"Go back and prepare the shooting plan," Morris said, walking John to the elevator. The agent's face was flushed with a mix of excitement and anxiety. "I will start making calls to find potential financiers. But John, make sure the budget stays under $100,000. If it goes a cent over, it becomes ten times harder to sell."
"Don't worry," John said calmly, pressing the button for the lobby. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
Leaving the CAA building, John didn't return to the USC dormitory immediately. Instead, he hailed a cab and headed straight for the Writers Guild of America (WGA) West and the Directors Guild of America (DGA).
He wasn't naive. In Hollywood, ideas were stolen every day. A handshake with an agent meant nothing without legal protection.
Standing in line at the registration office, John held the script of Saw tightly.
'This isn't just one movie,' John thought, looking at the seal of the Guild on the wall. 'This is a gold mine.'
In his future memory, the Saw franchise was a juggernaut. It spanned nine or ten films, video games, and merchandise. It was one of the most profitable horror franchises in history because the production cost was always low, but the box office was consistently high. The original creator, James Wan, used this film to launch himself into the stratosphere of Hollywood, eventually directing Aquaman and Fast & Furious.
John needed to ensure that the copyright for the story, the character of Jigsaw, and the concept of the "Game" belonged entirely to him. If he let a studio snatch the rights early on, he would lose hundreds of millions of dollars in the future.
After paying the registration fees and receiving the stamped confirmation that Saw was now legally his intellectual property, John finally let out a breath of relief. The foundation was laid. Now, he just needed the machine to start turning.
Meanwhile, inside the CAA Headquarters.
The atmosphere on the top floor was vastly different from the cramped office Morris occupied below.
CAA operated on a unique, ruthless internal structure. Unlike other agencies where agents ate what they killed—keeping a percentage of their specific clients' earnings—CAA agents pooled their commissions.
All the money went into a giant pot. At the end of the year, the "Emperor," Michael Ovitz, would distribute bonuses based on how much value an agent brought to the company as a whole. This structure forced agents to cooperate, sharing information and clients to build massive "packages." But it also meant that if you didn't contribute to the empire, you starved.
In the main conference room, the air was thick with tension.
Michael Ovitz sat at the head of the table. He was the most powerful man in Hollywood. When he spoke, studio heads listened.
"We have the stars," Ovitz said, his voice low but commanding. He looked around at the senior agents. "We have Cruise. We have Costner. We have the best writers. But we are bottling up."
He stood up and walked to the window. "A package needs a leader. A movie needs a captain. We are short on directors. Not just 'yes-men' who point a camera, but directors with a vision that can carry a $50 million budget. The studios are begging us for packages, but without strong directors attached, we are leaving money on the table."
Morris, sitting in the back row near the door, felt his throat go dry. This was the moment. It was a gamble. If he wasted Ovitz's time, his career might be over. But if he stayed silent, he would remain a bottom-feeder forever.
As the meeting dispersed and the senior agents filed out, Morris made his move.
"Mr. Ovitz," Morris said, his voice trembling slightly.
Ovitz paused, holding his briefcase. He looked at the junior agent. "Yes, Morris?"
"I... I found a director. A young one. From USC." Morris stepped forward, holding out the script of Saw. "He's raw, but he understands the commercial market. He wrote this script."
Ovitz looked at the script title: SAW. He didn't take it immediately. "A student?"
"A genius student," Morris corrected, remembering John's confident eyes. "He plans to shoot this for under $100,000. It's a horror film, but... it's different."
Ovitz took the script. He was known for his speed reading. He didn't read every word; he scanned for the hook. He flipped through the first few pages, setting the scene. Two men. Chains. A dead body. A tape recorder.
He flipped to the middle. The traps. The psychological torture.
Then, he stopped at a monologue from the antagonist, Jigsaw.
"Most people are so ungrateful to be alive. But not you. Not anymore."
Ovitz closed the script. A flicker of interest appeared in his eyes.
"It's violent," Ovitz noted.
"Yes, sir," Morris said, sweating.
"But it has a code," Ovitz continued, tapping the cover. "Usually, slasher villains kill teenagers because they have sex or do drugs. It's mindless. But this villain... he only targets those he finds 'guilty' of wasting their lives. He thinks he is saving them. That is interesting. It gives the audience a moral dilemma."
Ovitz looked at Morris. "You signed him?"
"Yes, sir. He is legally our client."
"Good." Ovitz handed the script back to Morris. "The concept is high-concept enough to sell. But he is a student. He has no experience managing a set, a budget, or a crew. If he crashes and burns, it reflects badly on CAA."
Morris's heart sank. "So..."
"So, get him insurance," Ovitz ordered. "Go to our client list. Find an experienced Assistant Director (AD) who knows how to keep a schedule. Find a Line Producer who knows how to stretch a dollar. Attach them to this project. Tell the kid that if he wants our support, he uses our veterans."
Ovitz turned to leave, throwing one last look at Morris.
"If this movie makes money, Morris, I'll remember this. Get it done."
Morris clutched the script to his chest, realizing his back was soaked with sweat. He had done it. He had the Emperor's blessing. Now, John William just had to deliver.