"Conflict?" Helen Herman didn't quite get what Matthew meant. "What kind of conflict?"
Matthew had no wish to tangle with Stephen Sommers and Universal's monster movie. "Timing, shoot dates, prep—those kinds of conflicts. A production that big will eat up months and energy; I might not be able to juggle both."
Helen Herman nodded. "There is a clash, so lately I've been thinking…"
Matthew started to speak again, but Helen raised a hand to stop him. "My resources are limited. We'll table Stephen Sommers's project for now. It's still early; let's throw everything at pirates of the caribbean—it shoots sooner."
Since she'd put it that way, Matthew dropped the subject. Better to focus on how to squeeze into Jerry Bruckheimer's lineup than to worry prematurely.
"During the black hawk down push I ran into Jerry Bruckheimer a few times," Matthew reflected. "He remembered me and seemed to like what he saw."
Helen propped her elbow on the table. "Right now almost no one knows. Keep your spotlight on the scorpion king campaign. Only if that film hits do we have real leverage."
It was blunt reality: if the scorpion king bombed, neither Disney nor Jerry Bruckheimer would give Matthew a second glance, no matter how much groundwork she'd laid.
Yet the groundwork had to be done; the earlier and fuller the prep, the stronger their hand when casting calls went out.
Helen continued, "Promotion for the scorpion king starts soon. Give the studio everything you've got, Matthew…" She paused. "I'll pull every Disney string I can and find ways to nudge Jerry Bruckheimer."
Matthew simply nodded; he knew Helen wasn't doing him favors—just business.
They wrapped their coffee, Helen heading back to Angel Talent Agency while Matthew drove to a shooting range near Malibu. He had a range date with Nebula and was thinking of applying for a firearms card and picking up a few legal guns for fun.
In the car he rang James McAvoy and Michael Fassbender; both said they'd hit the scorpion king premiere if schedules allowed.
February flew by. As forecasters predicted, once black hawk down crossed eighty million in North America its climb flattened; at the Academy Awards it took home a lone little gold man for Best Editing—scant Oscar bounce.
Ridley Scott missed best director again; the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences seemed allergic to admen-turned-filmmakers.
After the Oscars the North American circuit quieted into its customary lull. Sandwiched between the Oscars and summer, March and April are the traditional dumping ground—no big-budget hopeful opens then.
A week after the ceremony Universal dropped the scorpion king trailer across networks and its official site.
The studio okayed Matthew posting a copy on his personal blog.
Once it was up, an MSN ping arrived from Elena Boyar.
"Just watched the trailer—looks solid. You fight great; didn't know you were that ripped."
After a moment he typed, "What score would you give the trailer—as pure popcorn?"
The spot leaned hard on action, all centered on his lead.
Intercut were Kelly Hu's sultry shots, selling the sizzle.
"Hard to say." Elena was a veteran entertainment reporter. "This genre's not my thing—too brainless."
Matthew had no comeback; she was right—the scorpion king was built for viewers who preferred not to think.
Elena added, "I asked two colleagues who love this stuff; they called the trailer kick-ass and said they'll probably buy tickets."
"Ah… thanks for their support," he typed after a pause.
"But if the movie's weak," she shot back, "they'll roast you first."
They chatted about random topics until Elena went silent; Matthew logged off and browsed movie news.
During this period, the films in theaters were mediocre, yet the lord of the rings: the fellowship of the ring kept gaining momentum. Director Peter Jackson's New Zealand production earned unanimous praise from book fans, moviegoers, and critics alike, breezing past three hundred million dollars at the North American box office—a triumph of both ticket sales and reputation.
The picture also turned a host of actors into bona-fide stars. Orlando Bloom, for instance: Legolas was easily the most popular member of the Fellowship, an absolute heart-throb in the eyes of young men and women.
Matthew ran a casual Google search and was inundated with news about Orlando Bloom. Though the man himself had no idea, Matthew had already marked him as a potential rival.
"Know the enemy and know yourself, and you can fight a hundred battles without defeat." Matthew believed the old adage held true. With time on his hands, he skimmed Orlando Bloom's résumé. The guy was undeniably lucky: fresh out of a musical-theatre conservatory, he landed an audition for The Lord of the Rings trilogy just as Peter Jackson, strapped for cash, opted to cast non-stars—and then he exploded.
That kind of luck defied the heavens, far surpassing even his own, which he'd always considered pretty good.
Matthew stared at Legolas on the monitor, mulling over his earlier thought. He seemed to have two big-budget opportunities within reach… Pushing back from the desk, a new idea began to form.
He stepped outside into the yard. A cool gust swept past, instantly clearing the fog from hours in front of the screen. The notion that had just surfaced grew sharper.
He sat at the wooden table in the yard and thought it through.
Though no one else realized it—Jerry Bruckheimer hadn't even formed a concrete plan yet—he knew that to squeeze into pirates of the caribbean, Orlando Bloom was the biggest obstacle.
What if Orlando Bloom's schedule didn't fit, or he simply wasn't interested in the role?
"Caw…"
A crow called from a nearby tree as a cloud slid over the moon. With no yard lights on, the place turned pitch-black. The very table and chairs stood where the murder had happened. Matthew sat alone, unmoved.
Suddenly he stood and slapped the table. "All right, that's the play—let's try it!"
He strode toward the house, the surrounding darkness no hindrance at all.
Back inside, he found his phone and dialed Orlando Bloom, who picked up quickly.
"Hey, Orlando, it's Matthew."
"Hi, Matthew." Orlando Bloom asked, "Calling this late—something up?"
"Are you in Los Angeles?" After a yes, Matthew continued, "No big deal. Since I moved I haven't thrown a housewarming. I'm having a party this Saturday—are you free?"
"Just a few people—Ben Foster, James McAvoy, some of the black hawk down crew."
"Sure," Orlando Bloom replied readily. "I'll be there on time!"
"I'll text you the address in a minute."
Orlando added, "Can I bring a friend?"
"Of course," Matthew answered without hesitation. "You're more than welcome."
After saying good night and hanging up, Matthew called James McAvoy. They'd hit Black Mamba Bar a few nights earlier; James had said he'd stay in Hollywood and wouldn't be returning to Britain anytime soon.
Sure enough, James McAvoy was still in Los Angeles. He accepted at once and even offered to ring Michael Fassbender, who was also in town.
Matthew phoned Ben Foster, then thought a moment and dialed Josh Hartnett's private line. Josh answered but begged off, citing weekend work.
Understandable—Josh Hartnett was in a different league, having fronted two hundred-million-dollar blockbusters back-to-back and riding the hottest streak of any young actor these past two years.
Beyond them, Matthew had no one else to invite; a casual friends-only gathering couldn't include Agent Helen Herman or entertainment reporter Elena Boyar.
The party had been spur-of-the-moment, so he'd made zero preparations—and he had little experience with Western-style bashes anyway.
But that minor snag wouldn't stop him. He scrolled through his contacts and found Lister's number; Red Penguin Service Company happened to handle event planning.