After Monday, with Fox Studios pushing hard, the media narrative around The Butterfly Effect shifted noticeably in just a few short days.
Compared to the subjective slant of professional reviews, ordinary people were clearly more swayed by hard data.
First-week box office: $21.69 million.
A mere 17% drop the following weekend.
An average audience score of 7.7.
All of this undeniably showed that the film's quality was far from the drubbing the critics had given it. Under Fox's deliberate steering of public opinion, people gradually realized that the one-sided panning of The Butterfly Effect was likely the result of deliberate sabotage.
Then, an article in the News Corporation-owned New York Post pushed even more folks to buy into that idea.
It all circled back to the media scrutiny Simon had suddenly faced in March. A reporter from the Post discovered that Mark Hollington, the freelance writer who'd questioned Simon in The New York Times, had recently bought a brand-new Ferrari.
So, the questions arose.
Mark Hollington's past income couldn't possibly cover such an expensive sports car.
Then.
Where did the money come from?
Was it a windfall for smearing a certain teenage prodigy at someone's behest?
As a high-circulation tabloid infamous for its shameless headlines, the New York Post steered clear of direct accusations against Mark Hollington to avoid libel suits. But the wording nudged readers firmly in one direction.
Faced with the Post's insinuations, Mark Hollington "cooperated" by firing back immediately, claiming the car was on installment payments—he hadn't paid in full, so no "windfall" involved.
The New York Times apparently wanted no part of this mess anymore, so Mark Hollington's clarification ran in another paper, the Daily News.
That only stirred things up more.
Everyone knew the Daily News and New York Post—similar markets, comparable circulation—were bitter rivals. The two shameless rags were constantly at each other's throats, trading insults across the airwaves, even dragging their owners, Rupert Murdoch and Mortimer Zuckerman, through the mud as worthless hacks.
Now, with Hollington's defense in the Daily News, the feud reignited.
These media brawls rarely led anywhere conclusive.
But the real loser was Mark Hollington.
As the scandal ballooned, the notion that he'd taken cash to trash Simon Westeros somehow got cemented as fact amid all the mudslinging.
The buzz dragged on noisily until April 24th, a Friday.
Thanks to the shifting media winds and Fox ramping up its marketing blitz, The Butterfly Effect's full-week drop for the second week narrowed even further from the weekend's three days—to just 15%—pulling in another $18.28 million.
In two weeks, the film's total haul hit $39.97 million.
That near-forty-million figure alone vaulted The Butterfly Effect into fourth place among 1987's released films, trailing only Run Lola Run, Lethal Weapon, and Disney's January release Outrageous Fortune.
On Simon's end, amid juggling a pile of other tasks, he obliged Fox by appearing on NBC's The Tonight Show again, spending a few minutes chatting about the inspiration behind The Butterfly Effect.
His contract required him to promote the film, but Simon was the type who hated the spotlight.
Still, when Peter Sanders invited him on the show, he came bearing a $300,000 check—and promised another bonus if the North American box office topped $100 million.
With them playing ball like that, Simon did his part.
Meanwhile, after Michael Ovitz's visit, Robert Redford responded the next day, agreeing to $500,000 plus 5% of the profits.
After the party last Saturday, the Madonnas mulled it over for a few days before replying, happy to cameo as Bunny and Pumpkin. The final deal: $500,000 for the couple combined.
On top of that, Simon agreed to write a song for Madonna's upcoming album later in the year.
With those locked in, Pulp Fiction now boasted Robert De Niro, Robert Redford, and John Travolta—three heavy hitters. Madonna and Sean Penn weren't slouches in the fame department either.
An $8 million budget snagging such a powerhouse cast had Orion Pictures ecstatic; they held a press conference on Thursday to trumpet the title of Simon's new film, Pulp Fiction, and the star-studded lineup.
Afternoon.
At Daenerys Films' headquarters in Santa Monica.
In Simon's office, Meg Ryan—dressed in a white blouse and black pencil skirt, every inch the office professional—carefully poured coffee for Simon and Amy before slipping out.
Amy cradled her mug, watching Meg's retreating figure. "She seems a bit scared of you. Making a woman afraid—that's not a good sign."
These past few days, Meg Ryan had started her nine-to-five routine at Daenerys Films.
Simon just wanted her to regain the vitality of a twenty-six-year-old through structure; he didn't expect real work from her, so he'd stationed her outside with Susan as his secretary.
Hearing Amy's comment, Simon—flipping through a thick stack of actor profiles—merely shook his head. "Not scared. Embarrassed, probably."
Bumping into him twice like that—awkward was an understatement.
Amy didn't catch his meaning but smiled anyway, letting it drop.
Seeing him dive back into the profiles, she noticed a novel on his desk near her side. Setting down her coffee, she picked it up curiously.
Lately, Simon always had a book or two on hand; Amy saw it as a solid habit for her boss. Achieving what most couldn't in a lifetime at his age, and still reading voraciously—it fit.
She even thought she should carve out time to recharge herself.
With that in mind, she glanced at the title: Forrest Gump, by Winston Groom. Unfamiliar, but if her young counterpart across the desk picked it, it couldn't be bad. She flipped it open with interest.
Simon noticed her move and explained while scanning: "Amy, these days I'll have Jonathan negotiate some scripts, novels, and remake rights for me, but they'll sit under Westeros Cooperation for now. You know, more cash on the books there. We'll produce them eventually, of course."
With capital in hand, Simon had started on a long-held plan from his arrival in this era: snapping up rights to films destined to explode in the future.
Faced with gold mines ripe for the picking, not doing it would be a crime against himself.
Amy smiled and nodded. "I get it."
Any ambitious studio hoarded rights; Simon's move didn't surprise her at all.
Daenerys had only his loaned operating funds and budgets for Final Destination and Pulp Fiction—no muscle for this. Westeros would handle it.
Chatting idly, Simon soon pulled out a female actor's profile and hit the intercom, summoning Susan Landis. Noticing Amy's curious look, he passed it over. "There. That's my Mia."
Amy took it, eyeing the name.
Nicole Kidman.
Who?
The thought flashed first; then she glanced at the photo. "You've got tapes—shouldn't you at least watch her perform?"
Simon shook his head. "No need to waste time."
As Susan entered, he pointed to the profile in Amy's hand. "Fax this to Jonathan. Tell them they've got two days to poach her for WMA. Also, for Jules—the black actor—none of the recommendations work. Have them send another batch; fame doesn't matter. And the cab driver: sultry, seductive, with an accent. I was clear. Skip locals; look to Europe."
Amy handed it off, listening to his rapid-fire orders, shaking her head with an amused sigh. She could never predict her young boss's mind.
Simon was frustrated too.
Locking in the big names left him just $1 million for the rest, and a slew of roles still open.
Jules—originally Samuel L. Jackson's part—Simon hoped he'd snag it. But right now, Jackson was a nobody somewhere.
In this pre-internet age, finding an unknown was no small feat.
Even Mia had been a hassle.
He'd first eyed Michelle Pfeiffer—cost can be damned.
But after a simple audition, a glaring issue emerged.
John Travolta neared six-foot-two; Pfeiffer barely cleared five-seven. Side by side, the framing went haywire—how could they pull off that iconic twist dance?
Post-Pfeiffer, Simon added a height minimum: over 5'11".
Pulp Fiction aimed for a July start; Simon had mountains of work. After a quick sift, he'd decisively picked the familiar Nicole Kidman.
Once Susan left, Simon checked his watch and asked Amy, "Wasn't it three o'clock?"
Amy glanced at the time. "Want me to call and check?"
Just then, a knock; Meg Ryan poked her head in. "Mr. Westeros, Ms. Pascal—Mr. O'Brien's here."
They both rose to greet him.
At the door.
A round-faced white man in his forties stepped in, extending a hand apologetically to Simon and Amy. "So sorry, Mr. Westeros, Ms. Pascal—hit a snag on the road."
Simon caught the man's crisp British accent, smiling as he shook hands. "No worries. Call me Simon, Danny."
Amy exchanged a quick handshake and pleasantries.
Simon signaled Meg for more coffee; the three settled into the seating area, sizing each other up.
The man was Dennis O'Brien, a film producer who co-ran HandMade Films with former Beatle George Harrison.
Harrison had founded the company in 1978 to fund a friend's project.
That film, made on a $4 million budget, grossed $20 million in North America alone, launching HandMade into overdrive. They followed with hits like Sean Connery's Time Bandits, becoming a prominent independent in the UK.
But.
Last year, HandMade had taken a massive hit—with Madonna and Sean Penn's Shanghai Surprise.
$17 million budget; $2.31 million North American gross probably didn't even cover MGM's marketing costs.
Amid the overheated global economy flooding film with cash, HandMade hadn't folded over Shanghai Surprise. Instead, through Madonna's connections, they'd reached out to Daenerys—interested in When Harry Met Sally.
The Butterfly Effect's fresh success had broken the ice on When Harry Met Sally's prior stagnation. This week, not just indies but the majors too had circled back with interest.
But Simon had other plans now.
Daenerys couldn't build distribution short-term; When Harry Met Sally's release would need a major. For production, though, to keep full control, he aimed to co-invest with indies.
That way, upfront cash got things rolling.
Once his stock futures played out later this year, Daenerys could fund the rest. And with Run Lola Run and The Butterfly Effect's wins, even co-producing, they'd command bigger profit shares.
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