The gamble on The Color of Money was instantly validated by its subsequent market performance. The combination of rave critical reviews and a sustained, focused publicity campaign provided the momentum necessary for the film to become a long-term commercial success. This strategy successfully established the co-lead actor's viability in mature dramatic roles and energized the older audience demographic, ensuring robust revenue generation that went far beyond the opening weekend.
Following its strong $15.6 million opening weekend—a figure highly respectable for any prestige drama—the film demonstrated remarkable audience retention. During the next four weekdays (September 8th–11th), the film pulled in an additional $10.2 million, pushing the total cumulative gross after the first week to $25.8 million.
The film maintained its impressive trajectory into the second weekend (September 12th–14th). Fueled by continued positive word-of-mouth and critical buzz, it grossed $9.8 million, successfully retaining the Number One position at the box office. This brought the cumulative total to $35.6 million. The subsequent four weekdays (September 15th–18th) remained financially stable, yielding $5.6 million and advancing the total to $41.2 million by the end of the second week.
The film's strength continued into its third weekend (September 19th–21st). While a typical audience deceleration occurred following the initial rush, the weekend revenue stream contributed a substantial $5.4 million. Despite this minor drop, the film managed to secure market leadership for the third consecutive time. The following weekdays (September 22nd–25th) added $4.1 million to the gross, allowing the cumulative total to easily surpass the $50 million threshold, reaching $50.7 million post-Week 3.
The fourth weekend (September 26th–28th) introduced significant external competition, resulting in the film's first displacement from the top spot by the debut of 'Crocodile Dundee'. 'The Color of Money' still accumulated a respectable $3.5 million during this period. However, 'Crocodile Dundee' opened with a commanding $8.3 million, seizing the premier position.
The cumulative box office gross for The Color of Money after four weekends totaled $54.2 MILLION.
The core strategic goal of validating Alex's critical and artistic credibility was definitively achieved. Furthermore, the financial performance substantially exceeded initial projections, establishing the feature as a significant commercial success that perfectly complemented its prestige narrative, significantly augmenting its visibility and viability for the upcoming industry awards season.
*******
While The Color of Money was busy minting money at the box office, the production team for Top Gun was deep into its most complex and expensive stage: filming on an active aircraft carrier. Securing the cooperation of the U.S. Navy was paramount for director Tony Scott and producers Don Simpson and Jerry Bruckheimer, who demanded absolute realism over studio-based special effects.
The filming on the carrier, primarily the USS Enterprise (CVN-65) , spanned more than a month and required extraordinary logistical coordination. The filmmakers had to integrate themselves into the carrier's relentless operational rhythm, capturing footage of F-14 Tomcat launches and recoveries during normal day-to-day Navy operations.
Under US Department of Defense policy, the Navy is legally prohibited from subsidizing commercial films. Therefore, Universal Studios was required to reimburse the Navy for any "extraordinary expenses" incurred while assisting the production. This was a critical distinction: the Navy offered the platform and the backdrop for free, but the studio had to cover the costs of any action taken outside the scope of standard Navy duties.
This included the enormous expense of fuel and the time of personnel. For example, Universal Studios paid as much as $8,000 per fuel and other operating costs whenever aircraft were flown outside their normal duties.
The filming on the aircraft carrier for Top Gun was wrapped by the end of October. At the same time, The Color of Money had achieved a domestic cumulative gross of $73.57 million. While the initial blistering momentum of its opening weeks had predictably subsided, this total firmly cemented the film's financial success, far exceeding its original modest projections. The path to the $100 million domestic benchmark would now depend entirely on securing nominations for the upcoming awards season in December.
With the complex aerial and carrier-based sequences complete, the production moved its focus back to the Navy base in Nevada to film the remaining dramatic scenes, including key dialogue and romantic moments between Alex, Madeleine Stowe, and the other principal actors.
After wrapping a taxing day of filming at the base, Alex and several principal cast members sought a necessary break. Mia Sara, whom Alex hadn't seen in a month, arrived to meet him immediately post-wrap, and her presence brightened the end of his day. Together with Val Kilmer and Anthony Edwards, and later joined by Madeleine Stowe and her husband, who came to visit her, the group headed to a local Nevada bar known for its casual food and pool tables. The relaxed atmosphere was a welcome contrast to the set's intensity.
As they settled into a quiet booth with their drinks, their celebrity status—even with bodyguards subtly positioned nearby—made it impossible to remain truly anonymous. A group shooting pool recognized them immediately. While they maintained their distance, their conversation soon grew loud, fueled by a mixture of cheap beer and audible resentment.
One of the men loudly missed a shot and grumbled, "Look at that, boys. Some big movie star over there. Supposed to be some kind of pool wizard now after The Color of Money. Looks like a showboat to me. Probably can't break a rack without a script."
His friend snickered, his eyes glued to Alex and Mia Sara. "Nah, he's just good at acting like a pool player. But look at the view he bought himself. Mia Sara, the beauty, is only with him because of his position and wants a piece of that box office shine."
The first man shook his head. "Don't say that, man. Maybe even Alex slept with someone else to get to the top. Who knows how many cocks he sucked."
The comments were crude and deliberately audible. Val Kilmer tensed, gripping his beer glass. Anthony Edwards frowned, ready to stand up, and the closest bodyguard moved his weight forward, and took a subtle step toward the noise.
Alex simply raised a hand, stopping them all—his co-stars, his security, and the rising tension in the room. He took a long, slow sip of his beer, his gaze placidly fixed on the bottom of his glass, though he hadn't missed a word.
"Relax," Alex said, his voice low and completely calm. "It's a free country. We can't control every dog from barking, we can only just control our actions." He set his glass down gently, the small sound punctuating his statement.
He then reached out and squeezed Mia's hand gently to offer quiet comfort. Mia offered him a weak, reflexive smile in return. This wasn't the first time she had endured such crude public speculation, specifically the narrative that she was with Alex solely to advance her career. While she knew it shouldn't matter, the malice behind the words still found its mark; she wasn't yet tough enough to completely ignore such deliberate cruelty, even from strangers.
The provoking calls, however, did not stop. The pool players, emboldened by their own numbers and Alex's deliberate refusal to engage, kept up their crude commentary, their laughter now a harsh, mocking bark echoing through the bar. The group of onlookers, including the small security detail, maintained a tense, uneasy silence, waiting for the inevitable escalation.
A few tables away, a middle-aged man, perhaps in his early forties, who had been quietly nursing a drink with his wife, finally reached his limit. He placed his glass down with a decisive click.
"Alright, that's enough," the man called out, his voice rough but firm, directed toward the pool tables. "Keep your trash talk to yourselves, or take it outside. There are ladies present."
The man who had missed the shot—a thick-necked, heavily tattooed individual—snorted with derision. "Look at this, boys. The old man wants to play cop. Keep to your business, grandpa. If you come over here, we will seriously fuck you up."
The threat, laced with pure, casual violence, had the opposite of the desired effect. The middle-aged man's jaw tightened. Rage flushed his face, clearly stoked by the disrespect and the casual threat in front of his wife. He strode toward the group of pool players, his voice vibrating with fury.
"You little shits, what did you just say?"
Alex, who had been trying to ignore the entire dynamic, now lifted his gaze fully. He observed the men near the pool tables—it wasn't a few boisterous drunks. He counted ten, maybe twelve, and they were all uniformly bulky, crudely dressed, and covered in leather and patches. It was clearly a gang, not a casual biker club. They seemed crude, buff, and clearly spoiling for a confrontation, and the solitary, enraged middle-aged man was walking straight into a brutal beatdown.
Alex let out a soft sigh, the sound barely audible over the rising noise in the bar. He glanced at Val Kilmer, Anthony Edwards, and Madeleine Stowe's husband, Brian Benben, a silent question passing between them.
"How well can you guys fight?" Alex asked, his tone still calm, though his eyes were sharp and assessing.
The men looked at each other with varying degrees of confidence. Brian Benben spoke first, with a shrug. "I can land a punch, I guess." Val and Anthony looked at the imposing group of bikers, then at each other, and simply lifted their shoulders, tacitly agreeing with Benben's cautious assessment. They were actors, not brawlers.
Alex nodded, accepting the reality. He caught the eye of the three bodyguards and gave them a swift, almost imperceptible hand signal to move toward the escalating conflict.
As the middle-aged man continued his verbal fight with the gang, the seven men from Alex's side converged on the scene. Alex's group now included eight men in total (Alex, Val, Anthony, Brian, the middle-aged man, and the three trained bodyguards) against the twelve members of the biker gang. Alex knew the odds weren't in their favor; only four men on his side were trained, and the opposing side looked hardened and ready to fight dirty.
Alex stepped forward, putting himself between the enraged civilian and the gang leader.
"Let's stop here," Alex said, his voice carrying the authority of someone used to commanding a scene. "It's gone long enough. No one needs to get hurt."
The gang leader—the thick-necked, tattooed man—turned his attention to Alex. He eyed the group, particularly the three bodyguards, then sneered. "Then what, Mr. Hollywood? Will you and your little bodyguards beat us? Look at our numbers."
Alex exhaled slowly. "I think you really want to fight."
"Smart man. Yeah, we want to," the leader sneered back, his face splitting into a vicious grin.
"Well..." Alex surveyed the dozen men, his eyes holding a cold spark of professional disdain. "It seems we have to fight a group of neanderthals."
The leader's eyes narrowed. He growled, the insult cutting deep. He dropped his beer, gripped the pool stick he'd been leaning on, and lunged at Alex.
The bar went into immediate, chaotic pandemonium.