"Sean, my demand isn't unreasonable!"
In an office at Universal Studios, Helen Herman looked across the desk at Sean Daniel and said, "Eight million dollars is an accurate reflection of Matthew's current fame and drawing power."
"That's too high," Sean Daniel replied, more diplomatic than Helen Herman. "The production budget is only twenty-eight million. If Matthew takes nearly a third, the production can't shoulder it."
Helen Herman was adamant. "Since pirates of the caribbean opened, Matthew has stayed in the media spotlight and held second place on IMDB's most-searched actors list!"
The current heat of pirates of the caribbean and the audience love for both Matthew and Will Turner gave her plenty of leverage. "Disney Pictures and several market-research firms have surveyed viewers—Matthew is the second most-popular actor in the film, chosen by thirty-nine percent of respondents. You know very well that most of that appeal will carry over to dawn of the dead."
Sean Daniel's tone stayed soft but his stance was firm. "Helen, if Matthew pockets nearly a third of the budget, what do I use to hire a director and the rest of the cast? I can't ask them to work for free."
The two had negotiated many times; every other point was settled—the only sticking point was Matthew's salary.
At first Helen Herman had asked for ten million. After two rounds of bargaining Sean had whittled it down to eight million, and there she had dug in.
Even after Universal Pictures raised the budget from twenty-five to twenty-eight million, an eight-million-dollar leading man was still more than he or the production could bear.
It was simply too much; it would cripple normal production operations.
Helen Herman had her own plan: hold the line at eight million. "Sean, let me remind you—Matthew's last two starring films: the scorpion king broke a hundred million domestic; pirates of the caribbean has already passed two hundred million domestic and is still hot in theaters. Anyone can see it won't finish below three hundred million in North America."
She raised her voice for emphasis. "In both films Matthew is the absolute lead, and his characters are hugely popular. Looking at those box-office numbers, is eight million really high?"
Sean Daniel smiled. "You can't calculate a salary that way."
Helen Herman shot back, fully confident. "In Hollywood, that's exactly how it's calculated."
The studios have a system for valuing stars—one that has little to do with acting skill or awards. The main yardstick is the box-office performance of the actor's last three lead films. If the last three are flops, even an Oscar winner can't command a high fee.
Of course, an unproven newcomer, even a genius with earth-shattering talent, is still sold at cabbage prices.
The same rule applies to behind-the-camera talent like directors.
Sean Daniel wiped the smile from his face.
"If I had a fifty-million budget," he said seriously, "none of this would be an issue. But I only have twenty-eight million. If Matthew takes eight, I'll have to pull more than two million out of shooting and post-production budgets just to cover the rest of the cast and Crew at rock-bottom rates."
Helen Herman said nothing, letting him continue.
"On a mid-budget picture, what does it mean to lose two-odd million from shooting and post?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It means we slash wherever we can, and the final quality suffers. Poor quality drags down box-office."
He looked straight at her. "You know as well as I do that a star's draw can't fully compensate for weak film-making. If dawn of the dead underperforms, Matthew—as the lead—will be the first to take the hit. His upward momentum will slow, even stop..."
Helen Herman knew that perfectly well; everything she'd said was pressure to make Sean yield elsewhere.
Sean wasn't finished. "Helen, once a movie star stops moving forward, he starts sliding back, and climbing again becomes hard." He gestured for emphasis. "Why can't we look further ahead? Matthew and I are old friends; I don't want him to sacrifice bigger long-term gains for a little short-term profit. I can't believe an outstanding Agent like you doesn't see that."
"You make a strong case," Helen Herman said, seeming convinced. "Matthew and I can make a reasonable concession."
Sean Daniel smiled faintly and followed her words. "Four million dollars. That shows Matthew's worth and his absolute lead status, without hurting the production budget."
So-called friendship is worth nothing in a negotiation like this.
Helen Herman knew the rule perfectly well. She refused flat-out. "Impossible! If this is the sincerity you and the Crew offer, there's nothing left to discuss!"
Her tone cooled. "You probably don't know—Matthew felt guilty for turning down your last project because of scheduling. When you and Zack Snyder came to him this time, he felt he absolutely couldn't refuse. After all, you gave him his break."
When it comes to polished pleasantries, no one outdoes an entertainment Agent like her. "For this collaboration he turned down Jerry Bruckheimer's invitation, Sean. Do you know what that project is? A top-tier production with over a hundred million in investment. Jerry Bruckheimer wanted Matthew as the lead in king arthur! And for the sake of his relationship with you, he said no to Jerry Bruckheimer. Ask around Disney—plenty of people know."
Sean Daniel had no comeback. If Helen Herman dared say it, Matthew Horner had definitely rejected Jerry Bruckheimer's offer.
Helen gave a soft snort. "Sean, this is your sincerity? Look how much Matthew gave up to work with you—and what have you done?"
Her voice sharpened. "Let me put it plainly: Matthew isn't short on projects, and you know it. Preparations for the pirates of the caribbean sequels start soon—two films shooting back-to-back. Another big action-adventure from Jerry Bruckheimer is eyeing him too."
Hearing that, Sean Daniel looked troubled. After a long struggle, as if mustering great resolve, he said, "Five million. Any more and the shoot really suffers."
"We'll accept the five million." Helen let it end there. "Matthew and I aren't money-grubbing. We value loyalty."
Before Sean could exhale, her tone shifted. "I have a few small conditions!"
Once the salary was settled, the rest was easy. Sean nodded. "Go ahead."
Helen smiled. "First, in the opening titles Matthew's name appears first among the cast, in a font we approve, alone—not in a list with the others."
Entirely reasonable for the absolute lead. Sean didn't object. "Agreed."
"Second," she continued, "on the main poster, apart from background zombies, Matthew is the only actor shown."
Sean nodded. "That works too."
Helen added, "Third, if any minor roles suit actors from Angel Talent Agency, they get priority."
Sean considered for a second and nodded again. "I'll talk to the casting director."
For unimportant supporting parts, as long as the actor's capable, the agency makes little difference.
"And one last thing." Helen saved the key demand for the end. "Sean, Matthew and I can accept five million upfront—but!"
Her voice hardened. "Five million is only the base salary. Matthew must share in the box-office take!"
Sean frowned instantly. "Helen, you're too greedy."
"We lowered our fee to reduce the project's risk," Helen countered, ready. "A share of back-end income is fair. Besides, Matthew shares the risk with the film. If it flops, that money vanishes—spurring him to give everything."
She laid out the plan. "We'll set thirty million as the threshold. If North American grosses top thirty million, Matthew gets one percent. For every extra ten million, his share rises another one percent."
"Out of the question!" Sean refused flatly. "If North America breaks a hundred million, he walks away with over ten million. No production would agree—Matthew doesn't have that pull yet!"
Sean rejected the percentage, not the idea of a share. Helen, sensing his bottom line, let the matter rest.
"We can negotiate the rate," she said.
Sean thought, then stood. "I can't decide this alone; I need to speak with Universal Pictures. Let's call it a day."