Chapter 118: Messier Than Hollywood
The Venice Film Festival had ended in triumph, but Aaron Anderson left before the closing night.
He and Sophie Marceau flew back together to Paris, escaping the noise of the Lido for something more intimate.
Buying the North American rights to a Chinese art film was hardly something Aaron needed to oversee personally.
And as for My Own Private Idaho, its distribution was already in motion — nothing that required his direct attention.
---
Paris, Hôtel Ritz – Suite 604
Aaron had just hung up the phone with Brad Grey.
Both My Own Private Idaho and Raise the Red Lantern were now officially slated for U.S. releases — one in November, the other in December.
Sophie emerged from the bedroom, her hair slightly tousled, wearing one of Aaron's shirts.
"You look deep in thought," she teased. "Did you close the deal for The Lovers on the Bridge?"
Aaron smiled faintly. "The Lovers on the Bridge… directed by Leos Carax, right? With Juliette Binoche and Denis Lavant?"
Sophie nodded.
"That one's been through hell," Aaron continued. "Delays, shutdowns, endless financing rounds. It cost what — over 130 million francs?"
She laughed softly. "You even know the numbers."
"I always do," he said. "It's pure French art-house — visually brilliant, emotionally fractured. But in America?"
He shrugged. "It'll play well at a few festivals, maybe New York, maybe Toronto. Beyond that — not much."
Sophie raised an eyebrow. "So you're not serious about acquiring it?"
"Not really," Aaron admitted. "We'll stop by Gaumont later and talk, but mostly…"
He leaned closer, brushing her chin with his thumb.
"I came to Paris for you."
Sophie exhaled slowly, sensing the weight in his tone.
"So, you really want me to move to Hollywood?"
Aaron pulled her into his arms. "Of course I do. You're beautiful, talented, and fearless — but Europe won't give you what you deserve. Hollywood will."
He looked at her, half-joking, half-serious.
"And besides, with me there, no one will dare bother you again."
"You mean like those old men who used to make me uncomfortable on set?" she said quietly. "Like Gérard Depardieu?"
Aaron's eyes darkened slightly.
He'd heard the stories — the unwanted advances, the "accidental" touches, the lecherous jokes brushed off as artistic temperament.
Europe's art world, for all its sophistication, was often messier than Hollywood — more indulgent, less restrained, and almost devoid of consequence.
"Exactly," he said. "Hollywood might be ruthless, but at least there are rules — or people like me to enforce them."
Sophie smiled faintly and kissed his cheek. "But I don't have any Hollywood scripts waiting for me."
Aaron laughed. "That's the easy part. Move there first — learn the rhythm, sharpen your English, and wait for the right project. I'll handle the introductions."
He wasn't exaggerating. With his network — studio executives, producers, agents — getting Sophie representation and a breakout role was just logistics.
"By the way," Aaron asked suddenly, "you know Luc Besson, don't you?"
Aaron pulled Sophie Marceau gently down onto the sofa beside him.
When it came to French directors, one name stood out vividly in his memory — Luc Besson.
He had missed the man at Venice; Besson's documentary Atlantis had opened the festival, but by the time Aaron arrived, the director had already returned to France.
Over the past few years, Besson had carved out his own throne in French cinema.
After Subway and The Big Blue, his La Femme Nikita had become an international sensation — a sharp, stylish fusion of French cool and Hollywood pace.
In a country still obsessed with poetic realism and art-house melancholy, Luc Besson was a commercial rebel.
"I know of him," Sophie said, curling a strand of hair around her finger. "But I've never worked with him. His films are… different. More commercial than what the French critics like."
Aaron smiled wryly. "Of course they say that. The French 'elite' look down on anything that actually sells tickets. They'd rather starve in the name of art."
He leaned forward. "Set up a meeting. I want to invite Luc Besson to dinner. Just a conversation — see if he's interested in something bigger."
Sophie tilted her head. "You're planning something?"
"France is still the cultural heart of European cinema," Aaron replied. "If Dawnlight wants to go global, we can't ignore Paris."
She nodded, already reaching for the phone. "Consider it done."
---
That afternoon, Aaron visited Gaumont Films, hoping to acquire the North American rights to The Lovers on the Bridge, starring Juliette Binoche and Denis Lavant.
Binoche was an actress Aaron admired — sharp, luminous, the kind of performer who could transcend languages.
But when he brought up the title, the executive at Gaumont simply smiled.
"Ah, you're too late. The rights have already been sold."
Aaron's eyes narrowed slightly. "Let me guess — Harvey Weinstein?"
The man chuckled. "Of course."
Aaron wasn't surprised.
Miramax had spent the past two years snapping up every European art film it could find, throwing them into the American festival circuit.
Harvey called it visionary distribution.
Aaron called it hoarding prestige to hide mediocrity.
---
While at Gaumont's studio lot, Aaron unexpectedly ran into Ridley Scott, who was in France directing his new historical epic 1492: Conquest of Paradise — a Franco-American-Spanish co-production celebrating the 500th anniversary of Columbus's voyage.
They greeted each other warmly, clinking glasses of red wine between takes.
"I heard Warner Bros. is making their own Columbus film too," Aaron said with a grin. "Christopher Columbus: The Discovery, right?"
Ridley chuckled. "Yes, I've heard. That one's British-American, with Marlon Brando playing Queen Isabella's advisor."
"Brando?" Aaron raised an eyebrow. "That'll sell tickets at least."
"Maybe," Ridley said. "But ours has Depardieu as Columbus — and Sigourney Weaver as the Queen. A more grounded take."
Aaron nodded politely, though he wasn't convinced.
He knew both films were riding the same anniversary wave — 1492 to 1992, a half-millennium celebration dressed in cinematic grandeur.
But grand budgets rarely guaranteed success.
Both films had enormous production costs:
Ridley's 1492: Conquest of Paradise at $47 million, Warner's The Discovery at $40 million.
And yet, Aaron could already see which one would stumble.
Depardieu, for all his fame in France, had little pull in America.
He was known for charm and comedy — not historical gravitas.
Even his recent romantic drama Green Card had fizzled quietly at the U.S. box office.
---
When they left Gaumont later that afternoon, Sophie glanced at him.
"You really don't think 1492 will work?"
"Not a chance," Aaron said, shaking his head. "I love Ridley's direction, but casting Depardieu as Columbus? He's a French icon trying to play an Italian explorer for a Spanish crown — it's absurd. No American audience will buy it."
Sophie laughed softly. "You sound like you've already written its obituary."
"Maybe I have," he said. "It's a beautiful film that'll die at the box office. Europe's good at those."
Just as they reached the car, a familiar voice called out.
"Sophie!"
She froze.
Turning, she saw Andrzej Żuławski, her longtime partner — older, intense, his expression unreadable.
"Ah," Aaron murmured, recognizing him instantly. "The old man."
He turned to Sophie, voice calm but detached. "I'll head back to the hotel."
He gave her a faint smile before walking away, hands in his pockets.
If she still wasn't ready to let go of her past, he wasn't going to wait around.
After all, in Aaron Anderson's world — hesitation was the same as a no.
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