Chapter 109 – A Favor from the Big Leagues
Nicolas Cage.
That name struck Wayne like a jolt of déjà vu. After all, Cage was arguably the most recognizable Hollywood star to audiences back in China.
Growing up, every one of his movies felt epic. That wasn't just Wayne's personal impression—it was a whole generation's.
But adulthood brought a different truth: Nicolas Cage had another name—The King of Flops.
If Wayne remembered correctly, at this point in time, Cage hadn't dipped his toes into commercial cinema. He was still the quintessential art-house guy. That's right—early-90s Nicolas Cage was a full-fledged, self-righteous indie actor who scoffed at mainstream Hollywood.
His career would later become a bizarre, rocky legend in its own right.
"John," Wayne said, flipping through the sparse résumé. "Whose favor was big enough to sway Warner Bros.? You all know how I work. I don't do favors—not even for the actress I personally want as the lead. Everyone has to audition. Fairly."
John knew Wayne's temperament well. This was a man of extremes—a paradoxical genius. Off-set, he was generous and easygoing. But the moment work began, he turned merciless. Any delay, any disruption to his process—he'd cut people off, no matter how close.
Just ask Naomi Watts.
She'd been chewed out by Wayne more than once during Get Out. Yet John had also heard the two had been romantically involved behind the scenes. That was Wayne for you.
And honestly, John wouldn't even be bringing this up if the favor hadn't come from someone big enough to sway Kevin Tsujihara.
"You've seen The Godfather trilogy, right?" John asked, trying to ease into it.
"What?" Wayne looked puzzled.
"The director. Francis Ford Coppola. Started with Patton in 1970, then The Godfather 1, 2, and 3, The Conversation, Apocalypse Now, and more recently that $200 million hit Bram Stoker's Dracula. No one in Hollywood says no to him."
John rattled off the man's achievements, hoping to emphasize just how heavyweight this favor truly was.
"What's his relation to Cage?" Wayne asked, now mildly interested. He set the résumé aside—it mostly listed a few indie films with limited box office presence. Wild at Heart, Honeymoon in Vegas… artsy, award-season fodder. And in most of them, Cage wasn't even the lead.
"Let's just say… if we're being traditional, Cage's real last name would be Coppola," John explained with a slight shrug. "The Coppola family carries weight in this town. But when Cage entered the industry, he didn't want to ride on their coattails. Typical artsy temperament—wants to 'make it on his own.' Hence the name change."
That explained a lot.
So Nicolas Cage was actually Francis Ford Coppola's nephew. No wonder the legend had stepped in to ask a favor—he was helping family.
And to be fair, Wayne thought, Cage could actually have what it takes. As eccentric and chaotic as he was, he might be a surprisingly good fit for a role like the Joker.
His acting chops weren't in question. The bigger issue was his personality. In his youth, Cage had a bit of a reputation: wild, unpredictable, reckless. And the indie film crowd he ran with? Known more for debauchery than discipline. Drugs, sex, chaos—they wore dysfunction like a badge of honor.
Still, Wayne had to admit—before seeing this résumé, he had completely overlooked Cage as a contender. And now… he actually seemed promising.
"Fine. Set it up. If his agent calls, tell them Nicolas Cage is cleared for the
second round of auditions."
John finally let out a relieved smile. He really didn't want trivial favors like this to affect his working relationship with Wayne. A perfectly matched producer-director partnership was a rare and precious thing in Hollywood.
"Thanks, Wayne. I'll let Kevin know you did him a solid."
"No need to thank me. If Cage ends up being the one for Joker, he'll save me a lot of time in casting anyway."
In truth, Wayne was more than a little curious—he genuinely wanted to see what kind of performance this eccentric, future cult Hollywood star could deliver.
After all, there weren't many actors in Hollywood who could bankrupt themselves by accepting nothing but flops. And even fewer who managed to destroy their net worth through a mix of relentless bad roles and debt.
"Well then, I've got to get back to prepping. Still need to finish scheduling the shoot." Thinking they were done, Wayne stood up, handed the résumé to Nina, and prepared to leave.
"Hold on," John quickly stopped him. "That was just the personal favor. Now comes the real business."
Wayne raised an eyebrow and sat back down.
"Have you given any thought to the film's release date?" John asked seriously. "This isn't like the low-budget films we did before. This is one of Warner Bros.' tentpole releases for next year. We need to lock in the premiere now so the marketing team can plan accordingly. They also have to coordinate with theater chains and secure screens in advance. There's a lot to set up—you've got to give me a timeline."
It was clear: this time, Wayne couldn't just go with the flow. A studio blockbuster required planning—early, detailed, and precise.
"Let me think."
Wayne leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and started mentally laying out the entire production timeline—shooting days, post-production, a safety buffer for unforeseen setbacks.
At their current pace, they could begin filming by the end of September. It would be a complex shoot, but three to four months should be enough to wrap principal photography.
He gestured to Nina for a pen and paper, then started scribbling calculations and notes.
"John, let's aim for an early summer release—mid-May would be ideal. That gives us a solid window for post-production."
After about half an hour, Wayne balled up the scratched-out pages and stuffed them into Nina's bag along with the pen.
"Same release window as Get Out?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. "We could move it a little later into summer for a better spot. Maybe hit the heart of the blockbuster season?"
Coincidentally—or not—Get Out had also premiered in mid-May. Wayne stroked the stubble on his chin and thought for a moment before replying:
"No, John. Talk to Kevin or the distribution team. I want that exact mid-May slot. Check if we have any other Warner titles competing."
"You sure? No better date?"
"I'm sure. If it's pure coincidence, then I'll turn that coincidence into branding. From now on, mid-May becomes 'Garfield Season.' One film every year at the same time—build a tradition, build a following. Think it could work?"
Wayne's ambition was surging—this idea had just come to him, and he was already sold.
"If we keep delivering hits, anything's possible," John shrugged, standing up to wrap up their meeting. He had more work than even Wayne right now.
"Then let's focus on getting this one right. The long-term plan can wait." Wayne chuckled as they walked out of the office together.
Francis Ford Coppola's favor had been cashed in—but his nephew might not even appreciate it. When Nicolas Cage first heard the project was a commercial film, his instinct was to turn it down.
It wasn't until his agent managed to get him a copy of the Joker script that Cage's interest was reignited.
"Susan, this really a commercial movie? Multi-million dollar budget?" It was the third time Cage had finished reading the script, and the third time he asked the same question.
The screenplay had genuinely shocked him. If this was considered commercial filmmaking, then what were all the art films he'd done before?
"Wayne Garfield's not your typical commercial director, Nic," said Susan Miller, his agent. "His work carries heavy artistic overtones. I suggest you check out Get Out and Happy Death Day."
She could see her client wavering, and pressed harder. Working with someone like Cage was exhausting—he had Hollywood's best connections, yet insisted on chasing obscure art-house roles.
And art? Art doesn't pay the bills.
In her eyes, indie films were only good for a couple of niche awards. Beyond that? Practically worthless.