"Mike, of course we'd like to work with Barry, but his new script just doesn't have any real selling points. And there's no way we can accept a twenty-five million dollar budget."
"I understand what you're trying to do, Sid. Paramount is definitely hoping to get one or two projects out of those ten films Daenerys Entertainment is partnering on. But you used some pretty unsavory methods to snatch The Rocketeer and Fire Birds from Simon Westeros. Do you really think there's still any chance he'll cooperate with you?"
"Mike, it's precisely because we know the situation we're in that you and I are meeting today. I'm guessing the other studios probably aren't willing to talk to you about this project anymore, are they?"
"..."
Paramount Studios, Hollywood.
Paramount Pictures president Sidney Ganis and Michael Ovitz were discussing Barry Levinson's new script, Avalon. Avalon was the "blessed land" of European myth, and the story followed the struggles of the Krichinsky family, Eastern European immigrants who came to America at the beginning of the century, and the generations who fought to make a life thereafter.
As for Rain Man, although Dustin Hoffman still managed to take home his second Oscar statuette, salvaging a bit of face, the truth was that Barry Levinson and the rest of the key creatives had come out of it looking fairly battered.
Levinson had spent the first half of the year focused on writing his new script, Avalon, hoping to wash away the humiliation with this project. In early July, he finally finished the screenplay. Several major Hollywood studios expressed interest, and talks began on all sides.
But then Daenerys Entertainment suddenly announced its plan for ten external co-production films, and everything took a sharp turn for the worse.
Disney, Columbia, and Warner Bros., who had previously shown interest in Avalon, all refused with firm, unambiguous noes. Only Paramount still hadn't slammed the door completely shut.
These days, Michael Ovitz had regretted more than once, in the privacy of his own mind, that he hadn't stopped Barry Levinson and the others from trying to shift blame back then. Now the entire CAA had landed on Daenerys Entertainment's blacklist.
After a brief silence, Ovitz said, "Sid, let's be honest. What are Paramount's terms?"
"This new script of Barry's is clearly aimed at the Oscars. It doesn't have much box office potential. So Paramount can offer, at most, a twelve million dollar budget. Two million of that is Barry's fee. Of course, we can also add a clause for ten percent of net profits."
Ovitz's temper flared. "Sid, two million? Do you honestly think that's possible?"
Barry Levinson had broken in during the seventies and quickly rose to the top tier of screenwriters before switching to directing. Even without counting Rain Man, hits like Good Morning, Vietnam alone were enough to put him in the first-rank bracket where directors started at five million per picture.
And besides, no one could completely deny Levinson's contribution to Rain Man.
Now, after back-to-back films like Good Morning, Vietnam and Rain Man, Paramount was only willing to offer two million for a movie he would write and direct himself. It was nothing short of an insult.
Sidney Ganis ignored Ovitz's mocking challenge. He lifted his wrist to check his watch and said, "I've got another meeting in a minute. Mike, go back and think it over first. Once you've decided, call me."
Leaving Paramount Studios with a heavy mood, Michael Ovitz spent the entire drive thinking about how he was supposed to bring this up with his client.
Paramount was clearly taking advantage of the fire while the house was burning, but Barry Levinson didn't have many options.
Or.
Have Barry set this project aside for now and shoot a more marketable commercial film.
The thought was dismissed almost as soon as it appeared.
Matthew Broderick, who had once had a run-in with Simon Westeros, was completely finished now. And while Daenerys Entertainment hadn't publicly said anything, there simply weren't many Hollywood companies willing to risk continuing to work with Barry Levinson.
Even inside CAA, plenty of stars were deliberately avoiding Levinson and the others.
Back at CAA headquarters in Century City, Ovitz had barely sat down behind his desk when one of the agents, Richard Lovett, came in with a report: Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn were planning to leave CAA.
Ovitz couldn't help frowning.
This was another, even more serious problem facing CAA.
Since Jonathan Friedman became WMA's president, he'd been aggressively trying to claw back the clients WMA had lost. Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn were both A-list stars CAA had poached three years ago, when WMA's previous president, Stan Kamen, died and CAA seized the opportunity. This was clearly WMA striking back.
Ovitz picked up the phone and made several calls, quickly getting through to Kurt Russell. But when he tried to invite him to dinner, the invitation was refused outright. Russell stayed very polite, but made it clear that from here on out, everything would be handled by the couple's lawyer.
There was obviously no room left to maneuver.
And the Russells weren't the first stars to walk out recently. Ovitz knew perfectly well that it wasn't only WMA. Other Hollywood talent agencies had also started swinging their pickaxes at CAA.
Once, Ovitz had harbored the grand ambition of hollowing out every other agency in Hollywood and taking their "best of the best." With CAA's unique packaging model, he'd been able to fight for ever more extravagant pay for his stars, and for a long time it had been going extremely smoothly. But after Simon Westeros appeared, the past two years had been a string of frustrations. Many clients he'd wanted under the CAA banner, Robert De Niro, Kevin Costner, Brian De Palma, and others, all slipped through his fingers.
Now, with Daenerys Entertainment's momentum growing louder by the day, CAA was even starting to be poached in return.
CAA's packaging strategy hadn't become obsolete. If anything, it was more popular than ever. But Ovitz also understood why this was happening.
In the end, it came down to competition for resources in Hollywood.
In the past few years, because CAA had successfully launched a large batch of highly profitable packaged projects like Tootsie and Out of Africa, the agency had been unstoppable. Not only had it successfully recruited a wave of A-list stars, but any project tied to CAA could also secure preferential treatment from studios, release dates, screens, and every other resource that mattered.
But the rise of Daenerys Entertainment quickly stripped CAA of those advantages.
Many non-CAA clients, whose status had soared on the back of Daenerys Entertainment's string of box office hits, drew more and more attention from the studios. With proven commercial popularity behind them, stars like Robert De Niro, Kevin Costner, and Sandra Bullock could demand better resources from the studios just as well.
By comparison, with its roster's commercial performance visibly lagging behind Daenerys Entertainment's films, CAA gradually fell into a weaker and weaker position.
Now, if Daenerys Entertainment's ten-film plan excluded CAA stars entirely, the gap would only widen. After all, those ten films would inevitably take up the best release windows over the next two years, enjoy the most generous marketing campaigns, and claim the largest number of screens.
At the same time, no one doubted that yet another batch of stars would see their status soar.
As one side rose, the other fell. Some of CAA's A-list stars could easily be squeezed into the second tier within a year or two.
Ovitz couldn't help thinking again of Sony's recent acquisition of Columbia. As the deal's matchmaker, Sony had previously hinted that it wanted him to run Sony's film and entertainment operations. Now the acquisition was essentially settled, and Sony no longer mentioned it.
A talent agency had no fixed assets. It was destined to be hard to scale into something truly big.
Watching Simon Westeros, Michael Eisner, Barry Diller, and the rest thrive in the production world, making both money and headlines, Ovitz naturally had thoughts of his own.
And in the end, it was still because of Simon Westeros.
After weighing and re-weighing the matter for a long time, Michael Ovitz picked up the phone again and dialed a familiar number from memory, without checking any directory.
The call connected, but Westeros wasn't in the office.
Ovitz exchanged a few words with the person on the other end. They only said they would pass the message along, showing no intention of transferring him.
He set the receiver down. Just as he was considering what to do next, the fax machine in his office started to ring.
He pulled out a single sheet of paper. There were only four names on it: Barry Levinson, Dustin Hoffman, Tom Cruise, Meg Ryan.
In the bottom right corner was a handwritten "W." [TL/N: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA]
W for Westeros.
Ovitz froze for a moment, then immediately understood what Simon Westeros meant: CAA had to draw a clean line between itself and those four people before the feud could be resolved.
Simon Westeros had clearly completely ignored Matthew Broderick, who had moved under CAA's banner earlier and was now utterly ruined.
Drawing a clean line meant only one thing: terminating contracts with the four of them.
But.
Could CAA really do that?
Not to mention that all four were top-tier, first-rank powerhouses. If CAA broke with them just to save itself, what would the rest of CAA's clients think?
And yet, after a flash of anger, Ovitz suddenly realized that perhaps the rest of the agency's clients wouldn't mind at all. They might even be hoping he would do it.
After all, if Levinson and the other three left CAA, the other major agencies wouldn't easily take them in, and smaller agencies would be even less willing to provoke Daenerys Entertainment. The only path left would be to go independent.
It wasn't unheard of in Hollywood.
Jack Nicholson had stayed outside the major agencies for years and still thrived. And before joining WMA back then, Robert De Niro had also operated independently.
But if these four, already suppressed by Daenerys Entertainment, went independent, losing the resources and connections of a major agency like CAA, while the studios didn't dare work with them freely... then their future could only be described as uncertain.
People were selfish.
These four A-listers losing their status, in practical terms, meant opportunities for everyone else.
And.
Ovitz had to admit it: this was undoubtedly the most advantageous solution for CAA.
Still, he found it difficult to persuade himself to bow his head to Simon Westeros.
While he was still in a foul mood, his assistant knocked at the door. Ovitz looked up to see one of CAA's screenwriter clients standing in the doorway.
It was Joe Eszterhas. Thanks to the success of films like Flashdance and Jagged Edge, Eszterhas was currently one of CAA's highest-paid writers, and the top sale price for his recent scripts had reached as high as $1.25 million.
Remembering that this was a meeting scheduled for the afternoon, Ovitz forced down his simmering anger for the moment, stood with a smile, walked over, and shook Eszterhas's hand. "Joe. Come in, have a seat."
Eszterhas looked somewhat uncomfortable as he sat with Ovitz in the reception area. After a few lines of small talk, he took a sip of the coffee the secretary had just brought in and said, "Mike, it's like this. My original agent, Guy McElwaine, do you remember him?"
Ovitz nodded. "Didn't he go to Columbia as a producer? I haven't seen him in ages."
"You know," Eszterhas continued, "Sony is about to acquire Columbia. Guy realized he's not really suited to being a producer. He wants to come back to the agency business."
Ovitz thought for a moment about McElwaine's file, then nodded briskly. "Guy is very capable in that area. If that's the case, have him come straight back. We'll find time to sit down and talk."
"No, no, it's not like that," Eszterhas shook his head, looking even more awkward. "Guy has already decided he's going to ICM. This time... well, you know. Guy and I are very close. I want him to keep being my agent."
Ovitz's expression tightened. "Joe. You want to leave CAA?"
Eszterhas nodded. "Yes, Mike. I hope you can understand."
The day's string of blows had already driven Ovitz to the edge. Hearing that a client CAA had supported relentlessly for years wanted to leave, something in him snapped past a breaking point. He shook his head without hesitation, voice turning cold. "Joe, I'm not letting you go."
Eszterhas hadn't expected Ovitz to be so hard and blunt. He stared for a beat, then said, "Mike, I can pay the penalty."
"No." Ovitz shook his head again. "Joe, you're one of CAA's most valuable assets. I won't agree to you leaving."
Eszterhas bristled. "I'm not CAA's asset. I'm a person."
"Fine. You're a person. Regardless, you're not leaving. At least not until your contract ends. Until then, don't even think about taking one step out of CAA."
"Mike, I just heard that Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn have already left. Why are you making things difficult for me?"
"Why? Joe, do you have any idea how many resources CAA has poured into you over the years? Do you know how much effort I've spent on you? In any case, you want to terminate early. That's not happening."
Feeling Ovitz's unreasonable, ironclad tone, Eszterhas grew angry as well.
Their voices rose higher and higher, quickly turning into a full-blown argument, Ovitz's roaring even carrying out into the hallway.
"...Don't you forget, it was CAA that made you worth $1.25 million... without CAA, you're nothing... don't even dream about it, I'll bury you in lawsuits and tie you up until you can't get within a mile of a typewriter, I'll ruin you for good... if I tell you to eat shit, you eat shit... see those people outside? If you try to run, CAA's infantry will find you anywhere and smash your skull in... I don't give a damn what people think out there, those idiots just want a scriptwriting job for Robert Redford..."
The argument became more and more violent, until several of Ovitz's assistants sensed something was seriously wrong and rushed into the office, stopping a physical fight in time.
But it didn't end there.
The next day, Joe Eszterhas published the details of the meeting in an open letter in The Hollywood Reporter, accusing Ovitz of abusive behavior and personal threats.
Ovitz's image in Hollywood had always been that of a low-profile, mysterious man who could do anything. In recent years, whether studio executives or A-list stars, people had held him in genuine awe. The moment Eszterhas's open letter came out, both Hollywood insiders and the outside media erupted in shock.
The carefully cultivated personal mystique Michael Ovitz had built over many years began to collapse overnight. Under Danerys Entertainment's subtle and not-so-subtle pressure, CAA's situation worsened even further as a result.