It was late evening in London and Harry was alone in the seclusion of his hotel suite at The Connaught, when he turned on the lamp on his desk, which illuminates a mess of receipts, financial statements, and a black leather bound ledger embossed in gold: HJGC Holdings – 2001 Q2 Summary.
Once again, he recounted the numbers.
Net worth? Approximately $230 million in stock and TV assets, and a recently inflated valuation on Dream Theatre London.
Cash reserves after theatre? Down to $20 million liquid, but stock conversions loomed close in the defense sector.
Income estimates over next six months? $6–8 million, largely based on Power Ranger merchandising, advertising sales from JTV and Dead Walkers sponsorship.
Not bad, but nowhere near enough to take his next leap. Because Harry Jackson wasn't just planning on another show.
He was preparing to break into Hollywood.
After a few days back in Los Angeles, Harry had an agenda: to find a young, talented director. He didn't need a marquee name with studio support. He wanted talent. The kind of raw talent that needed someone like him. A benefactor with money.
He was flipping through back issues of Variety and Hollywood Reporter in a private collection in Beverly Hills. Page after page of industry buzz, casting news, indie successes.
Then it struck him.
There was no Memento.
His eyes narrowed. That's... not possible. That film should have already screened at Venice last year... in 2000. It was an already cult film in his last life...
He typed furiously on the archive's dial-up computer to check independent film festival winners for 1999 and 2000.
Still nothing.
His heart racing, Harry checked his memory. He had seen what he was thinking about -- Guy Pearce, fractured timeline, black-and-white. It existed. But not here. Not yet.
He leaned back in the chair, stunned.
The butterfly flapped its wings.
Harry had a whirlwind afternoon of internet digging and finally got a tip from a screenwriter hookup in Burbank: "So, two British brothers were selling a script around, noirish, experimental. They said they're dying for a producer's attention. Everybody dropped them after some indie festival bailed."
What they called?
Christopher and Jonathan Nolan.
Harry jumped up so fast, he knocked a chair over.
Eventually, after two full days and numerous phone calls he was able to finagle a meeting through a friend at CAA (Creative Artists Agency) that had the boys on as junior client.
The Nolans didn't have any studio support. The previous short, Doodlebug, had barely made it, and Chris' first actual feature, Following, was critically reviewed but almost no one saw it.
Harry did a favor through Mason's old friend at Paramount's indie division to get a low-pressure meeting organized at a neutral site.
_____
The lounge was dimly lit with just the right feel of intimacy for clandestine deals. Harry -who was dressed neat and casual but not flashy in designer wear- sat at a corner booth and nursed a whiskey drink.
Two well-dressed young men walked in. Christopher, the older one, was cool and calm with a stoic expression but intense eyes behind square-rimmed glasses. Jonathan was younger, looked like a ball of nervous energy, and was obviously animated –still expecting rejection.
"Mr. Jackson?" Chris extended a hand.
"Harry, please," he replied with a cocky smile. "I've been looking for you."
"Most producers have been running from us," Jonathan said and smiled somewhat dryly as they sat down.
"I can see things they don't see. You two fellas have something different. I know Memento. The story structure. The style, the impact."
Chris tilted his head slightly. "You've read the script?"
"I've lived it." Harry said without hesitation and waved off their confusion with a smirk. "Let's just say, I have tremendous confidence in what this film can be."
Chris and Jonathan exchanged glances. "We've been trying to raise financing, two million at a minimum. We want full creative control. It isn't an easy script. Some say it's too confusing."
Harry leaned in. "Two million really isn't very much if we work out the right deal. You'll have total creative control...what I'm asking for is a producer credit, I want all the distribution rights, and the ability to sell it into international markets. I also want it to premiere at Venice. No discussion."
Jonathan blinked. "You're serious?"
"I'm serious when it comes to great art, and money." Harry sipped at his whiskey. "You have a script that will shatter narrative cinema, and it just needs a spine behind it. I want to be that spine."
Chris slightly narrowed his eyes. He was cautious. Calculating. "We've already lost a year trying find someone who believes in this."
"Well," Harry responded with little smile, "maybe your luck just shifted."
By the time the check arrived the brothers were leaning forward, animated, talking about cast options and shooting schedules.
Harry scrawled a number on a napkin: $4.5 million.
"I'm going to offer you this as a full production budget, and not just your two million. You can even get Guy Pearce like you wanted to originally. And possibly Carrie-Anne Moss. Trust me, she's about to pop. We'll shoot it in LA, and my people will figure all of the accounting, the insurance, and the SAG paperwork. You'll have final cut."
Chris carefully folded the napkin and slipped it into his coat pocket. "We'll think about it."
"Okay. But don't take too long. This is lightning in a bottle, and I'm not someone who lets it go."
Outside, Harry lighted a cigarette and looked at the murky LA skyline. Dreams were dying out there in the night. But his?
His were just beginning.
Harry was going to be the man who brought Memento into the world.