Los Angeles.
The sudden departure of producer Ron McMillan from Daenerys Entertainment turned an already restless January in Hollywood into outright commotion.
Upon learning he had been fired over what he considered trivial matters, Ron McMillan immediately tried to reach Simon, convinced that Amy and Janet had overstepped. When it became clear Simon had approved the decision, McMillan dropped all pretense and demanded five million dollars in severance.
Daenerys, of course, refused. They had no fear of his threats to sue.
Evidence of McMillan's misappropriation of project funds, though the amounts were small, was ironclad and more than sufficient justification for dismissal.
If it went public, no matter how the industry viewed it privately, McMillan would end up as disgraced as David Begelman had years earlier.
After a week of standoff, he signed a separation agreement with no compensation.
In exchange for a confidentiality clause barring discussion of the matter, he received early payment of his outstanding profit participation from several Daenerys films, two million six hundred thousand dollars total. With that, the slate was clean.
Inside Daenerys, Janet's personally supervised financial audit continued. A number of employees with sticky fingers were quietly let go.
The moves drew inevitable criticism, but everyone at the company understood that Daenerys would never tolerate the lax standards common at older studios. And given the studio's above-industry salaries, few resigned over the stricter financial controls.
Though bound by confidentiality, McMillan soon began badmouthing Simon and the studio's supposed stinginess at industry parties. Since he avoided the press, Daenerys could not formally respond.
Still, having his name attached to three top-ten hits of the year, Run Lola Run, Final Destination, and Scream, made him highly desirable, even if everyone knew Simon Westeros had been the true guiding force behind them.
After several bids, Universal Pictures won out with a lavish three-picture deal: three million base salary plus ten percent of net profits.
Universal also provided private-jet privileges, personal hospitality staff, an executive assistant, and office space on the lot for McMillan's new production company, privileges previously extended only to Spielberg's and a handful of others.
Daenerys had not concealed the reasons for McMillan's exit; the industry knew. Universal's extravagant perks on top of the rich contract carried an unmistakable edge of provocation.
Daenerys faced more than just this one slight.
Paramount's heated preparations for The Rocketeer and Fire Flies aside, Columbia Pictures, after discussions between parent companies MCA and Columbia Home Entertainment, secured distribution rights to sex, lies, and videotape, now seen as a potential sleeper hit.
As Sundance approached, Columbia assembled a dedicated marketing team to begin building buzz.
In its fifth week, with screens increased to 1,732, Rain Man posted another slight counter-drop: up two percent to $13.19 million. Cumulative North American gross soared to $72.38 million.
Five consecutive weeks, likely six, above ten million demonstrated legs that already surpassed every 1988 Daenerys release.
Even Scream, the studio's strongest non-holiday performer, had managed only four weeks over ten million. Pulp Fiction, the current 1988 champion, had held five.
As an awards-season heavyweight, with Oscar nominations announced at month's end and guild awards plus the Oscars themselves in February and March, Rain Man's potential clearly exceeded Pulp Fiction.
Watching the numbers climb, MGM, having passed on the script, lost The Hobbit in the bargain, and later sold full North American rights for a mere five million, could no longer sit still.
A potential year-end champion.
Even with a forty-million total cost, domestic and international theatrical alone could yield nine figures in profit, never mind ancillary revenue from video and television.
A gold mine.
Snatched away by Simon Westeros.
So MGM threatened lawsuits, demanded compensation, and actually retained counsel to scour the contracts for loopholes.
Add in the relatively friendly Fox, Warner, and Disney, and nearly all seven majors had tangled with Daenerys in one way or another this lively January.
Taken individually, none of it was insurmountable. Even MGM's litigation threats could be met move for move.
Big hits in Hollywood almost always spawned disputes large and small. Rumors had once swirled that Simon and Janet had fallen out over Run Lola Run profits.
The real frustration was that every project Daenerys showed interest in instantly became the focus of industry-wide attention.
Though Simon had presciently stockpiled copyrights, they could not satisfy endless demand, nor could the studio greenlight every promising title at once. Other projects were needed to fill the pipeline.
"Al, I know what you're thinking. Once Daenerys expresses interest in Driving Miss Daisy, every other studio will bid higher, that's Hollywood's mood right now. But can you be sure they'll do it justice? If they botch it, you get a slightly larger option fee and nothing else. With us, success means fame and fortune on this film alone, plus elevation to the very top tier of screenwriters. Every script you write afterward will be fought over. Think about it, we can give you a future. That's what matters most."
New York, a café on Broadway.
Ira Deutchman spoke earnestly to the balding, fiftyish man across the table. Finishing, he slid a business card over. "My hotel details are there. If you want to sell to us, call tonight. After that, I can only say I'm sorry."
The man opposite was Alfred Uhry, primarily a Broadway playwright. Two years earlier his play Driving Miss Daisy had earned universal praise and the previous year's Pulitzer Prize for Drama.
Fingering the card, Uhry looked shrewdly at Deutschman, who had risen. He remained seated, probing with quiet confidence. "Ira, if I don't call, will you really walk away? I think this could be another Steel Magnolias."
Deutschman merely smiled. "Al, you're the third playwright I've met today. I have seven more. Each of you probably believes your script is the next Steel Magnolias. Unfortunately, there's only one Steel Magnolias."
"All right," Uhry softened. "Why not sit back down? If you want the play, you'll need to tell me how you plan to adapt it. And a hundred thousand feels a little light for a Pulitzer-winning property, don't you think?"
Deutschman did not sit. "I said earlier: one hundred thousand is only the advance. Within three years, if we produce, you receive another two hundred thousand, full screenplay credit, and WGA-scale residuals. After three years, if we haven't produced, you may repurchase the rights."
Uhry pressed. "So you're not planning to shoot soon. That changes things, I'll need to think carefully."
Deutschman extended his hand. "If you sign, Al, we can spend all day tomorrow discussing every detail."
They shook, and Deutschman left the café without hesitation.
In recent weeks, to counter the industry blockade, Daenerys had adopted this ultimatum approach in script negotiations: limited time to decide, no second chances, and no bidding wars with the majors.
Combined with the studio's frequent pursuits, making it impossible for rivals to predict patterns, the strategy had largely eased the pressure.
It had drawbacks, of course. Established A-list writers rarely buckled. Those who agreed were mostly hungry, still-emerging talents, the very group Daenerys was targeting.
Ira Deutchman himself had no idea of Driving Miss Daisy's ultimate significance, nor that in the original timeline it would win Best Picture at the 62nd Academy Awards in 1990.
After Steel Magnolias' strong holiday performance, Hollywood had turned greater attention to Broadway adaptations. Deutchman, after consulting Simon, had allocated budget specifically for literary stage properties suitable for Gaumont's arthouse slate.
As last year's Pulitzer winner, Driving Miss Daisy naturally made the list. When Simon, in Melbourne, saw the title among Deutchman's recommendations, he offered no special guidance.
He was well aware of the studio's current predicament.
The ultimatum strategy was working effectively; he saw no reason to make an exception.
Hollywood history had already shifted considerably. In other hands, the film might never achieve its original success. And any rights holder with vision would recognize that partnering with Daenerys served their own interests best.
After meeting Uhry, Deutschman hurried to his remaining appointments.
At day's end, returning to his Midtown hotel, the concierge handed him several messages. Of the five playwrights he had seen, three had called to accept, including Alfred Uhry.
Back in his room, Deutchman returned the calls, then rang Ireland to check progress on My Left Foot.
That acquisition had been the fruit of his recent trip to Britain.
My Left Foot, starring Daniel Day-Lewis, told the true story of a man paralyzed by cerebral palsy who became an artist using only his left foot.
In the original timeline, it had been, along with sex, lies, and videotape, one of Miramax's breakthrough titles and a 1990 Best Picture nominee.
Now neither film belonged to Miramax.
Though he had missed sex, lies, and videotape, Deutchman's prior collaboration with Day-Lewis on A Room with a View during his New Line days smoothed the path to securing My Left Foot.
By the time he discovered the project, director Jim Sheridan had completed pre-production and was days from shooting.
Because Simon prized it highly, Deutschman paid one million eight hundred thousand dollars to buy out the original three investors. The price was steep; the production budget was only six hundred thousand pounds, under a million dollars.
The investors had hoped to hold out for more. Deutchman issued his ultimatum, and they folded.
British information flowed slower than Hollywood's. The film was widely dismissed, not yet shot, its final quality uncertain. Turning a near-double profit with almost no effort proved too tempting for the small independent financiers.
The success of the ultimatum on My Left Foot had encouraged Daenerys to employ it regularly ever since.