Chapter 74 – A Chaotic Set
Oversized shirts, baggy jeans, graffiti-covered hoodies—the Boyz n the Hood set in Compton was steeped in hip-hop culture.
Beatboxing, DJing, graffiti, rap—the five pillars of hip-hop—were everywhere, embraced by the young cast and extras.
"Yo, don't stress, man. The film's gonna wrap on time." Ice Cube bumped fists with Aaron Anderson.
Aaron nodded. "I trust John to keep it together." Then, with a glance at Cube, he added, "Shame about N.W.A. breaking up. You guys were the face of West Coast rap."
N.W.A. had brought gangsta rap to the forefront, putting L.A. on equal footing with hip-hop's birthplace in New York. But within just two years, money disputes tore them apart.
Cube just shrugged, smiling without much regret. "I butted heads with Dre. But me and Eazy-E? Still cool."
Director John Singleton called for a fifteen-minute break.
Aaron used the pause to check in. "How's Cuba Gooding Jr. doing? No issues with his performance?"
Aaron had been dropping by the set every day lately, even chewing Cuba out more than once to keep his urges in check and focus on the work.
Singleton smiled. "Much better. You're the producer, the money man. You walk in here with an aura. No actor's gonna test you to your face."
Aaron stretched with a sigh. "Too undisciplined. Guys like that won't last long. The race card only carries you so far—talent and work ethic matter."
Boyz n the Hood had been shooting since July. Now it was September—already as long as Ghost had taken. Aaron decided privately: never again. No more backing all-Black films. Too chaotic. Too much hand-holding.
Singleton reassured him. "We'll be wrapped in a week. I'll push post as fast as I can." He didn't admit it, but the $5 million budget was gone.
Aaron clapped him on the shoulder. "I've added another half million. That'll cover post-production. Just finish strong. This afternoon I'm dropping by Spike Lee's Jungle Fever set—he invited me to check it out."
Spike Lee had recently come through L.A. for location shooting, stopping by Singleton's set. Now he'd returned the courtesy.
At just 33, Spike was already a name. His Do the Right Thing had been nominated for Best Original Screenplay at the Oscars. His new project Jungle Fever, starring Wesley Snipes and Annabella Sciorra, was a taboo-busting romance about interracial love.
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Downtown Los Angeles, Jungle Fever set.
"Hey, Aaron, you made it!" Spike Lee greeted him with a warm hug.
"Good afternoon, Spike."
They sat. Spike lit a cigar and offered one.
Aaron declined, lighting his Marlboro instead.
"How's your shoot? John's a first-timer, must be some bumps."
Spike always looked out for younger Black filmmakers, hoping Singleton would succeed. He knew Boyz n the Hood's challenges: a rookie director, a cast heavy with amateurs, too many street locations and extras, while Aaron split his attention with other projects.
Aaron exhaled smoke. "It's under control. I put in another half-million—enough to finish."
Spike chuckled. "Honestly, a film like that fits better in New York. Harlem's perfect for the story. Plus, I've got connections there who'd have helped."
Aaron leaned back. "John and I are L.A. born and bred. We know this city inside out. Don't worry—it's handled."
He patted Spike's arm. "Come out tonight. Let's hit L.A. nightlife. It'll give New York a run for its money."
Spike's eyes lit up. "Oh, man—say no more. We're ready."
When it came to nightlife, only Las Vegas could rival Los Angeles. New York had its charms, but L.A. thrived on seduction and spectacle.
That night, Aaron rolled into a Hollywood club with Jack Wells, Singleton, Quentin Tarantino—and now Spike Lee and Wesley Snipes in tow.
Jack leaned in close to Aaron. "So it's decided? Another half-million for the budget?"
Aaron nodded. "Yeah. The only thing that matters now is finishing the damn film. But I'm telling you, I'm never developing another Black project again. Every single one of them—lazy, distracted, chasing women, slow to learn…"
If he didn't know this movie would make money, he would never have gotten involved.
Jack Wells chuckled. "Now you see why I've never had much love for them."
Aaron raised a brow. "And Black women?"
Jack smirked. "Oh, that's different. Some of them are incredible—skin dark and glowing like chocolate, curves that could set a man on fire…"
Aaron gave him a sideways look. So Americans really do go crazy for big lips and big asses.
His eyes drifted across the club, where Wesley Snipes was on the dance floor with a woman wrapped around him. Just twenty-eight, Snipes was still early in his career, but he already had credits under his belt. In a few years, he'd be the "Blade" of Hollywood.
But it wasn't Snipes who caught Aaron's attention—it was the young woman in his arms.
Halle Berry. Twenty-four. A former beauty queen who'd made her way into Hollywood, here playing a tiny part in Jungle Fever.
Now she was pressed against Snipes, moving with the music. One look, and anyone could guess what their "relationship" was. Earlier that day, Aaron had even spotted her leaving Spike Lee's office.
Aaron knew exactly how messy Hollywood sets could get. Independent films? Even worse. A single word couldn't describe it—it was a circus, completely outside the bounds of morals or ethics.
Of all the Black women he'd noticed so far, Halle Berry left the strongest impression. Striking face, great figure, and with mixed-race features that gave her a unique allure.
Aaron set down his glass. "I'm hitting the bathroom."
He splashed cold water on his face. As he stepped back into the hallway, a scantily clad woman leaned against the wall and whispered, "Looking for a little fun? Two hundred bucks is all it takes."
Aaron didn't even glance at her. He waved her off with a flick of the hand.
Just then, Wesley Snipes appeared with Halle Berry still on his arm, clearly buzzed, and grinned at Aaron.
"Aaron! Man, I love L.A. nights!"
Aaron smiled faintly, nodding. The guy was obviously high. "Enjoy yourself."
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