Chapter 81 – What Brings You to America?
The money Aaron had made from oil futures had already been sunk into The Silence of the Lambs. He hadn't paid much attention to crude prices since, but he noticed they had climbed as high as $46 a barrel before dipping back again.
"As I thought," he murmured, leaning against his car. "My memory of the news back then isn't perfect. Staying too long in a game you don't understand… that's how you get burned."
He was parked outside a small community theater in West Hollywood, looking up at the old marquee plastered with paper posters. Tonight's lineup: Cinema Paradiso—Giuseppe Tornatore's Cannes contender—and Zhang Yimou's Ju Dou.
With Halloween approaching, Cinema Paradiso was finally seeing its American release. But with Heritage Entertainment's quiet rollout—few screens, no real advertising—Aaron wasn't expecting miracles.
What surprised him more was seeing Ju Dou in the lineup, distributed by Miramax. After last year's breakout success, Harvey Weinstein's company had been on a buying spree at Cannes, snapping up foreign art films left and right.
---
Later, Aaron drove to the Chateau Marmont on Sunset Boulevard for a star-studded party.
Autumn in Hollywood marked the run-up to awards season. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year—all packed into a stretch where studios rushed out prestige releases designed to woo Academy voters. Alongside the films came the relentless publicity blitz: TV interviews, newspaper spreads, hotel junkets, cocktail parties, red-carpet premieres.
Kevin Costner spotted him first, drink in hand. "Aaron—I can't believe it. You actually bought The Silence of the Lambs?"
Aaron smiled easily. "Orion wasn't going to release it anyway. Better to sell it to me, recover some cash, and focus on Dances with Wolves."
Costner chuckled. His directorial debut was set to premiere the following month. Even with a limited art-house rollout, he knew he'd need a heavy Oscar campaign.
"You young guys," he said, shaking his head. "Always finding unexpected angles."
Aaron grinned. "And you? Filming JFK with Oliver Stone, but what's next on your slate?"
Costner laughed ruefully. "Nothing for now. I've directed my first film, starred in two others. Time for a breather. I'll look at new projects next year."
Fair enough, Aaron thought. The man had been carrying half of Hollywood on his back this year.
---
A little later, glass in hand, Aaron froze mid-step.
Across the room stood a vision in deep wine-red silk. A strapless gown hugged her figure, every curve outlined by candlelight. Chestnut hair spilled across her shoulders, framing a face that could break hearts with a single glance—almond-shaped eyes, warm brown, set in perfect symmetry.
Good God… that's Sophie Marceau.
What was she doing here? She was only twenty-four. It was far too early for her to be gracing Hollywood parties.
Aaron didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, smile ready.
"Good evening, mademoiselle," he said smoothly. "I'm Aaron Anderson. And you are the most beautiful woman I've seen tonight."
For a moment, Sophie Marceau looked startled. Then she smiled, extending her hand.
"Bonsoir. I'm Sophie Marceau. My English… is not so perfect. I am French."
Aaron caught the lilt of her accent and returned the smile. "I know. I recognized you from La Boum. Sophie Marceau, the face of 'the French Kiss.'"
It was that film series—the innocent charm of a teenager in love—that had made her a household name across Europe. But Hollywood barely knew her. And her private life—an affair with an older director, a shift toward riskier roles—had pulled her away from the "pure ingénue" image that made her famous.
Sophie's lips curved wryly. "Here in America… no one seems to know me."
Aaron studied her. She had the striking features of European beauty—high cheekbones, deep-set eyes—but with a delicate softness rare in the West. Her face carried a touch of Eastern mystery, subtle and alluring.
He shrugged casually. "I'm a film producer. I keep an eye on European cinema. Last year at Cannes, Sex, Lies, and Videotape and Cinema Paradiso—I was involved in those deals."
Sophie blinked, surprised. "A producer? You?"
"Used to be an agent. Those films went through my hands. And this year, I produced Phone Booth."
Her eyes lit with recognition. "Phone Booth—that was you? I saw it in New York, just after finishing A Girl from Paris."
Aaron hid a chuckle. He hadn't heard of her latest picture. She'd done more than her share of forgettable projects.
"So," he asked, "are you in the U.S. just for work?"
"Yes. A romantic comedy. A French–American co-production. It premieres here this week."
"That explains it," Aaron thought. Hollywood wouldn't chase Sophie Marceau yet—not with her current clout. Actresses like Isabelle Adjani or Isabelle Huppert had far more weight internationally.
He offered his hand with a gentleman's smile. "Then, Sophie, may I have this dance?"
"Of course," she said warmly. In America, she had few friends, and she'd be back in France once the press tour ended. A dance couldn't hurt.
On the dance floor, Aaron held her lightly as the music washed over them. "So—what's it like, shooting in America?"
She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Not so different from France. But here, it is more… commercial. The focus is always on the audience, not the film itself."
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Strange thing to say. The Palme d'Or last year and this year both went to American independents. Sex, Lies, and Videotape. Wild at Heart. Not exactly blockbusters."
Sophie laughed softly. "But Hollywood's heart is still business. Here, commerce always wins."
Aaron countered, "Plenty of independent voices here too. But commercial films pay the bills. Investors don't bankroll movies for charity."
He didn't buy into the romantic notion of "pure art." In the end, the industry ran on names and profits. Sure, chasing both fame and fortune was hard—but chasing one or the other was realistic.
"Yes," Sophie admitted. "Still… Hollywood is the center of the world's cinema. For many, it is the ultimate dream."
Aaron nodded. She was right. And for actresses from non-English countries, breaking in was nearly impossible. Hollywood was never short on beauty.