CRASH!
The door to Link's office was kicked open from the outside. Wood chips and dust slowly settled in the air.
Quentin Tarantino stormed in, clutching a thin, crumpled proposal, which he practically roared as he slapped onto the desk.
"Goddamn it! This is, without a doubt, the most sick, brilliant, and inhumane idea I've ever laid eyes on!"
Link leaned back in his chair, holding his coffee. He didn't even lift an eyelid, just gently blew on the hot surface of the cup.
"So, you're in?"
"In?" Quentin flashed a nervous, wired grin, pacing back and forth in the office like a beast that had been caged too long. "Link , this isn't a movie. Do you get it? This isn't filmmaking."
He stopped, bracing his hands on the desk and leaning forward. His eyes were burning with feverish intensity.
"I know you don't just want to tell a horror story... You want to manufacture one."
His voice dropped to a near-whisper, like the Devil cutting a deal.
"The fear you want the audience to see... it's going to be real. The panic, the tears, the complete meltdown of those three actors... it's all going to be genuine. Not acted—it's going to be forced out of them."
Link tapped the side of his mug softly, making a sharp, clear sound. He looked at Quentin, a faint smile playing on his lips.
"I just supply the concept," he said. "The execution? That's the director's job."
"Then we play by my rules." Quentin looked up, his voice hoarse but absolute. "During shooting, no one—including you—interferes. I want total control."
He paused, a dangerous little smile appearing.
"The actors will sign an NDA. They'll know it's an 'immersive experience,' but they won't know the exact moment the fear begins."
Link finally set his coffee down and stood up. They faced each other across the desk.
He held out his hand.
"Deal."
Quentin stared at the hand for three seconds, then burst out laughing—a sound like a match dropped in gasoline. He grabbed Link's hand with a fierce grip.
"Get ready, Link . This time, we're going for authenticity."
Link smiled and picked up the phone.
"Lawrence, get over to my office. Bring the checkbook."
A few minutes later, Binder pushed the door open. Quentin was detailing his plan, his words coming out like a machine gun.
Binder listened for five minutes, his expression cycling from confusion to shock, then settling on pure disbelief.
"Hold up," he cut in. "You're telling me we're spending a hundred thousand dollars! ... To send three unknowns into the woods to 'experience fear' and, oh yeah, shoot some video footage on the side?"
"It's performance art," Quentin corrected.
"Bullsh\t!" Binder slammed the budget sheet on the desk. "A hundred grand! What does that even buy in Hollywood? It's not enough to buy lunch for a B-list star!"
Link stood up, his tone unwavering: "It's enough. We'll cast the actors from our foundation's submission pool—the brokest ones, the ones who are most desperate for a shot."
He looked at Binder. "Three weeks. I want the finished film."
Binder was silent for two seconds, his eye twitching.
"Fine," he bit out. "But don't make me clean up your mess if this blows up."
"It won't blow up." Link smiled. "It's a low-budget project, but it will redefine what a 'horror movie' is."
Quentin licked his lips, grinning like a madman about to set a fire.
"This is going to be the most authentic scream of their lives."
Days later, Miramax Headquarters.
Harvey Weinstein's office was thick with the scent of cigars and foie gras. Harvey sat behind the massive mahogany desk, a silver butter knife twirling between his fingers, its blade slick with paté.
His assistant slid a trade weekly in front of him, pointing to a tiny, inconspicuous news item.
"Sir, Variety mentions on an inside page that Quentin Tarantino turned down a major studio project and is prepping a... secret project for Pangu Pictures."
Harvey squinted at the thumbnail-sized article, his lips pressing into a thin line.
"A secret project?" He let out a short laugh, tapping the paper with the tip of his knife. "In other words, it's a cheap-ass movie."
The assistant added, "I put out some feelers... the industry buzz is that the budget for this thing is extremely... extremely low."
Harvey's motion stopped, and then a low chuckle escaped him—a sound like he was savoring an absurd joke.
"Quentin doing micro-budget? The kid's lost his mind."
He tossed the newspaper into an ashtray, the embers slowly eating away at the text.
"I thought the 'Oriental genius,' after locking up eighty million dollars, would finally make a big splash." Harvey flicked a speck of dust from his cuff, his tone unhurried. "Turns out—he's still playing games with cheap tricks. He thinks a couple of gimmicks can challenge the system?"
He walked to the window, gazing out over the sea of Hollywood lights below.
"Get the word out—the '007' project is officially greenlit. The budget is unlimited."
The assistant was startled. "Sir, right now...?"
"Now," Harvey cut him off, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I want all of Hollywood talking about one thing: Who is the next James Bond?"
He lit his cigar, the smoke clouding his heavy-set face.
"As for Pangu's little indie junk... I don't want to hear about it again." He waved his hand, dismissing it like an insignificant fly. "Let that kid from the East see what real movie industry power looks like. Let him see what it means to play—The Hollywood Game."
read more inpat***
belamy20
please vote..