Chapter 72 – No Going Over Budget
Beverly Hills, at Warren Beatty's mansion.
Director Barry Levinson sat on the sofa, helpless, facing Beatty.
"Bugsy has been recommended to TriStar. They want Al Pacino for the lead."
Levinson, serving as both director and producer of Bugsy, knew Beatty had lobbied hard to star himself. But TriStar wouldn't bite.
Beatty's face twisted in indignation. "Even CAA won't back me?"
"CAA and TriStar both prefer Pacino. He's the right age. Once he finishes Frankie and Johnny, he'll join Bugsy."
The subtext was obvious. Pacino had just stolen the spotlight in Pretty Woman. Beatty's Dick Tracy, meanwhile, had cost four times as much and grossed less than a quarter. The reviews told the same story. Citing his "age" was a polite excuse to spare Beatty's pride.
Besides, who fit a gangster film better than Pacino?
Beatty's expression hardened, twisting into something feral. "This is all that bastard Aaron Anderson's fault! He turned Dick Tracy and Pretty Woman into a public spectacle!"
Levinson, fresh off an Oscar win for Rain Man, wasn't blind to the truth. Beatty was too old, too scandal-ridden.
He sighed. "Dustin [Hoffman] already agreed to Disney's mob biopic Billy Bathgate, and he's also attached to Spielberg's Hook with TriStar. His advice for you? Take some smaller pictures. Maybe supporting roles. Rebuild a little."
Disney chairman Michael Eisner's disdain for Beatty was hardly a secret in Hollywood. "Old hog" was the nickname he'd dropped to The New York Post and National Enquirer. If not for his longstanding relationship with CAA's Michael Ovitz, Disney wouldn't have touched Billy Bathgate either.
"Bang!" Beatty hurled his coffee cup against the wall the moment Levinson left.
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Compton. On the set of Boyz n the Hood.
Director John Singleton was orchestrating a tense street scene while Jack Wells pulled Aaron aside.
"At this rate, we won't have enough left for post-production."
Aaron froze. Five million dollars, and they're running dry?
Jack grimaced. "We lost a few days already. And these guys… they're lazy. When they're not shooting, they're with women. Can't keep them focused."
His tone dripped with frustration.
"Especially your leads—Cuba Gooding Jr. and Ice Cube. Every night it's the same thing—off chasing women. Slows everything down."
Ice Cube, sure, that tracked. He was fresh off his split from Dr. Dre and Eazy-E, with a hit solo album. A face of West Coast gangsta rap.
But Cuba Gooding Jr.?
Aaron frowned. "He's just a newcomer. Barely scraped by with bit parts on TV. And now he's the lead in a $5 million feature? He should be grateful."
Jack spread his hands. "Call it genetics, or culture, whatever you like. But discipline? Not their strong suit. These aren't seasoned pros. A rookie director, a rapper-turned-actor, and a TV bit player—it was bound to crawl."
Aaron nodded slowly. "Fine. I'll talk to Singleton. The budget is what it is. If they can't deliver a finished film, I'll be very disappointed. Keep reinforcing his authority on set, especially with so many extras and street locations. Once Ghost wraps, I'll be here full-time."
Jack straightened. "Got it. I'll keep the production in line. No overspending."
It was his first feature film, not a documentary or student short. He wasn't about to let it sink on his watch.
Jack Wells valued the opportunity he'd been given. Not only was Aaron planning to buy a theater for him to manage, but he also intended to back him later in starting his own security company.
That evening, director John Singleton gathered several of his lead actors at a bar. His tone was unusually stern.
"Getting Boyz n the Hood funded by Dawnlight Pictures wasn't easy," he began. "Mr. Anderson may be young, but his track record speaks for itself. He's younger than all of us, yet his success already eclipses anything we've done. The truth is, our shooting schedule has been dragging lately."
He glanced first at Cuba Gooding Jr. and then at Ice Cube, but his eyes lingered on Gooding.
"Cuba, you're the lead. You carry the film. If you can't keep your head straight, it will drag everyone down. You've got talent, yes—but if your attitude doesn't match it, then even though we've already shot more than half your scenes, I'll sit down with Aaron and replace you. We'll reshoot every one of your parts if we have to."
Gooding paled and visibly flinched. "John, I promise—I won't go out at night anymore. I'll show up on set with the best energy I've got. I'll give this film everything."
He meant it. For a TV bit player like him, landing the lead in a $5 million feature was nothing short of a miracle. Lose this role, and who knew if he'd ever get such a chance again?
Singleton gave a firm nod. "Understand where we stand. Hollywood doesn't exactly open doors for Black actors. We're usually cast as gangsters, junkies, hookers, or vagrants. My purpose with Boyz n the Hood is to show the world the reality of Black youth growing up in these neighborhoods—the struggles, the broken families, the discrimination. This isn't about glorifying violence. It's about asking for empathy. To show that we're not destined to be society's villains."
How Singleton managed his actors was his business. Aaron didn't care about the day-to-day. All he wanted was the film finished on schedule and within budget. His $5 million was real money, and if he was displeased, none of these young Black directors, actors, or rappers would find it easy to land future opportunities.
Meanwhile, Jack Wells escorted Aaron to meet the owners of the Bruce Brothers Theater to discuss the purchase.
"Ninety-two thousand dollars," one of the brothers declared.
Aaron tapped the table. "That's your floor?"
"Lowest we can go. The projection and sound equipment were upgraded just two years ago. Seventy percent new at least."
"Fine. Draft the contract." Aaron didn't waste time haggling further. Even as a pure real estate investment, the deal was too solid to pass up.
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