Chapter 6: Negotiation Requires a Gun
With the Sundance Film Festival concluded, the $1.2 million independent film deal for Sex, Lies, and Videotape made headlines.
The seemingly outrageous move by Miramax's Harvey Weinstein left other independent distributors stunned. At the same time, CAA newcomer Aaron Anderson was gaining recognition within the agency for orchestrating the deal.
"You've really outdone yourself," Paula Wagner remarked in the CAA headquarters office, her face full of surprise.
Aaron shook his head.
"I kind of regret it now. I got carried away—I could have pushed the price a bit higher. $1.5 million would've been ideal."
"That's impressive enough," Paula said with a smile. "You've set a record at Sundance. Everyone outside is talking about how crazy Harvey Weinstein is."
Aaron chuckled.
"Crazy? He just made a fortune. In my estimation, the box office for Sex, Lies, and Videotape will easily surpass $20 million. Once it's released, Miramax will definitely make a splash!"
"$20 million?" Paula drew in a sharp breath. "You've got quite the imagination!"
"Anyway," she added, "Michael Ovitz has heard about your achievement. Go see him in his office."
Aaron nodded and headed to the office upstairs.
Inside CAA, offices weren't designated by rank—only names adorned the doors. Aaron knocked on the office of CAA Chairman Michael Ovitz.
"Come in!"
Ovitz, 46, looked energetic and fully in command of the room.
"Impressive," he said, clearly pleased. "You just finished your trial period and already pulled off something major."
"Quite a few coincidences," Aaron replied modestly, an uncommon humility for him.
"Ha! That's a sign of your skill," Ovitz said, handing him a check.
"The commission on Sex, Lies, and Videotape was originally $120,000. Even though Steven Soderbergh isn't officially a CAA client yet, you are. So $100,000 is yours, and the remaining $20,000 goes to CAA."
Aaron nodded. It was only natural to handle matters under the CAA name and accept the check.
"And Soderbergh will sign with you?" Ovitz asked.
"Yes, he agreed. He can come by the office anytime," Aaron shrugged.
"Do you have a plan for him?"
Aaron thought for a moment.
"Not specifically. The main priority is to push the release of Sex, Lies, and Videotape and help him rise to fame quickly."
"Excellent. You're officially a CAA agent now," Ovitz said with a smile. "You'll personally oversee Soderbergh's signing ceremony. His reputation in the indie film world is already growing—several prominent directors have praised this film. When it earns international revenue and home video profits, CAA will take a cut. Keep performing like this, and your bonuses won't be small either."
"Don't worry, I will," Aaron replied. Then he added, "I'll probably be traveling abroad soon, scouting for potential talent."
"Of course," Ovitz said. "Many directors started with indie films. Follow your instincts."
An assistant agent's annual salary was less than $30,000—but Aaron's abilities were already proven. At this rate, some CAA partners might even earn less than him.
After leaving Ovitz's office, Aaron headed to the script library to scout promising screenplays. At this time, low-budget romantic comedies were trending.
"Mr. Anderson, these are all the romantic comedy scripts we've received," the office assistant said, gesturing to a pile of manuscripts.
"That many?" Aaron asked.
"Yes, we get a few every day, and they've been accumulating."
"Thanks." Aaron smiled. He had gone from being just Aaron to Mr. Anderson—it felt good.
That evening, Aaron and Jack Wells went to a bar in West Hollywood. On TV, the election of George H. W. Bush as the 41st U.S. president was being announced—the Reagan era had ended.
"This Hollywood president has really contributed to the industry," Aaron said, sipping his drink. Reagan's tax reforms had dramatically lowered both personal and corporate taxes. The top personal rate was 28%, and the top corporate rate was 46%.
Jack Wells laughed.
"Reagan was an actor too—maybe he was frustrated with taxes back then!"
Bush, another Republican, succeeded Reagan, likely to ignore the Democrats' calls for higher taxes.
Hollywood wasn't a future Democratic stronghold—Republicans ruled the roost.
"By the way, you're about to sign with director Steven Soderbergh. I guess that officially makes you a talent agent, huh?" Jack Wells asked, his tone dripping with admiration and envy.
Aaron stood up, smiled, and patted Jack on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. I'll introduce you to Soderbergh. I don't have the time to deal with all his little matters myself. Get in good with him—his future is limitless."
Aaron liked Jack Wells; after a few months of contact, he considered the young man a friend. He could help him get a foot in the door.
As for Aaron himself, being a talent agent felt no different than waiting tables. How far could he really get staying in this line of work? Even if he reached Michael Ovitz's level, it wouldn't satisfy his ambitions.
Later that night, in his Koreatown apartment, Aaron was jolted awake by loud noises from the neighboring unit. He sat up, ruffled his hair, and muttered to himself.
"I warned you—if you wake me again, there will be consequences."
Aaron grabbed a handgun and stepped out into the hall.
Bang… bang… bang…
He pounded on the neighboring door.
"Who is it?" a voice called impatiently from inside as the door opened.
Aaron saw four or five young men and women inside, blasting music, drinking, and filling the room with smoke.
"What do you want?" one of them asked.
Aaron didn't bother with pleasantries. He drew his gun and pointed it at them.
"Turn off the music. Be quiet. Stop making noise. Your neighbors are trying to sleep—we all have work tomorrow. Don't you have any decency?"
The group swallowed hard. Young people today really had that short a fuse—being directly threatened with a gun for quiet?
"Uh… we—"
Aaron roared, "Answer me! Can you keep it down tonight or not?"
"Y-yes… yes… yes," the person at the door stammered, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"Good." Aaron patted him lightly on the cheek, then looked at the stunned group inside, his tone softening immediately.
"Now, don't make me come back. Next time, I'll send you straight to meet God."
He smirked.
"By the way, if you want trouble, go visit the Fairfax Jewish mob in Los Angeles instead. That's their turf."
Aaron was moving out the next day. He was already rich now—why would he still live with a bunch of idiots like these?