For Hollywood, in the last week of January 1987, the biggest focus wasn't the upcoming Golden Globe Awards ceremony anymore, but a young man and the first film he'd directed.
"The Third Sundance Wraps Up Smoothly, Run Lola Run Takes Home a Haul."
That was the title of an article prominently placed on the front page of The Hollywood Reporter on January 27.
On January 26, at the closing ceremony of the Sundance Film Festival founded by Hollywood star Robert Redford, Run Lola Run lived up to expectations by winning the Grand Jury Prize and the Cinematography Award.
In the ten days prior, due to overwhelming popularity, the Sundance organizers had to double the number of screenings for Run Lola Run, but tickets still sold out instantly.
At the awards ceremony that day, clearly influenced by Run Lola Run, the Egyptian Theater in Park City was packed to the rafters.
Still.
No matter what, Sundance was ultimately just a fledgling festival.
Anyone with eyes could see that over this period, rather than Sundance boosting Run Lola Run's fame, the media coverage of the film had in turn elevated the festival's visibility.
Usually, after attending a festival of modest influence like this, everyone would have their brief moment of excitement and glory, and things would quickly settle back to normal.
However.
For Simon.
For Run Lola Run.
Many things were only just beginning.
January 28.
Wednesday.
An article in the Los Angeles Times finally illuminated that name which had been subtly catching people's peripheral vision these days, making it dazzle.
"Eighteen Years Old"
A title so concise it even carried a hint of suspense.
The accompanying photo was a behind-the-scenes shot from the casino scene in Run Lola Run. A young man leaned on the gaming table with both hands, frowning slightly as he gazed at the roulette wheel before him, clearly deep in thought. Around him, dozens of men and women—some standing, some sitting, some leaning against walls, some chatting idly—still had a portion of their attention fixed on the boy at the table.
A perfect capture, revealing a wondrously commanding presence. Anyone seeing the photo could instantly tell who was the center of that world.
Peter Butler was evidently a fine photographer as well.
And an excellent writer.
"First, think back: what were you doing at eighteen?"
"Then, consider someone else. His eighteenth year began in a public mental hospital in the small town of Watsonville, San Francisco. Dilapidated, gloomy, bone-chilling—that was my deepest impression when I made a special visit. Yet it was there that he achieved another nirvana in his life. Why 'another'? Because his life seems filled with countless unknown rebirths. I've spoken to many people who've been around him, and they all say he's incredibly hardworking."
"But today, I'll only talk about his eighteenth year."
"In the first four months of eighteen, he recovered from some heaven-sent mental illness, so he changed his surname to Westeros. Simon Westeros."
"I asked him what 'Westeros' means. He said he couldn't say, and didn't want to make up a reason to fool me. Then I asked where he came from, and he laid it all out, not even hiding the mental hospital stint. Clearly, 'Westeros' is more important, but we may never know."
"In the fifth month of eighteen, he arrived in Los Angeles with two scripts and successfully convinced a WMA vice president to sign him as his only screenwriter client."
"In the sixth month of eighteen, he worked at a convenience store for $3.50 an hour, $140 a week. The motel owner said he was a cashier with unlimited potential, but the pay wasn't enough for rent. So he borrowed a guitar and, on Venice Beach, made hundreds in one afternoon. The motel owner said he was a guitarist with unlimited potential."
"In the seventh month of eighteen, he sold his first script for $200,000—equivalent to a decade's worth for most screenwriters."
"In the eighth month of eighteen, he began shooting his first film."
"And so he became producer, director, writer, cinematographer, editor, lighting designer, composer... culminating in the stunning Run Lola Run. Stunning—that's the most fitting word I can think of."
"The first time I met him was in a hotel ballroom in Santa Monica. It was a casino scene—Santa Monica has no casinos. I asked the film's producer, Ron Macmillan, isn't that a plot hole? Ron hesitated, gestured for a moment, then seemed to mimic someone's tone: The director said there should be a casino, so there was a casino."
"That joke-like line stuck with me, and now I appreciate it more as some wondrous metaphor."
"Then I spent the entire afternoon on his set, watching him command the crew in a way utterly unlike other directors. He didn't yell or patiently explain; he preferred to issue orders. As if the whole movie was firmly lodged in his mind, and he just needed to replicate it onto film. Everyone else was merely a prop."
"Even himself."
"The gaffer couldn't handle his demanding standards and quit after three days, so he took over lighting himself. Before that, he was already producer, writer, director. After, he was composer, editor, colorist. In Park City, I asked: Doesn't doing all that wear you out? He said no, it saves money."
"Of course, he does save on films—$650,000 budget, and he only spent $597,000. Obviously, in Hollywood where cost control is often haphazard, every studio boss would desperately want a director like that."
"But I think it's more because he's so proud, convinced no one else can do it as well, so he prefers to handle it himself."
"Though everyone I've asked thinks he has every right to be proud—including me—at the same time, it's hard to detect any arrogance in him; he always seems like a perfectly ordinary, easygoing young man. On that point, some words from his girlfriend Janet might explain a bit: He's proud to the point of disdaining pride, like a god from another world suddenly descending to conquer this one."
"We were in a little restaurant in Park City then, right after Run Lola Run's premiere. I'd been stunned speechless by his film, questioning countless times in my mind: Could an eighteen-year-old really make this?"
"As lunch wrapped up, I finally couldn't hold back and asked: Simon, are you a god?"
"He said no, he's human. A man who likes women."
---
Ko-fi.com/GodOfReader