Jonathan Friedman watched Matthew Broderick rudely storm off, frowning slightly. He gestured for Simon to enter his office and asked, "Simon, do you know Matthew?"
Simon didn't hide it, briefly explaining the incident at the Zeppelin Bar last time.
"Oh, that's nothing," Jonathan said with a casual laugh, sitting behind his desk. "I'll set up a dinner with Matthew sometime—shake hands, and it'll be water under the bridge. You young folks shouldn't have any grudges that can't be sorted out."
Simon nodded; he hadn't dwelled on the last incident either. Noticing Jonathan seemed distracted today, his expression weary, he asked, "Joe, have you not been resting well lately?"
"It's nothing—just been busy these days."
Hearing the young man's concerned tone, Jonathan paused while rifling through files on his desk, suddenly reluctant to pull out the drafted contract.
Hesitating like this, he still handed over a blue folder, resolving inwardly to make it up to the kid as much as possible. In a gentle tone, he said, "Simon, there's news on the script. But the studio checked your info with the WGA ahead of time and knows you're a newbie, so the offer isn't great. Plus, they want your other script—I saw the outline at Paramount yesterday; it's brilliant. Take a look at the contract first."
Simon sensed Jonathan's words held clear reservations, guessing something was off, but he opened the contract and read carefully anyway.
Watching Simon pore over it earnestly, Jonathan really wanted to duck out.
He knew Simon wasn't the type of rookie who'd jump for joy just at selling a script. So he dreaded facing the boy's reaction once he finished.
As if God heard his plea, a knock came at the office door. Owen Wright poked his head in. "Mr. Friedman, Mr. Brokaw is here."
Right after the assistant spoke, Norman Brokaw, standing outside, glanced at Simon and beckoned to Jonathan. "Joe, got a minute? I need to talk."
Though he'd avoided any interaction with Norman Brokaw these past few days, Jonathan now preferred that to facing Simon. He stood casually and introduced to Simon, who'd risen with him, "Simon, this is WMA's president, Norman Brokaw. Keep reading the contract—I'll be back after chatting with Norman."
Simon looked at the elderly man outside, who showed no intent to enter: black suit, graying hair, slightly short stature, and the classic Jewish big nose.
He nodded in greeting, waited for Jonathan to leave, then sat back down, refocusing on the contract.
As he read deeper, Simon's frown tightened.
Honestly, he wasn't too bothered by the $100,000 base payment in the contract.
For a newcomer, it was actually quite good.
$100,000—probably enough to finish Run Lola Run.
But this was a complete buyout deal.
$80,000 to buy out all rights to The Butterfly Effect, $20,000 as a deposit for a three-year first-look option on Final Destination. And if Fox decided to produce Final Destination within those three years, any renegotiated price would still be a full-rights buyout.
After skimming the contract, Simon could hardly believe Jonathan would offer him such a harsh agreement.
In Hollywood, screenwriting was a highly unstable gig. Even WGA members spent most of the year unemployed, many scraping by with side jobs.
So, to fight for more rights, Hollywood writers struck more often than any other group in the industry.
After decades of clashes with studios, the Writers Guild gradually hammered out a Basic Agreement with the producers' alliance to protect screenwriters' rights in base pay, minimum wages, health insurance, pensions, and more.
For film writers, the most crucial clause in the Basic Agreement wasn't the minimum script fees tiered by production costs—it was the residuals that provided long-term income.
Under the 1985 latest version signed between the Writers Guild and producers' alliance, beyond the base script minimums in two cost brackets, film writers got shares from subsequent video and TV revenues.
Video residuals: 0.3% of sales revenue up to 1 million units, 0.36% after.
TV residuals varied by platform—network TV, basic cable, premium cable, pay-per-view, international—with detailed splits, overall matching video earnings for writers.
Since the '80s, with the video boom and expanding TV networks, Hollywood films' revenues from these split roughly one-third each with theatrical.
So for a film with even $30 million global box office, video revenue might match that.
At an average home video price of $30, $30 million sales equaled 1 million units. By that math, the writer could net about $90,000 in residuals from those 1 million videos over time.
Subsequent TV residuals would be roughly equal.
Together, around $200,000.
That far exceeded the '80s average script sale price and was often several times the base fee.
Plus, these residuals were ongoing income, ensuring writers could survive jobless stretches with periodic checks.
Simon had full confidence in The Butterfly Effect and the unearthed Final Destination.
Per typical fan buying habits, as classic horror flicks, their video performance might outshine theatrical, with sales far exceeding 1 million units.
So with residuals, including matching TV revenue, Simon could pull in hundreds of thousands more down the line—way beyond the current $80,000 base.
Simon wasn't a WGA member, true.
In fact, he had no plans to join, so he couldn't claim full Basic Agreement protections.
But in Hollywood's mature industry, writer residuals were standard practice.
With a solid agent—or even basic savvy—and dealing with a legit studio, deals usually included residuals.
Yet here, a VP at Hollywood's biggest talent agency had "negotiated" a deal treating him like a total fool: full buyout.
For a moment, Simon felt the urge to jump up and slam the contract in his agent's face.
But recalling details in Jonathan's demeanor earlier, he calmed down, glanced at the office door, and waited patiently for his agent to return.
Meanwhile, in Norman Brokaw's office, Jonathan Friedman—who'd been stewing since yesterday afternoon—finally snapped at his boss's demand, raising his voice and waving his arms. "Doesn't like him? Just because he doesn't like him, he wants to kick Simon out? That's ridiculous. Norman, do you know how humiliating it was handing that contract to the kid? Me, a WMA VP, giving my client a deal even a third-rate agency's broker might balk at. And now you want me to tell him he's out, no more ties to the film—how am I supposed to say that?"
Norman Brokaw eyed Jonathan, nearly losing his usual polished poise, hiding his disdain as his tone sharpened. "Joe, you're a WMA VP now—as management, you must prioritize the company's interests. Besides, he's just a clueless kid. If you can't handle this, how can you hold your position?"
Prioritize your interests, you mean!
That thought flashed through Jonathan's mind. Hearing Norman Brokaw threaten his job, he softened his tone but argued on. "Simon's already reading the contract. The Butterfly Effect's total fee is just $80,000: $50,000 first draft, $20,000 for studio-requested revisions, $10,000 polish—all spelled out. Even if he agrees to bow out, what about the money? Do I just tell him it's down to $50,000?"
"Of course it's just $50,000. How many 18-year-olds in the country make fifty grand? What more could he want?"
Seeing Jonathan yield, Norman Brokaw pressed harder.
Before pitching the script to studios last week, he'd wanted to revise it to beef up Matthew Broderick's role, but Jonathan refused, saying it was already perfect.
Now, using Matthew's dislike of Simon as leverage to boot him, he could bring in his own trusted writer for the job.