Inside the Shrine Civic Auditorium, as the audience gasped and marveled at the shot of Catwoman shattering Batman's car window with a single kick, Sherry Lansing, who had come tonight specifically to show support, reflexively glanced at her watch.
7:16 p.m.
The film had started at seven. A five-minute, dazzling prologue had yanked everyone into the story in an instant.
Now, fifteen minutes in, just as the audience had finally loosened up a little during the calmer dialogue scenes, Catwoman's brutal, power-loaded strike snapped every wandering bit of attention back into a tight fist.
Studio heads always hammer on the need to control pacing during a project's development. But knowing is easy and doing is hard. No matter how carefully a film is planned, very few creative teams can execute that control perfectly. At this moment, Sherry Lansing was almost certain that Simon's Batman had pacing sharp enough to qualify as a textbook example of commercial filmmaking.
While she was thinking, the story on screen had already cut back to Roman Sionis's mansion.
The Angel test report had been stolen from the safe. Shocked and terrified, Roman Sionis flew into a rage and smashed everything in his study, and the party had to end early.
From his very first shot, Willem Dafoe, with his naturally villainous face, perfectly conveyed Roman Sionis's dangerous aura, the sense that he could tip into madness at any second.
The party sequence revealed the safety issue with the Angel face cream, JANUS's operating crisis, and the pressure Roman was under from the board, all of it pushing the villain closer to the edge. Many people in the auditorium couldn't help wondering exactly how Black Mask would finally cross the line.
Outside the Sionis estate, two Gotham Times reporters, John Alport and Vicki Vale, tried to learn what had happened but got nowhere and were chased off by security. They had no choice but to call it a night. As they were about to drive away, Vicki Vale discovered the document Catwoman had planted in her bag.
The scene shifted again.
Wayne Manor. Alfred examined the shattered window of the sports car, then turned and slipped through a hidden door. An elevator carried him down into the Batcave. He looked at Bruce Wayne working at the console and said, "Master Bruce, I'll have someone take the car in for repairs tomorrow."
Bruce finished the last few quick strokes, scanned Selina Kyle's portrait into the computer at the console, and finally spoke to Alfred, who was clearly waiting for an explanation. "This woman."
As the image loaded, multiple monitors filled with streaming data.
A moment later, Selina Kyle's profile popped up.
In later films, this kind of computer matching would become almost overused. Ten or twenty years later, even real life would make similar tech commonplace. But right now, the sheer sense of futuristic slickness made the audience's eyes light up again.
So you could do it like that.
Even in North America, personal computers still weren't widely common in this era. Most ordinary people still felt unfamiliar around PCs. But after the initial amazement, they mentally filled in the logic, and it felt right.
Without a serious information network behind him, Batman could never fight crime alone. And as Gotham's richest man, Bruce Wayne obviously had the money to support that kind of intelligence gathering.
On screen, Alfred studied Selina's photo with visible satisfaction and offered his "earnest advice." "Master Bruce, you really should be gentler with women."
"Alfred, she's a criminal," Bruce said.
He pressed a control on the console. With the sound of machinery shifting, the Batsuit rose slowly from a pool beside them.
"As long as the master of Wayne Manor settles down, who cares," Alfred muttered. Watching Bruce head toward the suit, he tried to stop him. "Master Bruce, are you going out again tonight for another little adventure?"
"Sal Maroni couldn't move his shipment last night. He'll try again. Those weapons are too dangerous. If they hit the streets, a lot of people will die."
The scene changed to morning.
The wrecked dock, now sealed off by police, was still smoking. On a rooftop not far away, a short, thickset middle-aged man with a cigar, surrounded by his men, stared into the distance. Suddenly he hurled the cigar away and roared, face twisted with fury. "I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill him. I'm going to kill that bat."
One of his followers, dressed in a gray suit that clearly marked him as different from the usual goons, waited until the boss's rage dipped, then stepped forward trembling. "Boss, Victor says he doesn't want the shipment anymore. He wants a refund."
The short, thickset man, obviously Sal Maroni, stabbed a finger toward the docks. "The money's all sitting right there. What am I supposed to refund him with?"
The follower didn't dare say another word.
Maroni slowly calmed down. Then, without meaning to, his gaze fell on a massive billboard for Angel face cream by the road below.
Seeing where his boss was looking, the gray-suited man leaned in and whispered, "The two guys Sionis hired to set that fire. I've had people watching them the whole time."
Maroni's eyes shifted. An idea took shape fast. He waved a man closer and gave a few quiet instructions.
The scene cut again.
At the Gotham Times newsroom downtown, the two reporters, now holding the Angel test report, had begun a secret investigation. Their furtive behavior sparked a coworker's curiosity. When he got nothing by asking, he waited until they stepped away for a private meeting with the editor-in-chief, then stole a look at Vicki Vale's notes.
Once he understood what he'd found, he went to a phone booth after work and dialed Roman Sionis.
Back at the Sionis mansion, the study that had been robbed the night before was still a mess.
After promising the Gotham Times leak a handful of benefits, Roman hung up. His face immediately darkened. He lowered his eyes to a stack of blurry photos that clealy looked like security-camera captures. Fixing on the one in the center, a shot of Selina Kyle linking arms with Bruce Wayne, he snarled to himself, "Bruce Wayne. Wayne Enterprises. JANUS is mine. Nobody's taking it. Nobody's taking it!"
In the original Batman comics, Roman Sionis inherited JANUS after killing his parents. Because he was a terrible manager, the company declined until it was eventually taken over by Wayne Enterprises. Roman, corrupted and consumed by it, came to hate Bruce Wayne.
Even if you had never read the comics, the party sequence already hinted at this. The JANUS board member who threatened to push Roman out was, in fact, a representative of a shareholder from Wayne Enterprises. That fact was clearly stated in his conversation with Bruce at the party.
It was also why Bruce Wayne had been invited in the first place.
So when Roman assumed Bruce had sent Selina to steal the report in order to oust him and take control of JANUS, it felt perfectly logical.
Wayne Manor, the Batcave.
Alfred carried a tray in, set a glass of water beside Bruce at the console, then handed him a newspaper with a smile. "The Elliott house was robbed last night too. Master Bruce, it seems you need to catch Miss Kyle as soon as possible. Why not make that your next adventure theme?"
Catching a thief was obviously less dangerous than facing armed gangs every night.
And besides.
Maybe he could even catch the future mistress of Wayne Manor along with her.
Compared to abstract justice, Alfred cared far more about his young master's safety, and about the Wayne family line continuing.
Bruce understood his butler's intentions. He stopped typing and said, "If I get the chance, I'll catch her, Alfred. But Maroni's running out of room. I want to break his gang completely."
JANUS Group headquarters.
Roman Sionis was still dealing with the crisis caused by Angel.
In his office, his secretary was reporting that the Gotham Times editor-in-chief had declined a lunch invitation when the door slammed open.
The gray-suited follower, along with two goons, barged in. Several security guards trailed behind them.
The moment Roman saw the two goons, his face tightened. He waved everyone out.
"Remember me, Mr. Sionis? Derek Besson," the man in the gray suit introduced himself, dropping into the chair across from Roman with brazen ease. He set a box on the desk. "Even if you don't remember me, I'm sure you remember Jack and Ben. Three years ago, someone paid them to set a fire that burned a poor, innocent couple to death."
Roman cut him off before he could continue. "What do you want?"
Derek Besson motioned for the two goons to leave, then said, "I'm here on behalf of Mr. Maroni. Roman, maybe you've heard, we've hit a bit of trouble lately. We need money. Twenty million."
Roman stared at him, eyes hard. "I don't have that kind of money."
"That's not my problem," Derek said, clearly pleased by the sweat beading on Roman's forehead. He smiled. "Oh, right. Since I'm visiting, the boss told me to bring you a little gift. I hear you like masks."
Derek opened the box and pulled out a rough-looking black mask.
Roman glanced at it and shook his head. "I don't need your gift. I don't have money for you either, Mr. Besson. Leave."
Derek ignored him, turning the mask in his hands. "I wanted to bring you a head, but I noticed your father's coffin had a beautiful finish. So I had someone carve a mask out of that wood."
As he spoke, Derek suddenly stood and moved to force the mask onto Roman's face.
The moment Roman heard it was made from his father's coffin, pure terror flooded his expression. He tried to pull back, but he wasn't faster than Derek. The instant the mask touched his skin, Roman's whole body locked up, as if something had frozen him in place. His hand trembled as he lifted it to knock the mask away, but Derek grabbed his arm and pinned it down.
"Mr. Sionis. Three days. I want twenty million. If I don't see it, we'll make your little secret public."
Derek left. Roman remained rigid, one hand pressed to the mask on his face.
In the office, his voice rose again, muttering to itself: "One in a hundred thousand. Twenty million. One in a hundred thousand. Twenty million. One in a hundred thousand. Twenty million..."
Compared to his earlier, snarling hatred of Bruce Wayne in the study, this mechanical chant carried something far worse, the eerie, fractured sound of a mind finally breaking.
In front of the screen, everyone understood it at once.
Black Mask had been born.
The muttering grew quieter and quieter as the scene cut to an abandoned warehouse stacked with junk.
Sal Maroni sat at a long table, his men clustered around him, staring into the darkness at two shadowy figures. "Kill that bat, and I'll pay you a million each."
Before either figure answered, that muttering drifted in again, growing from faint to loud.
"One in a hundred thousand. Twenty million. One in a hundred thousand. Twenty million. One in a hundred thousand. Twenty million..."
The voice drew closer. Everyone in the warehouse turned toward the door. A figure in a crisp suit, wearing that rough black mask, walked in like a lunatic, chanting to himself.
Maroni scowled. "Who are you?"
Before the masked figure could answer, Derek hurried to speak. "Boss, this is Roman Sionis." He shoved Roman forward roughly. "Roman. You bring the money?"
Roman wobbled, so fragile he looked like he might fall, and he grabbed Derek's hand just to steady himself. "Oh, twenty million. Sure. There'll be twenty million. And there'll be one in a hundred thousand too."
Still muttering like a madman, Roman noticed Maroni staring at him. Suddenly he raised one finger to his lips for silence, took a few quick steps closer, and picked up a pencil from the table. "What a coincidence. Let's do a magic trick first. Do you know how to make this pencil disappear?"
Everyone watched as Roman carefully stood the pencil upright in front of Maroni. Even Maroni himself sat up straighter, curiosity pricking through his irritation. What was this lunatic going to do?
On the screen, more than twelve hundred pairs of eyes locked on that pencil as it rose.
In the entire auditorium, only a handful of people who had already seen the completed cut wore expressions of lingering dread, yet not one of them could look away.
Roman set the pencil, then lifted his hand like a magician presenting a prop, drawing out the words. "OK. Count to three. One, two, three..."
The previously drifting camera locked into place.
In the blink of an eye, Roman seized Maroni's head and slammed it down onto the upright pencil.
Thud.
A heavy, dull impact.
Silence, instant and absolute.
On screen, Maroni's fat body sagged over the edge of the table in a twisted posture, motionless, as if he'd become nothing more than dead weight. Everyone in the warehouse stood frozen, as if a spell had locked their joints.
Outside the screen, in the Shrine Civic Auditorium, the entire audience sucked in a sharp breath.
A simple pencil, something you saw every day, had just become the most horrifying weapon imaginable, driven straight into a human skull.
How much would that hurt?