In the 1980s, Cannes was one of the "Big Three" European film festivals—alongside Venice and Berlin—but Cannes always possessed a superior sense of glamour. The 1989 festival showcased this popularity perfectly, with an elite crowd that included legends like Meryl Streep, who won Best Actress for A Cry in the Dark, Gregory Peck, who presided over the jury, and stars like Clint Eastwood, Jane Fonda, and Liza Minnelli gracing the Croisette.
Sex, Lies, and Videotape became a massive winner at Cannes. The jury awarded the film the prestigious Palme d'Or, and in a move that genuinely surprised Alex, named him Best Actor.
The effect on the domestic box office was immediate. Before the announcement, the film's gross had begun to plateau at a respectable $84.3 million, signaling that it might or might not reach the $90 million mark. However, the headlines from France gave the movie a second wind. By mid-June, the film surged to $91.3 million, putting the once-impossible $100 million barrier within striking distance. It was a staggering number for any film, especially an indie production.
While accolades poured in from Europe, Alex remained in Burbank, focused on rehearsals for Pretty Woman.
The rehearsal room was stripped down and intimate—just a long table, two chairs, and the hum of the air conditioning fighting the California heat. Alex sat across from Julia Roberts, leaning back in his chair. He wanted to focus specifically on the chemistry of the negotiation scene—the moment where the power dynamic between Edward and Vivian begins to shift.
Julia sat with her legs curled under her, a script resting on her knees. She looked young, slightly nervous, but alert.
"Let's take it from the business proposition," Alex said, his voice dropping into the cool, detached tone of Edward Lewis. "Vivian, I have a business proposition for you."
Julia nodded, slipping into character. She narrowed her eyes, defensive but intrigued. "What do you want?"
"I'm gonna be in town until Sunday," Alex replied smoothly. "I'd like you to spend the week with me."
Julia smiled, a look of disbelief crossing her face. "Really?"
"Yes. Yes, I'd like to hire you as an employee. Would you consider spending the week with me?"
She let out an awkward, unsure laugh.
"I will pay you to be at my beck and call," Alex continued.
"Look, I'd love to be your 'beck and call girl', but, uh, you're a rich, good-looking guy," Julia shot back, the street-smart hustle surfacing in her voice. "You could get a million girls free."
"I want a professional. I don't need any romantic hassles this week."
"If you're talking twenty-four hours a day, it's gonna cost you," she challenged.
"Oh, yes, of course!" Alex stood up from his chair, pacing slightly to simulate the movement in the room. "All right, here we go. Give me a ballpark figure. How much?"
Julia paused, calculating. She held his gaze, the silence stretching just long enough to sell the tension. "Six full nights, days too. Four thousand."
"Six nights at three hundred is eighteen hundred," Alex countered effortlessly.
"You want days too," she insisted.
"Two thousand."
"Three thousand."
"Done," Alex said instantly.
Julia's eyes went wide. "Holy shit!"
She laughed—a bright, barking sound—and leaned forward over the table.
"Vivian?" Alex asked, leaning in. He raised his voice slightly. "Vivian, is that a yes?"
Julia tapped the table with her hand, simulating the foot tap that would happen in the tub during the actual scene.
"Yes."
She laughed again. "Yes!"
"Okay, stop," Alex said, dropping his character. He sat back down, studying her for a moment.
"How was it?" Julia asked, her smile fading slightly into concern.
"The timing was perfect," Alex said, leaning forward, his expression serious. "But Julia, we need to work on the laugh."
"The laugh?" she repeated, confused. "Was it too loud?"
"No, it wasn't loud enough," Alex corrected gently. "It was too polite. Too 'movie star.' Vivian isn't polished. When she hears 'three thousand,' she shouldn't just be happy—she should be shocked. It needs to be louder. More unhinged. A real, honking laugh."
He looked her dead in the eye. "I selected you for this role mostly because of that laugh. It needs to be your signature. I want you to feel it in your gut. It has to be infectious."
Before she could respond, the heavy door to the rehearsal room creaked open. Paula Wagner stepped inside.She didn't say a word, but she caught Alex's eye with a look that said they needed to talk.
Alex stood up, glancing from Paula back to his leading lady.
"Try on that laugh," Alex instructed Julia, gesturing for her to stay put. "Keep working on it while I step out."
He met Paula in the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind them and muffling the sound of Julia's nervous laughter.
"So," Alex asked, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. "What is the word for 'Days of Thunder'?"
"They all have good offers," Paula said, clutching her portfolio. "But MGM has... slightly better conditions."
"What are they?" Alex asked.
"A forty-five million dollar budget," Paula said flatly. "With five million of that allocated as your pay."
Alex raised an eyebrow, doing the mental math. "What about the others?"
"Paramount and Universal are both topping out at fifty million," she replied. "With the exact same pay structure for you."
"So MGM is offering five million less for the production?" Alex asked.
"On the budget, yes," Paula said, a small, sharp smile appearing. "But MGM has a better backend. They're offering twenty-five percent."
Alex let out a low whistle. "Twenty-five? That is my highest percentage yet."
"Why are they doing it?" he asked. "That's a lot to give away."
"Because of Kirk Kerkorian," Paula explained. "He's planning to sell the studio again. He doesn't care about the twenty-five percent in three years; he cares about the valuation now. He needs a flagship blockbuster on the books to drive up the stock price for potential buyers. He's betting the farm on you to make the MGM lion roar loud enough to attract a buyer."
Alex leaned back against the wall, processing the scale of the offer. Giving away a quarter of the first-dollar gross was nearly suicidal for a studio, but for a man like Kirk Kerkorian, it was a tactical move in a much larger game.
Kirk Kerkorian was not a typical studio head; he was a billionaire "Vulture Capitalist" and a legendary high-stakes gambler from Las Vegas. He didn't love movies—he loved deals. Having built the MGM Grand Hotel, he treated the film studio more like a real estate asset than a creative hub.
By 1989, Kerkorian's relationship with Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer had become a legendary roller coaster of corporate raiding, defined by a dizzying cycle of buying and selling. In 1969, he first purchased MGM and famously auctioned off its history—including the ruby slippers from The Wizard of Oz—to pay off debts and fund his burgeoning casino empire. Years later, in 1986, he sold the studio to Ted Turner, only to buy it back a mere 74 days later when Turner struggled with the crushing debt of the deal. In that maneuver, Kerkorian managed to repurchase the company for a fraction of what he had sold it for while still managing to keep the United Artists brand and the production lots.
"He's in the 'inflation' phase again," Paula explained, her voice low. "MGM is currently a shell of its former self. It's bleeding money, and the industry knows it's for sale. Kirk's idea is simple: the studio is worth more if it has a massive, high-octane project attached to a star with a 100% hit rate."
By giving Alex 25% of the first-dollar gross, Kerkorian was effectively making Alex a partner in the risk. He didn't care if the studio's long-term profits were lower because he didn't plan to be the owner when the checks were actually cut. He wanted the announcement of Alex Hayes and Tony Scott's "Days of Thunder" to dominate the trades.
"He's buying prestige with your name," Paula added. "He wants to dress up the studio, make it look profitable and exciting, and then hand the keys to the next buyer—likely the Pathé group or a Japanese conglomerate—for a billion-dollar markup."
Alex looked at the door. He understood the game. He was the "diamond" in the shop window meant to catch a buyer's eye.
"If he's that desperate for a win," Alex said, a smirk forming, "he'll give us everything we need to make sure the film is perfect. He can't afford a scandal or a delay."
"Exactly," Paula nodded. "Total autonomy. We run the lot."
"Good. Tell him we have a deal," Alex said, pushing off the wall. "But before Days of Thunder, I've got a fairy tale to finish first."
**********
As the contracts for Days of Thunder were finalized and the ink dried on the historic MGM deal, the industry's attention shifted back to the immediate summer slate. Paramount, bolstered by Alex's unwavering confidence and the "Cannes effect" currently boosting his prestige, locked in the official release strategy for Ghost.
The release date was finalized for July 14, 1989. Breaking from the traditional slow-rollout strategy often used for romantic dramas, Paramount opted for a massive, "event-style" launch. The film was scheduled to open in over 2,000 theaters across the country.
It was a bold, aggressive move. Opening on 2,000 screens was typically reserved for high-octane action sequels or established franchises—not for a genre-bending story about a murdered banker and a psychic. By securing this wide release, Alex and the studio were signaling their belief that Ghost wasn't just a niche romance, but a genuine blockbuster capable of standing toe-to-toe with the summer's heavy hitters.
Inside the industry, the move was viewed as a high-stakes gamble. The summer was already bracing for the arrival of undisputed juggernauts: Tim Burton's Batman was set for a massive June 23rd debut, and Richard Donner's Lethal Weapon 2 was scheduled to explode onto screens on July 7th. Most studios were terrified of being crushed in the wake of such massive, male-oriented action films.
But Alex understood the potential of counter-programming. He knew that while a large portion of the audience was focused on explosions and caped crusaders, there was a massive, underserved demographic starving for a story that made them feel. He wasn't trying to beat Batman at its own game; he was offering the alternative.
With the distribution locked, the marketing machine shifted into high gear. The trailers began emphasizing the film's unique blend of genres, leaning into the emotional weight and the supernatural mystery. By using the haunting, soulful melody of "Unchained Melody" by the Righteous Brothers, the campaign perfectly bridged the gap between the thriller, the fantasy, and the core romance.