20TH CENTURY FOX EXECUTIVE BOARDROOM
The expansive boardroom was filled with the top brass of 20th Century Fox. Bill Mechanic, the studio's Chairman and CEO, sat at the head of the polished mahogany table. To his right was Colette Singer, Vice President of Distribution. Absent from the earlier screening but present now was Tom Rothman, the newly appointed President of Production, along with other senior executives including Fred Baron, Nancy Utley, and James Gianopulos.
A heavy silence lingered over the polished wood table in the sleek executive meeting room at 20th Century Fox headquarters. The screening had concluded, and the paperwork was now under review. But what should have been a formality was turning into a quiet war.
The atmosphere was thick with tension as the executives reviewed the proposed deal for "The Blair Witch Project."
Tom Rothman leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, lips tight. He'd already scanned the proposed deal and the attached marketing strategy three times. His expression hadn't changed once.
James Gianopulos exclaimed as he went through the proposal again and again. He could not believe the terms and the confidence a rookie director had to discuss such terms with a media heavyweight like Fox. "We're offering how much for a $40,000 film?"
Tom Rothman leaned back in his chair, skepticism evident. "We're considering offering $1 million upfront for global distribution rights to a film made on a shoestring budget? Plus a tiered bonus structure?"
Fred Baron added, "All for a director who was thrown off the 'Forrest Gump' set for unprofessional behavior?"
Nancy exclaimed, she wasn't informed about the young director before this executive meeting, "What! We're bending over backwards for some failed film school kid who caused the scene on the Forrest Gump set and had to be pushed out by security."
Colette Singer grimaced, "This isn't about the kid. This is about what he's walking in with. It's a cheap film, yes—but paired with a campaign that's disruptive as hell. The cost-to-return ratio here is ridiculous."
Bill Mechanic didn't flinch. He sat at the head of the table, calm, collected, sipping a glass of water.
"You saw the plan," Bill replied. "You know what this could become with the right push."
Rothman shook his head. "What I saw was a glorified student film shot with a shaky camcorder and a half-decent actress. We're paying seven figures for a tape that looks like it was recovered from a garage sale. And this marketing 'genius'—this Ben Gosling—was kicked off the Forrest Gump set for passing around his stupid short film tapes to the crew like he was Spielberg. That kind of behavior makes a guy a cautionary tale, not a million-dollar director."
Another executive murmured agreement. A few nodded. But Colette Singer, sitting across from Rothman, looked visibly exasperated.
"I don't like the structure either," she admitted, "but it's not just about the film anymore. This entire setup was arranged by George Lucas. And the five percent box office share we're agreeing to give him? That's the real lock. As long as George gets his cut, he's watching everything. We can't fudge numbers. We can't play creative accounting. He'll be all over the back end. This isn't about Ben Gosling anymore—it's about who's standing behind him."
Tom Rothman remained unconvinced. He was clearly displeased but recognized the weight of Bill's words. "But we're setting a precedent by giving so much to an unproven director. It's a risky move. Besides, I'm not saying we back out. I'm saying we take over the deal, clean up the structure, and make the rookie know who holds the cards."
Lawrence Silverman, VP of Strategic Partnerships, interjected. "Let's not lose the forest for the trees here. This isn't just about some shaky camcorder movie and a couple of green filmmakers. It's about positioning."
A few heads turned towards him. Seeing that he got their attention, he continued "First, we're not just buying into a film—we're buying into favor. With George Lucas. The man built one of the most lucrative IP empires in film history. If we secure this, we don't just keep him happy—we build goodwill that could influence everything from Star Wars to ILM to Skywalker Sound contracts."
Nancy understood, then added, "And Amanda Newhouse's involvement isn't a footnote. The Newhouse family owns Condé Nast, Advance Publications, stakes in Discovery, and influence across half of American journalism and cable. If they're behind this—if we show we're willing to play fair with Amanda and her little venture—that's a long-term media partnership in the making."
Rothman raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt. Colette Singer, seeing this conversation was moving forward in the right direction, added, "We're talking magazine spreads, cover features, primetime network plugs—hell, they practically own Wired and The New Yorker. And they're not aligned with our competition right now. A win here gives us a foot in the door, and that door opens into a media machine the size of a small country."
Silverman, felt he should add a few more words. He was the head of Strategic Partnerships after all. So, he mentioned, "This isn't just about the margins on one weird horror film. It's about building a bridge between two empires: ours... and theirs."
There was a moment of silence. Colette nodded slowly. Even Fred Baron, who'd been skeptical earlier, seemed to reconsider.
Bill Mechanic tilted his head, a faint smile creeping onto his face. "Call it what you want—strategic placation, long-term networking—but I call it a calculated investment. We don't lose control of anything here. We just gain a hell of a lot of leverage."
Everyone nodded slowly—except Rothman, who crossed his arms and leaned back, clearly still seething. Rothman then tapped a finger on the table, visibly annoyed. "We're feeding a monster if this deal goes through. We should at least show the stance of a heavyweight media giant. We still control the purse strings. We renegotiate the deal—tighten the backend. The structure is soft. I want to take over the deal from Colette."
The room went silent. Colette stiffened, lips pressed tight. Bill set his glass down and leaned forward, voice quiet but sharp as a blade.
"Are you saying you want to walk into George Lucas' backyard and undercut a deal he arranged?"
Bill Mechanic, calm but sharp, finally leaned forward and asked a single question again that quieted the opposition from Fred Baron and Tom Rothman. "Let me ask you, Tom. Are you prepared to have your name on a public dispute with George Lucas?"
The room quieted.
"Because that's what you're signing up for. George brokered this deal. That 5% cut means he's got skin in the game, and more importantly, he's watching. If we back out, or insult the creator in any way, George walks. You think that doesn't reach Rupert's ears?"
Colette Singer was already frustrated having to sign this deal and to respond within a week from now. "From today's arrangement, if there are any changes to the deal they offered will make us the villain. That bastard had the nerve to tell me in front of George Lucas. His exact words were 'I think Fox has realized the value of the film—and the marketing campaign attached to it. As for the specific price, I don't believe 20th Century Fox will be stingy.'
Nancy, realizing the root of the problem, sighed "We negotiate further than the deal present which is already conservative compared to other production houses we partner with, and George will feel disrespected. He might not say it outright, but you'll never see that Star Wars prequel under our banner. Not to mention what happens when the Newhouse family hears we fumbled a deal with a young Newhouse family member for a share of profits."
Rothman clenched his jaw.
"You want to strongarm a rookie director?" Bill pressed, his voice rising just slightly. Seeing that Rothman still was not convinced, he continued "Fine. But make sure you understand who's standing behind him. George Lucas. The Newhouse media empire. You better be prepared to explain to the board why Lucas walked away from Star Wars remake that we've been planning for years. And why the Newhouse family pulled back media cooperation."
Rothman looked away, lips tight.
Colette spoke softly now, as if closing the door on the debate. "The proposal is clean. Structured. Conservative, even. If we play it smart, the goodwill we gain is worth ten times what we're giving up."
Bill nodded. "Exactly. There are some battles worth fighting, Tom. This isn't one of them."
The room went quiet again. Rothman didn't respond. He knew he'd been boxed in. And this time, it was by everyone in the room.
After a while, since no one disagreed further, Colette Singer added, "The potential returns, both financially and strategically, outweigh the risks. We have a chance to be part of something groundbreaking."
Bill Mechanic concluded, "We move forward with the deal as proposed. Let's not let short-term apprehensions cloud long-term opportunities."
Rothman muttered, "And what happens when the press gets wind we gave away percentages like candy?"
Nancy did not like where the conversation is going, immediately stepped in, "Nobody's leaking contracts Tom. All they'll see is a viral movie and a studio smart enough to back it. That's all that matters."
Fred Baron, the seasoned EVP of Production, leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. His arms were folded, and his expression still held the same grumpy dissatisfaction he'd worn since the start of the meeting, "So what—any kid with a shaky camera and a viral idea gets tiered box office splits now?"
Bill added, "If he walks in with George Lucas behind him? Maybe, yeah."
James Gianopulos turned to Colette to ask, "What if we reduce the tiered increase rate? Keep the cap at 20%, but slow the pace—say, 0.5% per $10 million instead of 1%. That still gives them an upside, but buys us more margin if it takes off."
Colette shook her head, "They'll balk. Especially Helen and Ben."
Bill seized the moment, straightening his back in his chair. "We need to move fast," he said. "They've only offered this deal to us. They promised not to show it to anyone else for a week, and that was three days ago. If we don't respond within the next 72 hours, their next stop is Paramount. I expect they won't even wait that long."
Tom Rothman leaned forward. "So we're now being strong-armed into a deal with a disgraced rookie with some fantasy horror project just because Lucas and the Newhouse family are dangling carrots in front of us?"
Bill Mechanic calmly replied, "Tom, this isn't about carrots. It's about strategy. This isn't just a film. It's a gateway. If we pass on this and Paramount picks it up, and it turns out to be a sleeper hit—which, given the marketing plan, it might—we'll look like fools. And if we sour things with Lucas or Newhouse, we'll lose far more than whatever bonus cut Ben Gosling gets from this."
Rothman grunted but said nothing more. The room fell silent for a moment, the weight of the decision pressing on everyone.
Rothman rubbed his temples, as though the very idea of greenlighting a low-budget, found-footage horror film under Fox's banner gave him a migraine. "I still think we're giving away too much for a glorified student project. Hell, back in my day, we buried films like this before they got out of editing."
"But..." Everyone turned toward him.
"If Lucas wants his five percent, and the Newhouse girl is involved, and not following through means we're gonna get our dirt printed across Vanity Fair and Condé Nast, then fine."
He waved a hand dismissively, like swatting a fly. "Let's do it. But don't come crying to me if this thing tanks and the media starts calling us the studio that bought a home video off some kid in a flannel shirt."
A small ripple of nervous laughter moved across the room.
Colette added, "We'll package it as something bigger than that. We'll give it mythology. Make it feel like an event. You know how to spin those stories better than anyone, Fred."
Baron frowned, but inwardly liked the praise being shown towards him. He tried his best not to swoon and grunted, "Hmph. Don't patronize me, Colette."
Silverman chuckled and concluded, "Fred, you're not wrong. But we're not chasing the film. We're chasing the influence. The Lucas connection. The Newhouse favor bank. It's leverage wrapped in a horror reel."
Baron grunted, but gave a tight nod. It wasn't agreement born of enthusiasm—but of calculation. He knew how Hollywood worked, and in Hollywood, relationships often trumped content.
"Just make sure this kid—Ben, or whatever—doesn't turn this into another Forrest Gump circus. I don't want to see him sneaking tapes into press junkets again. You give him an inch and he starts acting like he's Spielberg."
Everyone laughed. Bill exaggerated, "He might just become one if we play this right."
Rothman added, "Or implode like one of those handheld cameras of his."
Baron finally nodded. "Three days left, huh? Fine. Let's get the paperwork reviewed. But I want this deal kept airtight—no press, no whispers, no backdoor leaks."
Colette gave a quick, professional nod. "Already on it. But we need to move fast."
The room chuckled again, tension easing ever so slightly. But beneath the surface, the division was still there—between those hedging on loyalty to legacy systems, and those eyeing the future through a strategic lens.
The deal hadn't unified them. It had simply forced a consensus—one built more on calculation than confidence.
The room fell silent, the decision made. The executives understood the stakes and the potential rewards that lay ahead.