Inside the Creative Artists Agency, the atmosphere had shifted subtly since the morning meeting.
Michael Ovitz stood at the front of the conference room, the script of Saw resting on the mahogany table like a gavel. He looked around at the junior and mid-level agents who were hungry for their own piece of the pie.
"This," Ovitz said, tapping the script, "is initiative. Morris didn't wait for a studio to call him. He didn't wait for a star to ask for work. He found raw talent, he packaged it with a plan, and he brought it to the table."
Morris sat in his chair, trying to keep his expression neutral, but his chest swelled with pride. For months, he had been invisible. Now, he was the example.
"I want everyone to look at their client lists," Ovitz continued, his eyes scanning the room. "Find the hungry ones. Package them. Be like Morris. Don't just find jobs; create them."
As the meeting dispersed, Morris felt a wave of envious stares, but he didn't care. He rushed back to his desk. He had work to do. He picked up the phone and dialed the number for the USC dormitory.
...
University of Southern California, Dormitory.
John hung up the phone, a sharp glint in his eyes.
"Kevin," John said, turning to his roommate who was nervously pacing the small room.
"Yeah?"
"Get the team ready. Morris just called. He set up a meeting with three potential investors for this afternoon. We are moving."
Kevin's eyes widened. "Investors? Real investors? Not just asking our parents for money?"
"Real money. Hollywood money," John confirmed. He grabbed his jacket. "Listen to me, Kevin. I need you to finalize the core team. We need five people. You are the cinematographer. Find me the best lighting guy, a sound engineer who isn't deaf, a makeup artist who can do gore—real gore, not ketchup—and an editor who knows how to cut on the beat."
"I'm on it," Kevin said, his voice trembling with excitement. "I already talked to Mike for sound and Lisa for makeup. They are in."
John nodded. "Good. Tell them this isn't a student film. I'm the producer and the director. What I say goes."
As John checked his appearance in the mirror, his inner thoughts drifted to the nature of the industry.
'Hollywood is a producer-centric world,' John thought coldly. 'In the future, directors are often just hired guns. The person who controls the money and the rights controls the final cut. I can't let these investors walk all over me. I need to establish that this is my ship. That's why I'm using a student crew. They are hungry, they are talented, and most importantly... they are cheap and they will listen to me without question. If I hired a union crew right now, they would eat my budget alive and question my authority.'
"I'm leaving," John said, opening the door. "If I come back tonight, it will be with a check."
"Good luck, John!" Kevin shouted.
As the door closed, Kevin slumped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling, his heart pounding against his ribs.
'A Director of Photography...' Kevin thought, the realization washing over him. 'If this movie actually gets made and released in theaters, my name will be in the credits as the Cinematographer.'
He clenched his fists in excitement. In the normal hierarchy of Hollywood, after graduating, he would have to start as a camera assistant—hauling cables, fetching coffee, and cleaning lenses for five or six years before anyone even let him touch the focus ring. To become a lead cinematographer? That could take ten years.
John was giving him a shortcut that skipped a decade of struggle.
"I can't mess this up," Kevin whispered. He jumped up and ran out of the room towards the cafeteria.
...
Kevin slammed his tray down on the table where four other students were sitting. They were the "nerds" of the film department—the ones who obsessed over technical details rather than trying to be famous actors.
"He's gone," Kevin announced, breathless.
"John?" a student named Mike asked, looking up from his soup. "Where?"
"To Beverly Hills. To negotiate with investors," Kevin said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's getting the funding for the feature."
The table went silent.
"Is he serious?" Lisa, the makeup artist, asked. "A feature film? Not a short?"
"A full feature," Kevin nodded. "And we are the crew."
"I'm in," Mike said immediately. "I've seen John's short films. The way he handles lighting... honestly, he's better than some of the professors. Remember that noir short he did last semester? The shadow work was genius. If he's directing, I trust him."
"If he pulls this off," another student added, "we are going to be legends in this school."
…
John walked with a steady, rhythmic pace toward the exit of the university. He wore a simple but clean suit he had bought for the occasion. His posture was straight, radiating a maturity that didn't match his age.
Near the gate, a red convertible was parked.
Sara sat in the passenger seat, laughing at something the driver was saying. The driver was a handsome young man with slicked-back hair—the son of the Fox executive.
Suddenly, Sara's laughter stopped. She saw John.
He wasn't looking at her. He walked past the car, his eyes focused on the road ahead, his hand raised to hail a taxi. He looked... different. The gloomy, desperate boy who begged her to stay three days ago was gone. In his place was a man who looked like he owned the world.
"Isn't that your ex?" the rich boyfriend asked, sneering slightly. "Where is he going dressed like that? Did he get a job as a waiter?"
Sara didn't answer. She watched John step into the taxi without sparing her a single glance.
A sudden, irrational panic rose in her chest. She knew John's talent better than anyone. She knew how obsessive he was about his work.
'If he is going to a meeting...' Sara thought, biting her lip. 'And if he actually succeeds...'
She looked at her current boyfriend. Yes, he promised her a role in a small movie, but he was just playing with his father's money. John was different. John created things out of nothing.
'If I hadn't broken up with him,' the thought intruded, unbidden and painful, 'and if he makes this movie... I would have been the heroine. I would have been the face on the poster. I would have been the only one by his side.'
"Sara?"
"It's nothing," she said, turning away from the retreating taxi, pushing the regret down. "Let's go."