Chapter 109: The King of B-Movies
By the end of May, Steve Jobs finally gave in.
He signed the agreement to sell Pixar for $28 million.
Under the deal, Ed Catmull would remain as president, and John Lasseter would continue as Chief Creative Officer.
With that, Dawnlight Films officially took control—acquiring not only Jobs' 70% stake but also the remaining 5% scattered among other shareholders.
Jobs could now fully focus on his NeXT Computer venture, free of the financial burden.
Aaron Anderson, ever the pragmatist, couldn't resist a grin.
"See? I'm practically doing the man a favor."
---
In the bright conference room of Dawnlight, Aaron leaned forward, his gaze steady on Catmull and Lasseter.
"Gentlemen," he began, voice smooth yet commanding,
"Disney's been sitting on top of the mountain for far too long. Their problem? They've stopped looking up. They can't even see the next revolution coming—computer animation."
He gestured around casually.
"Logos, commercials, little ad spots—those aren't Pixar's future.
Your future is 3D feature animation—your own stories, your own worlds. Develop them, animate them, and we'll distribute them ourselves."
He smiled. "Pixar isn't just going to be another studio—it's going to surpass Disney."
John Lasseter's eyes lit up. "You mean the parent company will actually support us in creating a full-length animated film?"
Aaron chuckled. "That's exactly why I bought you."
He leaned back, his tone confident but warm.
"Push your tech forward. Focus on storytelling. I'll assign some of our screenwriters from the live-action division to help you with narrative development.
And as for special effects—Dawnlight's entire VFX division is yours to integrate. I want Pixar to grow bigger, faster, and bolder than ever before."
Catmull and Lasseter exchanged a look, a spark of renewed hope between them. For the first time, someone wasn't just talking about Pixar's technology—someone actually believed in their stories.
---
That evening — The Marquis Hotel, Sunset Boulevard, West Hollywood.
Aaron hosted a lavish celebration to mark Dawnlight's acquisition of Pixar and Legacy Entertainment.
Champagne flowed. Cameras flashed. The Hollywood elite circled like moths around a rising sun.
Jack Wells, looking slightly overwhelmed, turned to Aaron.
"Eighty million dollars—gone in the blink of an eye?"
Aaron laughed, swirling his glass.
"Money's meant to be spent, Jack. Otherwise, the government takes it from you anyway."
He clapped Jack on the shoulder.
"The Landmark chain's got around fifty theaters. That's a solid start.
You'll help Guy Martin manage it. And I'm planning to build a flagship theater in Los Angeles—something grand, something iconic. We'll host premieres, galas, award shows—the works."
He paused, smiling as if picturing it already.
"I've even got the name: The Dawnlight Theatre."
Jack nodded, though still half in disbelief.
"I thought I was supposed to be setting up the security company?"
Aaron smirked. "You are. But hey—these theaters will need security too. Consider it a training exercise."
"Don't worry," he added, "you won't be managing it all yourself. Focus on building that security firm. Bring in a few partners—people with experience. Running protection detail in this town isn't child's play."
Jack nodded again, determination returning to his face.
---
Later that night, Aaron crossed paths with Michael Kuhn from PolyGram Entertainment. After a few pleasantries, their conversation drifted to the recently concluded Cannes Film Festival.
Kuhn raised his glass. "Quite the year, huh? I heard many indie films made waves."
Aaron smiled faintly.
At the recently concluded Cannes Film Festival, PolyGram Entertainment's latest investment — the Coen Brothers' Barton Fink — took home the Palme d'Or.
"Three years in a row now," said Michael Kuhn, smiling with quiet satisfaction. "Looks like Hollywood's independent cinema is finally having its moment."
He wasn't wrong. From Sex, Lies, and Videotape, to Wild at Heart, and now Barton Fink — three consecutive years of American indie films conquering Cannes.
Aaron raised his glass, his tone thoughtful.
"It's all part of the shift. The big studios still don't take the independent sector seriously. That's our window of opportunity."
Now that Dawnlight Films had fully acquired Legacy Entertainment, it finally had something the other independents lacked — its own distribution pipeline.
Michael Kuhn glanced at Aaron with a mix of admiration and unease. He could sense it — Dawnlight wasn't just growing; it was consolidating, weaving together the pieces of a new Hollywood machine.
---
The Marquis Hotel's grand ballroom was packed that night — a glittering mix of producers, distributors, and deal-makers.
Executives from Samuel Goldwyn Films, New Line Cinema, Miramax, Trimark Pictures, and half a dozen other independent distributors were all in attendance.
Why? Simple.
Aaron Anderson's track record was too sharp — and his ambition far too big — to ignore.
Across the room, Michael Lynne, president of New Line, was chatting with Tom Rothman, the head of Samuel Goldwyn Films.
"So Goldwyn's just… walking away from the Legacy deal?" Michael asked with a teasing grin.
Tom shrugged. "Aaron Anderson's projects are pure gold, and everyone knows it. When he shows up waving real cash around, what chance do we have?"
Michael sighed. "That guy's dangerous. We all started small — foreign art films, cheap horror flicks, whatever we could scrape together.
But him? He plays the game like a madman."
Tom gave a low chuckle. "Madman's about right."
He swirled the wine in his glass before continuing.
"Most of us indies stick to what we can afford — low-budget B-movies, modest financing, the occasional imported drama.
But Aaron… who the hell spends fifteen million on The Silence of the Lambs when they don't even have a distribution arm yet?"
Michael Lynne nodded, half-amused, half-awed.
"Two years ago, Miramax dropped a little over a million on Sex, Lies, and Videotape, and we thought they were insane.
Now look at him. Aaron makes Miramax look like an art-school startup."
Tom frowned. "Sure — high risk, high reward. But that kind of spending would bankrupt most independents if even one film flopped."
Michael smirked. "If he keeps hitting like this, it won't be our problem anymore."
Tom raised his glass, clinking it lightly against Michael's.
"True. Because if Aaron keeps winning, Dawnlight won't be an indie studio for long.
It'll be standing toe-to-toe with the Big Six. And when that happens—"
Michael finished the thought for him. "He'll either become one of them… or be swallowed whole by them."
---
Across the ballroom, Aaron was in deep conversation with the legendary Roger Corman, Hollywood's undisputed King of B-Movies.
Despite his reputation for pulp and grindhouse excess, Corman's influence was immense — he'd mentored greats like Francis Ford Coppola and Martin Scorsese.
He was, in many ways, the architect of the low-budget commercial era:
cheap gore, fast cars, flashing lights, leather jackets, and voluptuous women — the holy trinity of B-cinema.
Aaron listened with polite interest as Corman reminisced about his heyday — the drive-ins, the papier-mâché monsters, the cult following.
Those films had made money, sure. But they were a relic of another time.
Corman's formula might have guaranteed profit, but for Aaron, profit wasn't the point anymore.
Power was.
Still, Aaron respected him deeply.
After all, without Roger Corman, there would be no blueprint for modern low-budget filmmaking. Every horror franchise and grindhouse revival bore traces of his DNA.
And truth be told, the low-budget horror market was still massive. Aaron had no plans to abandon it — he just didn't intend to make it Dawnlight's main focus.
But now that Dawnlight had distribution and theaters of its own, it needed content — fast, cheap, and constant.
The solution was obvious.
It was time for Dawnlight Films to launch its own line of B-movies.
Not for prestige.
Not for awards.
But because every theater needed something new on the screen.
And Aaron Anderson was about to give them exactly that.