Chapter 31: Harvey "Scissorhands"
By October, Miramax's Sex, Lies, and Videotape had already raked in over $18 million at the box office. Harvey Weinstein's $1.2 million investment at the start of the year had clearly paid off handsomely.
In Miramax's New York office, a commotion was underway.
Giuseppe Tornatore, director of Cinema Paradiso, was arguing with Harvey Weinstein over the film's runtime.
Outside on the sofa, Bob Weinstein adjusted his glasses, raised his champagne glass, and clinked it lightly with Aaron Anderson. "This happens all the time. You'll get used to it," he said, referring to the familiar clashes between directors and distributors over film edits.
The director's cut of Cinema Paradiso ran 173 minutes—far too long. When it premiered in Italy the previous year, it had already been trimmed to 155 minutes.
But this time, "Scissorhands" Harvey had taken it even further, cutting it down to 123 minutes.
Aaron shrugged. In truth, most director's cuts never make it to theaters unchanged; the final runtime depends on the studio's strategy.
The length of a film directly affects how many showings a theater can schedule. Longer runtimes reduce potential screenings, which impacts box office revenue. Director's cuts are usually reserved for future DVD releases.
"So, Cinema Paradiso—you're aiming for a Best Foreign Film Oscar campaign, right?" Aaron asked.
Bob Weinstein nodded. "Yes, there will be a limited run in Los Angeles before the end of the year to qualify for the Oscars. The wide release will follow afterward."
Aaron then asked, "What about Steven Soderbergh? Any new projects?"
Bob's leering expression suggested he was eager for gossip. "No new developments yet. He's still focused on developing independent projects in line with his own vision."
Soderbergh was clearly riding high. With the box office success of Sex, Lies, and Videotape, Miramax was poised to earn tens of millions in profit. This was unprecedented for the studio, and it was no wonder Bob Weinstein was anxious to know what Soderbergh would do next.
"That's too bad," Bob muttered. He was hoping for another Sex, Lies and Videotape—a rare combination of critical acclaim and financial success.
A little later, Giuseppe Tornatore emerged from the office, a helpless expression on his face. It was obvious he couldn't stop Miramax from editing his film.
As Tornatore left, Aaron overheard him muttering in Italian. Though he didn't understand the words, it was clear the director was cursing Harvey.
"Come on, let's grab something to eat," Aaron said, leading him into an Italian restaurant. After all, when it comes to food, France and Italy were unbeatable.
Tornatore looked dejected. "This film is like my own child. It's been cut by almost an hour."
"Studios have to consider commercial factors. Theaters don't like showing excessively long films," Aaron said with a reassuring smile. Tornatore simply wasn't in a position yet to demand final cut rights.
If he wanted to be like a future Quentin Tarantino, that would be fine—his films could pull in the box office. And the 155-minute Italian version? That had already proven unsuccessful.
A two-hour film can screen four times a day in theaters. A three-hour film? At most three screenings.
"By the way, I came to the U.S. to show you a new script. I'm hoping to find an American distributor," Tornatore said. He had originally wanted to collaborate with Miramax, but the dispute over Cinema Paradiso had left him wary.
So Tornatore specifically sought Aaron Anderson's assistance. Aaron had a keen eye for independent films, having discovered works like Cinema Paradiso and Sex, Lies, and Videotape.
Tornatore handed Aaron a script. "It's about a retired man from Sicily, widowed for many years, who travels to several major cities in Italy to visit his five children, each pursuing their own careers."
"The story mainly explores understated family ethics in today's industrial society. I've already spoken with veteran Italian actor Marcello Mastroianni—he's very eager to play the retired father."
As Tornatore explained, Aaron leafed through the script titled A Journey of Family. It was a heartwarming family drama: an elderly man visiting his five grown children in the city—a typical art-house film.
Such films were usually created with awards in mind, not box office success. Emotional, sentimental dramas rarely had commercial appeal in the U.S.
Unless it was an inspirational story, which might find some traction—but these films often won praise primarily from critics rather than mainstream audiences.
Aaron quickly offered a suggestion: "We could try pitching this kind of film to Disney. They tend to favor warm, family-oriented stories."
Moreover, Tornatore had recently won the Jury Prize at Cannes—a prestigious award just below the Palme d'Or.
"Thank you. I don't know many people in the U.S. A Journey of Family has Italian investors, but it's not enough. I hope to raise additional funding from France and the U.S."
Aaron nodded. "I'll send the script to Disney as soon as possible."
While Tornatore was only moderately well-known, Aaron had prior connections with Jeffrey Katzenberg, especially after Pretty Woman had wrapped. Having just handled a high-profile, critically acclaimed project like Sex, Lies, and Videotape, Aaron was confident he could manage this as well.
Disney had originally been an animation studio focused on children's films. Since Michael Eisner took the helm, he established Touchstone Pictures to produce films for adult audiences.
Hollywood's mainstream, however, didn't take Disney seriously—just a company making kids' movies and comedies?
Both Katzenberg and Eisner wanted to establish Disney as a serious player in artistic cinema: Disney could indeed produce films of genuine cinematic artistry.
In a few years, Disney might even acquire Miramax, a studio known for its art-house films—all in the name of elevating film as an art form.
Comedy had never earned critical acclaim in Hollywood. Awards, especially Oscars, were a studio's prestige and legacy. Back in the day, the Big Eight studios relied on Oscars to validate their influence. Today, Disney had risen to become one of Hollywood's "Big Six." MGM and United Artists had effectively become hotel companies, and RKO had vanished.
Disney had filled that void and now had to prove its commitment to cinematic artistry.