Chapter 36 – Top Screenwriters Are Worth Their Weight
"From what you've described, Aaron, Phone Booth is basically a one-man show!"
In a small bar in Barstow, Aaron Anderson held Nicole Kidman in his arms, sharing drinks with Nicolas Cage.
"Exactly. Almost the entire film relies on the lead actor's performance. It's a real test of skill."
Aaron had already decided to invite Nicolas Cage. He was simply perfect for the role.
"Do you have the script, Aaron?" Cage asked.
"Yes, once you wrap Wild at Heart, we'll go over it properly," Aaron replied. For now, he still needed to find a suitable director to helm Phone Booth.
"Alright, call me when the time comes," Cage said with a smile, clinking glasses with the two of them.
A few moments later, Cage bounded into the dance floor, showing off his moves.
"This guy performing Elvis songs on a car roof in a snakeskin jacket… does he really think he's Elvis?" Aaron laughed, speaking to Nicole in his arms.
At 25, Cage was still a hardcore comic book fan, knowing DC and Marvel characters inside out. He had also loved Tim Burton's Batman that year, starring Michael Keaton and Kim Basinger.
Nicole playfully pinched Aaron. "So, what about your romance script, Ghost? Aren't you going to develop it?"
"Of course, but the production cost is too high. Even if I find investors now, I wouldn't have much say," Aaron said, kissing her. "Do you think I'd have any real power in casting the leads?"
"Look at this year: Meg Ryan became a Hollywood sweetheart with When Harry Met Sally…, and Kim Basinger, once a Playboy model, became a well-known star thanks to Batman. My expectations for Ghost are huge—it's a great script. It should be in your hands!"
"Yours to hold, huh?" Nicole smiled. "You always know how to sweet-talk. But are you sure a story like Phone Booth has a market?"
"It'll be fine. I trust my judgment. Simple settings and characters mean production costs remain low."
In terms of setting and characters, Phone Booth was comparable to Sex, Lies, and Videotape. The main difference? Phone Booth takes place on the street in a phone booth, not inside a house.
After a few days in Barstow, Aaron returned to Los Angeles, collecting bonuses and royalties from CAA for his work on Sex, Lies, and Videotape, Cinema Paradiso, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and A Journey of Love.
Counting what he had earned before, Aaron had become a millionaire, with nearly $1 million in his account.
President Bush, under congressional pressure, had raised the top personal income tax rate from 28% to 31%. Filing taxes in April next year would mean paying over $300,000.
"Aaron," Jack Wells caught up with him in the CAA hallway.
"Hey, Jack, drinks tonight?" Aaron waved him over confidently—money gave him swagger.
"Sure!"
"By the way, I just came out of Mr. Haber's office and noticed Joe Eszterhas didn't look too happy. What happened?"
Joe Eszterhas was the screenwriter behind Flashdance and Jagged Edge, a CAA top-tier client. One of his scripts could sell for $1.25 million. His status gave him significant privileges within the agency.
"You probably don't know. Joe's planning to find a new agent and leave CAA. Both Mr. Ovitz and Mr. Meyer tried to persuade him otherwise," Jack lowered his voice. "He had a heated argument with Michael Ovitz a few days ago—it even made the news. But Ovitz is currently focused on helping Panasonic enter Hollywood, so internal matters like this aren't his priority."
Aaron pursed his lips. Eszterhas was rough around the edges, with a thick beard and a temper to match. He'd already gone through several assistant agents. Luckily, both Aaron and Jack were men—it was probably a relief not to get assigned to him.
"After last year's writers' strike, Hollywood screenwriters seem a bit… spoiled."
The Writers Guild strike, which lasted five months, was fought to secure residuals for videotapes and TV broadcasts. The 1988 strike had caused major losses in Hollywood.
Aaron shook his head. Since the rise of packaging deals, script prices had surged. Original, high-quality scripts were now fetching over a million dollars.
With the influx of aggressive foreign investors like Carolco, Sony, and soon Panasonic, not only would script prices surge, but actor salaries were also set for a sharp rise.
Jack Wills shrugged. "Previously, over 80% of Hollywood screenwriters came from the two major coastal writers' guilds."
"After last year's strike, that number has dropped. Now only about 70% of Hollywood writers are guild members, and the proportion is still declining. Especially in television, production companies now prefer non-union writers."
It was clear that studios were hiring non-guild writers primarily to cut costs. Compared to the actors' union, the writers' guild coverage was much lower. Still, 70% was a high number. Aaron remembered that after the new millennium, only about half of Hollywood's writers were guild members—rarely exceeding 60%.
Many smaller writers chose not to join the guild simply to secure work. Hollywood didn't really value screenwriters as a group—if anything, the Korean entertainment industry seemed to place more importance on them.
The top-tier writers in Hollywood lived very well, and some of the upper-middle tier did fine, too. But with so many writers in the industry, many had to juggle multiple jobs just to get by.
"All right, I'm heading to Propaganda Films. Meet me at the bar tonight," Aaron said.
Nicole Kidman's pay for Wild at Heart was $100,000, with $40,000 already paid. Now that filming was wrapping up, Aaron needed to collect the remaining balance.
After leaving the CAA building, Aaron casually picked up a copy of the Los Angeles Times from a nearby newsstand:
"Thousands Pass Through the Berlin Wall!"
The countdown to German reunification had officially begun…