After a brief two-day rest in Park City, Simon returned to Los Angeles and was once again swallowed by a whirlwind of work.
Santa Monica.
In the conference room at Daenerys Films headquarters, Simon, Amy, and CAA president Michael Ovitz sat around the table. The purpose of this meeting was to discuss the studio's upcoming productions: Rain Man and Steel Magnolias.
The main production plan for Rain Man was already locked in; only a few details remained, so they didn't linger on it.
When the conversation turned to Steel Magnolias, however, the atmosphere grew tense.
Daenerys wanted to bring on board CAA clients Herbert Ross as director and Sally Field as star—the same team behind the original film. But the terms Michael Ovitz laid out were ones Simon simply couldn't accept.
"Michael, packaging Herbert Ross and Sally Field together for ten million dollars is too steep. Steel Magnolias is an ensemble piece. If I pay Ross and Field that kind of money, every other actor will demand the same, and Daenerys won't be able to afford the project. So here's our counter: five million for Ross, and one-and-a-half million for Ms. Field."
Herbert Ross wasn't just the director of the original Steel Magnolias. He'd also helmed last year's The Secret of My Success with Michael J. Fox, which grossed over sixty million domestically, and back in 1984 his musical Footloose turned an eight-million-dollar budget into eighty million at the North American box office—pure profit for the studio.
In Hollywood, a director's price tag is dictated by box-office performance, so five million for Ross was entirely justified.
Sally Field, on the other hand, had won Best Actress Oscars in 1979 and 1984, but she had virtually no draw at the box office. Few female stars in the eighties commanded more than two million per picture, and since Steel Magnolias was an ensemble drama, Simon's offer of one-and-a-half million was already generous.
Michael Ovitz fixed Simon with his usual negotiating stare and said, displeased, "Sally's a two-time Oscar winner, Simon. Do you really think one-and-a-half million is possible?"
Simon didn't flinch under the gaze. "That was years ago, Michael. We both know no one in Hollywood gets top-tier pay for life on the strength of a couple of golden statues. Relative to her box-office pull, one-and-a-half million is already high."
"That's not going to happen," Ovitz said, shaking his head. After a brief pause he softened his tone slightly. "All right, Simon—given the specifics of this film, I can make a concession. Six million for Herbert, three million for Sally. But you have to agree to two additional conditions. First, every supporting role goes to CAA clients. Second, Robin is still very interested in Dead Poets Society. I want you to give her the lead."
"If you insist on those terms, Michael, my answer is the same as yours: impossible. First, I'm not turning Steel Magnolias into a CAA package deal. Second, Bob has already agreed to star in Dead Poets Society, and I'm not about to hand the role to Robin Williams instead."
After three weeks of limited release and glowing word-of-mouth, Good Morning, Vietnam had gone wide last Friday and pulled in $11.75 million over the weekend. The media were predicting it would earn over sixteen million in its fourth full week—a surefire long-runner headed for a hundred million domestic.
As the film's lead, Robin Williams had smoothly ascended from second-tier comic to bona fide A-list star.
Late last year, when CAA abruptly reneged on the deal the day of signing, Daenerys had missed its chance to snag him. Simon regretted it, but he had no intention of letting CAA call the shots now. The studio had already reached terms with De Niro for both Dead Poets Society and The Sixth Sense; even though contracts weren't signed yet, Simon wasn't about to pull a CAA and back out.
Neither man spoke for a moment. The silence stretched until Ovitz leaned back in his chair and said, "Then perhaps we should end today's meeting here."
Simon stood, reached across the table, and offered his hand. "In that case, Michael, I hope we'll have another chance to work together in the future."
Ovitz blinked—he hadn't expected Simon to be even more decisive than himself. By saying that, the young man was making it clear Daenerys would no longer negotiate with CAA on Steel Magnolias. And there was zero room left to maneuver on Dead Poets Society.
Ovitz rose and shook the offered hand. "Simon, business shouldn't be personal. Think it over. You can call me anytime."
"I've thought it over."
"Then I can only wish you luck."
After seeing Ovitz out, Simon returned to the conference table, checked his watch, and turned to Amy Pascal beside him. "Drop Herbert Ross and Sally Field. We'll look at talent from WMA and ICM instead."
Given Ross and Field's stature, Daenerys had budgeted fifteen million for Steel Magnolias. But Ovitz's demands would balloon that to twenty or even twenty-five million.
In the original timeline, the film grossed eighty million domestically. Even at a twenty-five-million-dollar budget, Daenerys would still turn a profit—but only after accounting for the full cost of self-distribution. Simon would then have to rely on ancillary markets for the rest, which would significantly delay recoupment.
Amy loved the story of Southern women's lives in a small town, but her box-office expectations were far lower than Simon's. From a purely business standpoint, she'd rather keep it a low-budget film under ten million.
So she didn't argue with his decision. Instead she shifted topics. "Simon, we need to talk about the company."
Simon straightened. "What's wrong?"
Amy slid a folder across the table. "Take a look. Bottom line: we're running out of money."
Simon opened it. Inside were budget breakdowns for every Daenerys project, plus operating expenses.
Excluding When Harry Met Sally and Pulp Fiction, both nearly finished in post, the studio had six films officially greenlit: Basic Instinct, Scream, Steel Magnolias, Blue Thunder, Rain Man, and Dead Poets Society.
Of those, only the twenty-million-dollar Basic Instinct was co-financed with Fox. The other five were fully funded by Daenerys.
Those five ranged from ten to twenty-five million each, totaling seventy-five million required. After reserving that amount, only twenty-five million remained from the hundred-million-dollar loan from Wells Fargo.
But of that twenty-five million, seven million had already gone to buy out the Charlie's Angels rights, two million to United Artists for The Hobbit and Rain Man scripts, and several more million recently on rights acquisitions like Spider-Man and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Add in day-to-day operating costs, and the studio's liquid cash was now barely over ten million.
Amy watched him read and added, "Final Destination came off screens last week with $72.61 million domestic. Per the deal, we'll get ten percent next month—about $7.26 million. But if we follow through on your offer to Saul Zaentz for the Lord of the Rings rights, or try for The Silmarillion from the Tolkien estate, we won't have enough. The scripts you brought back from Park City, the planned TV projects, marketing for the Scream franchise—all of that requires serious money. Simon, I can feel how urgent everything seems to you, but I think you need to slow down. You don't turn twenty until next month. Compared to most people in Hollywood, you have plenty of time."
Simon turned the pages and felt, more viscerally than ever, why companies like Cannon, De Laurentiis, and now New World had collapsed despite appearing to be thriving.
The entertainment business burned cash at an obscene rate, and payback cycles were agonizingly slow. The moment revenue couldn't cover expenditure and no fresh capital came in, a studio was finished.
If he didn't already own substantial personal assets, if he didn't have foreknowledge guiding his project choices, Simon was certain Daenerys would follow Cannon and the others into oblivion within a few years.
He understood perfectly the gentle warning in Amy's tone.
But could he really slow down?
Once he finished here, he was heading straight to a lunch meeting with Warner Bros. CEO Terry Semel to discuss Batman.
If he slowed down—if he let Batman go—the film would start shooting by year's end under Tim Burton, hit theaters next summer, and become the following year's box-office champion, exactly as it had in the original timeline.
At that point, Batman, Superman, the entire DC universe—none of it would have anything to do with Simon Westeros.
After the failure of Superman IV last year, Warner's confidence in a Batman adaptation was at its lowest ebb. This was Simon's last real window to seize one of the industry's crown-jewel superhero properties. How could he slow down?
The same went for everything else.
Every film in development, every copyright already acquired—they were all guaranteed blockbusters in the coming years.
Once those started hitting big, any new novel or script he wanted would trigger bidding wars. Hoarding more IP at reasonable prices would become nearly impossible. He had to strike now, while most people still saw him as an easy mark, and lock in as many valuable properties as he could while they were cheap.
Even outside Hollywood, there were things he couldn't put on hold.
He really couldn't slow down.
Having finished reviewing the files, Simon made his decision. "Amy, the purchases of Lord of the Rings and The Silmarillion will come out of Westeros Company accounts. I'll have George handle negotiations with the rights holders. The studio side proceeds as planned. Of the three scripts I brought back from Park City, greenlight Michael Hoffman's Promised Land and Whit Stillman's Metropolitan right away—both are low-budget; together they probably won't even hit six million, so they won't hurt us. Shelve 3000 for now; I have other plans for it. And remember, these are just budgeted amounts—the money doesn't vanish overnight. That gives us plenty of room to maneuver. When Harry Met Sally opens end of March; we'll have more cash coming in. Worst case, I'll transfer funds from Westeros, or we can apply for another loan here."
Amy felt the resolve in his voice and knew further argument was pointless. "Add these two and we're at eight films. I can't handle them all myself."
Simon thought for a moment. "Once Pulp Fiction wraps, I'll devote most of the rest of the year to studio projects. We'll bring on a few more producers and we'll be fine."
For projects like Steel Magnolias and Dead Poets Society, now that they were dropping the original teams, Simon would have to invest far more personal oversight to preserve the films' style and quality.
In truth, he was curious to see whether these movies could still succeed without their original creators.
Many films ahead wouldn't allow him to reassemble the exact original teams anyway. He disliked the invisible constraints that came with relying on specific talent, and he especially didn't want CAA or any agency holding his feet to the fire over one actor.
They continued talking for another half hour. Worried about midday traffic making him late, Simon left Santa Monica just before eleven and headed north to Burbank in the San Fernando Valley.
His lunch with Terry Semel was at a restaurant near the Warner Bros. lot.
When Simon arrived, Semel was already waiting.
They settled at the table, ordered, and Semel smiled. "I hear you've given up on acquiring New World Entertainment?"
Simon gave a helpless nod and a wry smile. "Yeah. Everyone wanted to fleece the fat sheep. They drove the stock price so high I couldn't afford it anymore, so I had to walk away."
Today was January 20, a Wednesday.
Back in New York, Westeros Company had already dumped all its New World shares yesterday. Wall Street speculators apparently still hoped Simon might come charging back in, because the stock closed at $11.50—well above the $7.50 it had been trading at before the news broke.
The brief half-month operation had netted Westeros more than eleven million in profit—not bad for the effort.
Over at New World, after formal acquisition talks with Westeros fell through, Larry Kuppin learned Simon had sold everything and threatened in a newspaper interview yesterday afternoon to sue Westeros for malicious stock manipulation. Nothing had come of it yet.
Regardless, Simon had no intention of abandoning New World—at the very least, not the Marvel library it controlled.
But he wasn't planning any moves in the near term.
Compared to its lukewarm film division, New World's main revenue came from television production.
And very soon, the longest strike in Hollywood history would begin. Film studios often stockpiled scripts and could weather a strike relatively well. Television, written and produced concurrently, would be devastated.
If the strike dragged on, even if New World solved its cash-flow problems, the lack of writers would shut down its TV division and worsen the company's overall position.
So.
The second half of the year, once the strike had taken its toll, would be the perfect time for Simon to make his next move.