Chapter 7: I Want This Script
The next day, Aaron arranged for a standalone two-story apartment near Plummer Park in West Hollywood, moving out of Koreatown. After all, with $100,000 in hand, he was officially a wealthy man and deserved a comfortable place to live.
Two bedrooms, a living room, a study, and three bathrooms—Aaron was quite satisfied.
At the end of the month, Steven Soderbergh came to CAA to sign his contract. Naturally, Aaron was his lead agent, and he even invited Jack Wells to witness the process.
"It feels like a dream," Soderbergh said in the office, visibly astonished. He had never imagined that Sex, Lies, and Videotape could sell for a staggering $1.2 million.
Aaron leaned back in his chair. Since this was Soderbergh's first time signing with an agency, according to the California Talent Agencies Act: an agent's initial contract with a talent is valid for one year, and any renewal can last a maximum of three years. First-time signees usually renew, and subsequent renewals are often two years at a time.
Aaron toyed with his massive brick-like cell phone, looking at Soderbergh.
"Miramax called. They need your input on re-editing the film. Next, we coordinate with them for Cannes."
Soderbergh nodded. "No problem… but when will Miramax schedule the release?"
"Don't worry," Aaron said, stretching. "Harvey spent $1.2 million buying the film—that shows his confidence. We'll know the release schedule after the Cannes Film Festival in May."
"Any new plans coming up?" Aaron asked.
"Isn't it too soon? Our first feature hasn't even premiered yet."
"Fair enough. Take a vacation. Call me if anything comes up," Aaron said. He wasn't about to babysit anyone—not even Stallone or Tom Cruise.
That afternoon, shouts echoed from the office of CAA president Ronald Meyer.
Michael Ovitz frowned from his office. "Why's Ronald so angry?"
"After leaving CAA, Judy Hofflund and David Greenblatt founded ITA—International Talent Agency," explained his assistant, Susan Miller.
Ovitz nodded. Hofflund and Greenblatt had been Meyer's assistants. Their departure—and the poaching of young agents and clients—was infuriating. CAA had always poached others; now, someone was taking staff and clients away.
"Ronald Meyer organized a team specifically to target ITA," Miller continued.
Ovitz understood—the tactics were clear: discredit the new agency, poach their clients, and create competitive pressure. He nodded in agreement; friends like this were worth backing.
In CAA's shareholding, Ovitz held 55%, Meyer 22.5%, with the rest distributed among others.
That evening in West Hollywood, Aaron sat in his study examining two high-profile films CAA had packaged this year:
Dick Tracy, directed and starring Warren Beatty, adapted from a popular American comic book—a large-scale detective film.
Goodfellas, directed by Martin Scorsese, adapted from the life of legendary mobster Henry Hill—a crime drama.
CAA's bundled films clearly aimed to pack star power, and both projects were loaded with A-listers. Dick Tracy was a Disney/Touchstone project, Goodfellas a Warner Bros. release. Crime and action films held a strong position in Hollywood at the time.
Next, Aaron pulled out a four-to-five-page script outline: Ghost (Unfinished Love), adapted by screenwriter Bruce Joel Rubin. After months of searching, Aaron had finally found a potential masterpiece—but it had gone unnoticed at CAA.
Michael Ovitz dismissed the ghost romance, scoffing at the story.
"Being an agent?" Aaron laughed. How much could an agent earn anyway?
For now, Aaron treated CAA as a platform to expand his network while simultaneously boosting his own reputation.
With awards season in full swing—especially the Oscars in late March—Los Angeles was bustling with star-studded parties and film events.
Though Ghost had been ignored by CAA, Aaron treasured the script and immediately sought out its original writer, Bruce Rubin.
At a café on Hollywood Boulevard, Bruce looked astonished.
"What? You want to buy this script? I know you—you're the agent who sold Sex, Lies, and Videotape for Soderbergh."
Aaron was straightforward. "CAA may not value this script, but I do. Ghost is an original script. I'll buy it from you for $150,000. And I guarantee it will be developed within three years."
Bruce Rubin nodded. "The price seems fair. So, you want to purchase the rights for three years upfront?"
"That's right," Aaron said. "A $40,000 deposit. If I can't develop the script within the period, you can take it back—no questions asked."
Bruce smiled. "You seem pretty confident you can develop it within three years. But, uh… you don't have many clients at the moment, do you?"
Aaron sipped his coffee. "I don't have much time to cater to clients anyway."
"Looks like you're thinking of becoming a producer," Bruce said. He assumed Aaron wanted to develop the film through CAA, wasn't getting support, and came up with this idea himself.
"So… do we have a deal?" Aaron asked. He was determined to own this script; once he had the chance, he'd leave CAA and develop it independently.
"Of course. But I have conditions," Bruce explained. "I'll need to be involved when the script is being developed."
Aaron nodded. "Naturally. You're the original writer—your input will be essential during the adaptation."
The two then went to a law office and signed a purchase agreement. Aaron Anderson acquired Ghost for $150,000. The three-year term included a $40,000 deposit. When the term ended, both parties could negotiate an extension or Bruce could reclaim the script—but the deposit was non-refundable.
"Hey… how about I introduce you to an agent?" Aaron suddenly suggested to Bruce after signing the contract.
It made sense—Bruce was a new screenwriter and didn't have an agent.
"Uh… you wouldn't want to be my agent?" Bruce asked.
Aaron shrugged. "Do you think I'd be a good fit?"
"Okay… probably not," Bruce admitted.
Of course, antitrust regulations prevented an agent from participating in production work, so Aaron's career as a traditional agent had effectively entered its countdown from day one.