The box office for Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Next Generation is like it's strapped to a rocket. After blowing past expectations in its opening weekend, the second week was even stronger, dominating the North American charts and tripling the streaming numbers for Midnight Scream. Hollywood media swarmed like sharks smelling blood. Variety's front-page headline crowned him the "savior of the horror genre," while The Hollywood Reporter went further, putting his name alongside Wes Craven and John Carpenter, claiming he "rewrote the commercial rules of horror with two low-budget films."
Leon sat on the couch in Alan's office, clutching the latest box office report, the numbers practically glowing red. Alan, grinning so wide his eyes nearly disappeared, handed him a gold-rimmed cigar. "Donaldson, you're Fox's golden boy now! The board's saying whatever you want for your next project—budget, theme, you name it!"
Leon didn't take the cigar. He just tossed the report onto the coffee table, his voice flat. "Golden boy? You guys seem to forget Midnight Scream was directed by Larry Stern, and Chainsaw was Eli Roth's gig. I'm just a writer—co-writer, at that. At best, I'm the guy cheering from the sidelines, not the one carrying the 'golden boy' title."
Alan blinked, then burst out laughing. "Well, damn, you're keeping a clear head about this."
Laura Thompson, sitting nearby, chimed in. "Leon, we all know the ideas for both scripts came from you. The 'fridge head' in Midnight Scream and the 'victim strikes back' twist in Chainsaw—those were fresh, never-before-seen moves. That's why they're box office gold."
"Ideas are valuable, sure, but they dry up eventually," Leon said, leaning back on the couch, fingers tapping his knee. "Midnight Scream worked because Larry made the camera sing, building suspense that cut to the bone. Chainsaw hit because Eli nailed the gore and pacing—gritty but not overdone. Without those directors trusting me and giving me room to adapt, I wouldn't have had a shot."
Laura raised an eyebrow. She'd worked with Leon long enough to know he wasn't playing humble. From Midnight Scream's release to Chainsaw's explosion, he stayed behind the scenes, dodging 90% of interviews and skipping premieres. The media could barely get a photo of him with the cast.
"You're keeping it real," Alan said, puffing his cigar, a hint of admiration in his tone. "Most folks in Hollywood would be floating on cloud nine with half your success, but you're divvying up the credit like a saint."
"Gotta stay grounded," Leon said with a chuckle. "If I bought into the media's 'savior' hype, I'd write a dud next time, and you'd all nail me to the wall. Hollywood's quick to hype you up one day and bury you the next. I know how this game works."
Just then, Leon's phone buzzed—his agent. He picked up, frowning after a moment. "CAA's offering me a deal again? Tell them my contract's not up yet. We'll talk when it is. And The New York Times interview? Pass it to Larry or Eli. I've told them a hundred times I'm not the director. I don't have that much to say." He hung up, rubbing his temples. Lately, the headaches outnumbered the kills in his scripts.
Between the two films, he wasn't the big name, but his killer ideas and the media's hype had puffed him up bigger than the directors. He knew it was all smoke and mirrors. Top agencies were clamoring to sign him, and execs from the Big Six studios were emailing dinner invites daily.
"You're hiding out like a pro," Laura said, handing him a glass of whiskey. "The media's starting to think you're playing the 'mysterious genius' card on purpose."
"Mysterious? Nah, I'm just trying not to get hyped up so high I crash and burn," Leon said, taking a sip. "Midnight Scream and Chainsaw hit big, and I got lucky. Harvey even tossed in a bonus, the stingy bastard. But I know why they worked—the horror market's been stale for ages, and audiences were starving for something new. If I start thinking it's all my genius, I'm setting myself up to flop next time."
Laura nodded. She admired that about Leon. In a town where egos ballooned fast, he stayed brutally clear-headed.
"By the way, how's Final Destination coming along?" Alan asked, his eyes lighting up.
Leon's demeanor shifted. His fingers stopped tapping, and he sat up straighter. "The script's locked in, and we've shot some of the easier scenes smoothly. But the Flight 180 explosion sequence is a beast. James is stressing over it, and the cast and crew are still finding their rhythm. Alan, I've been in on this one from the jump, and it's Fox's baby too. I'm hoping you'll back us all the way."
"I'm half the reason this project exists," he continued. "Unlike Midnight Scream and Chainsaw, where I was just along for the ride, this time I'm driving. From the idea to execution, I'm watching every step."
"Driving, huh?" Alan laughed, pointing at him. "Well, drive carefully. Fox is betting big on this one. If you pull it off, you're in Hollywood's top tier—actor, writer, director, producer, whatever you want, no one's stopping you."
"I know exactly what's at stake," Leon said, his voice heavier. "If Midnight Scream or Chainsaw tanked, I'd just take the hit for a weak script, go back to playing extras, or write small-budget stuff. But Final Destination? If this flops, I'm labeled a failure. Fox, Hollywood—they'll freeze me out. No one will trust me with a project or a budget again."
The room got quiet. Laura knew he wasn't exaggerating. Hollywood was a results-driven machine—win big, you're king; lose, you're nothing.
"Don't worry, Fox has your back," Alan said, his tone serious now. "Casting, effects, marketing—name it, we'll make it happen. I've already talked to James. You two are a team."
"James is a solid director," Leon said, shaking his head. "I'm starring in this to nail the lead's emotions—I wrote the script, so I know what's in his head better than anyone. For the project, I'll keep an eye on the big stuff, but I'm leaving the lens work to James. He's better at that than me."
Right then, James called. "Leon! Vacation's over. Get back here and shoot!"
Leon stood, grabbing his jacket from the couch. "Alright, you guys handle the box office stuff. James is calling—that's my real job right now. Can't screw it up."
Alan stood too, clapping his shoulder. "Anything you need, you call me first."
"Will do," Leon said, nodding, and strode out of the office.
Back on set, James was glued to the monitor, brows furrowed, not even noticing Leon's return. Leon didn't interrupt. He headed to the rest area, picking up the dog-eared final script for Final Destination, covered in handwritten notes.
"Mr. James finally decided to show up?" a playful female voice said nearby.
Leon looked up to see Anne Hathaway holding a coffee, a teasing smile on her face. She'd clearly heard about the box office buzz, but her eyes held none of the awe or flattery he got from others—just friendly ribbing.
"If I didn't show, James would come after me with a chainsaw," Leon said, closing the script and taking the second coffee she offered. "Thanks."
"It's crazy out there, huh?" Anne said, sitting on a folding chair next to him, kicking her legs. "Heard Variety's practically worshipping you."
"They're hyping me up so much I barely recognize myself," Leon said with a smirk, sipping his coffee. "What about you? Got your lines down? Claire's crying scene is no joke—looking pretty won't cut it."
"Underestimating me?" Anne said, raising an eyebrow, her blue eyes flashing with defiance. "Watch me nail it in one take."
That's more like it, Leon thought.
From across the set, James finally looked up from the monitor and bellowed, "Everyone, places! Scene 57, let's go! Leon, Anne, quit chatting and get over here!"
Leon downed the rest of his coffee, crushed the cup, and tossed it in the trash, heading to the shooting area. Anne followed, her playful expression gone.
The lights flared, and the camera's red light blinked. Under the green screen, the outside noise faded—no box office miracles, no media darlings, just the scripted death traps and characters fighting to survive.
"Action!"
Leon snapped into Alex Browning's headspace, every distraction gone. The scene wrapped, and James, for once, called "Cut!" without asking for a safety take.
Leon unclenched his fists, slightly sweaty, and joined James at the monitor to review the playback.
"Here," Leon said, pointing at the screen. "I think we can stretch the fear a bit longer, give the audience more time to feel it."
James rubbed his chin, watching the clip, then nodded. "Good call. Damn, you've got a sharp eye."
Leon just smiled, saying nothing.
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