niro's Butch then appeared, deepening the connections. Laughter rippled through the hall.
In the 1979 Best Picture winner, Walken and De Niro had played Vietnam POWs. This sequence mirrored it perfectly. Koons survived the camp and delivered the watch Butch's father had safeguarded through hell.
Paired with the earlier film, the actors' roles became deliciously ironic. Against that in-joke, Butch's boxing career instantly evoked De Niro's Raging Bull.
Butch won the fixed fight and fled. Janet's taxi driver, Esméralda Villalobos, arrived and seized every eye in the theater.
In mere minutes opposite De Niro, who looked utterly relaxed, a first-time screen actress with tousled lazy hair, pale skin, bright eyes, flame-red lips, and a soft, disarming accent crafted a woman teetering on some private brink.
Even out of focus, she commanded attention. Some critics nursed an unwelcome realization. This unknown beauty was eclipsing a two-time Oscar winner.
Whether or not they recognized Simon Westeros's girlfriend Janet Johnston, her brief scenes radiated such magnetism that many concluded Esméralda was plainly the director's favorite character, surpassing even the dazzling Mia.
As the segment ended, the audience lingered over every detail, yearning for the glamorous, perilous driver to return. That longing persisted until Butch abruptly killed Vincent, snapping thoughts back into line. Then, mouths agape, they watched Butch and Marsellus endure their harrowing ordeal at the hands of the two sadists.