Chapter 80 – The Mysterious Italian
Aaron still couldn't get over it—Jack Wells had been conned by Jordan Belfort, flown all the way to New York just to beat the man bloody, and then had the audacity to call the cops and join other victims in pressing charges.
The result? No Wolf of Wall Street in the future.
"What are you grinning at?" Nicole Kidman asked in their West Hollywood apartment, catching Aaron chuckling to himself on the couch.
"Oh, nothing. Just thought of something funny."
She perched on his lap, eyes narrowing playfully. "So tell me—why did you suddenly buy a horror-thriller like The Silence of the Lambs? And spend that much money?"
Aaron smoothed a hand along her thigh. "Why not? It's finished. No need to risk production. Buy it, polish it, sell it. Clean."
He smirked. "Besides, Disney's gangster flick Billy Bathgate is already shooting. Bruce Willis even has a cameo. Regretting turning it down?"
Nicole arched a brow. "Would you want your woman in someone else's bed?"
Aaron burst out laughing. "So you do have a sense of humor."
---
Burbank, at Dawnlight Films' private screening room.
The final frame of The Silence of the Lambs flickered to black.
"Bravo." Aaron couldn't help himself—he applauded loudly.
Turning to director Jonathan Demme, he grinned. "A film this good, and Orion wanted to dump it to home video? Unbelievable."
Demme shook his head. "They had no faith in it. And they're funneling resources into a comic adaptation—The Addams Family. That's where they see their future.
"Honestly, this project only happened because of the support of Orion's former president, Mike Medavoy."
Aaron leaned forward. "Then why didn't Medavoy buy the distribution rights after moving to TriStar? If he backed the film, why leave it behind?"
Demme's smile was tight. "Because Medavoy and Kluge can't stand each other. Old grudges."
He fixed Aaron with a steady look. "But now the film is yours. If you take it to TriStar, I believe they'd distribute it. Medavoy would love to prove Kluge wrong."
Aaron nodded. "That's been my thought as well. And if TriStar passes, I'll find another distributor. Hopkins and Foster's performances are too good to waste. Truly brilliant casting."
Jodie Foster's Clarice—sharp, ambitious, fearless, resilient.
Anthony Hopkins' Lecter—cultured, cunning, chilling, unreadable.
It was a masterpiece in the making.
---
Later that night, at a bar on Sunset Boulevard, Jack Wells clinked glasses with Aaron, eyes alight.
"Jodie Foster as the lead… my idol, my dream girl. Tell me I'll get to meet her?"
Aaron gave a reassuring smile. "You will. She'll be meeting with Dawnlight soon to discuss promotions. Plenty of opportunities."
He didn't mention the obvious—that Foster wasn't exactly interested in men. No point crushing Jack's fantasy.
Moments later, Quentin Tarantino bounded in, practically buzzing.
"I just got word—Oliver Stone wants my Natural Born Killers script!"
"Really?" Jack raised a brow. "Congrats! What about your True Romance script? Didn't Tony Scott want it?"
Quentin shrugged. "Haven't heard back. No rewrite requests, nothing."
Every director liked to reshape scripts, sometimes tweaking scenes, sometimes tearing them down completely. It was part of the business.
Aaron leaned in. "Oliver Stone? Isn't he prepping JFK with Kevin Costner right now?"
"Yeah," Quentin nodded eagerly. "And this year he just finished The Doors, a biopic on Jim Morrison. Val Kilmer's playing him."
Aaron smiled. "Well, Quentin—you've always said you want to direct your own stories. Isn't it about time?"
Aaron lifted his glass, taking a slow sip.
"Once you sell Natural Born Killers, you should start thinking about your own script. I'll back you. It won't be a huge budget, but it's your shot—don't waste it."
Quentin Tarantino's eyes lit up. A true outsider, he was self-taught, a video store rat with a voracious appetite for films. A patchwork mind, sure—but one with wild, unrestrained imagination.
"Really?" he asked, practically vibrating with excitement. "Then I'll spend the next few months writing a script—something I can direct myself, turn into a feature!"
Of course Quentin wanted to make movies. He'd already shot short films. Given the chance, he'd leap at it.
Aaron smirked. "Absolutely. But make it count. Learn from Steven Soderbergh, David Fincher—one big swing, one instant classic."
Quentin grinned wide. "Alright then!" He raised his arm dramatically. "Tonight's drinks—on me!"
Jack Wells whooped, springing up. "Hell yes! What about the girls, though?"
Quentin scratched the back of his head, embarrassed. "Uh… not tonight. When Natural Born Killers sells, I'll make it up to you."
Aaron shook his head with a chuckle. "Most of your money ends up on call girls anyway. Forget it—I'll cover tonight. Celebrate properly. I just bought a hell of a movie."
---
Meanwhile, Hollywood was buzzing with bigger news.
As Panasonic's acquisition of MCA-Universal dominated headlines, yet another legendary studio changed hands.
Las Vegas casino mogul Kirk Kerkorian sold MGM/UA to a mysterious Italian businessman named Giancarlo Parretti.
Parretti's consortium, backed by France's Crédit Lyonnais, paid $1.34 billion for MGM. Just six months earlier, the same bank had helped him acquire France's Pathé.
But Parretti's background raised eyebrows. Only a few years ago, he'd been nothing more than a maître d' at London's Savoy Hotel. Now, in just three years, he'd embedded himself deep with Crédit Lyonnais and muscled his way into the global film industry.
Pathé in France. MGM in America. Both studios drowning in debt.
And to insiders, the whole thing reeked of something rotten.
---