The days after the Toronto premiere of Providence felt like a whirlwind of cautious hope. Harry hadn't gotten much sleep, replaying the audience's reactions over and over—the coughs, the shuffling in their seats, the occasional gasps, and how Bardem's presence seemed to grip the room like a fist. Now, a week later, he found himself sitting with Gregory in a café right across from Fox's temporary festival office, a mug of coffee growing cold and untouched in front of him.
Word of mouth was starting to trickle in. It began slowly, then picked up like rainwater dripping through an old roof. A few smaller critics had posted their thoughts on their blogs—an unnerving atmosphere, methodical pacing, a director to keep an eye on. Not exactly the kind of praise you'd slap on a billboard, but enough to indicate that the film hadn't just disappeared into the festival void.
Gregory tapped away on his phone and said, "Fox is happy. Or at least as happy as a studio can be. They're aiming for a modest nationwide release. Nothing too flashy—maybe five hundred screens, and possibly more if the numbers hold up."
Harry let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "So we're not done for."
"Not at all. You're in luck—it's the kind of film that thrives on word of mouth. People leave feeling unsettled, and that feeling lingers. They'll talk about it, even if they don't quite grasp what they just saw."
In a bustling corner of the city, a small marketing team huddled in a tight meeting room at Fox's festival suite, already brainstorming their strategy.
Posters featuring Bardem's striking profile adorned the walls, with taglines that danced around themes of morality and faith. They even had a trailer that focused on Daniel Hayes' wide-eyed descent, deliberately downplaying the film's more subtle moments.
Harry couldn't help but overhear one marketer's pitch: "Imagine if Seven and Silence of the Lambs had a Catholic child." The room erupted in laughter, but the sound of pens scratching on paper filled the air.
Fox had decided to roll out the film in theaters by late October, giving them a few weeks to build excitement from the festivals in Chicago and New York. They were cautious yet determined—enough to invest in late-night cable ads and secure spots in select magazines.
Meanwhile, at FunTime Productions, Harry's name was buzzing around for entirely different reasons.
In the sleek Jackson Multimedia offices on Wilshire Boulevard, Mason and the board members convened in their glass conference room, overlooking the sparkling skyline of Los Angeles. A flat-screen in the corner displayed muted CNN, with a news ticker scrolling through global headlines, while Mason flipped through slides detailing budgets and projections for American Edge, their highly anticipated release scheduled for the end of November.
"Providence is just a small player," one senior executive commented, leaning back in his chair. "It's a boutique film, an art-house favorite. Our project has mainstream appeal. It's got commercial legs."
Another executive shook his head. "Don't underestimate it. Fox isn't foolish—they see a hook. That priest character, the moral tension, it can stir up controversy. And controversy sells tickets, sometimes even more than spectacle."
Mason stayed quiet for a long moment, his fingers steepled under his chin. He had already read the early trades and watched the festival buzz grow from hushed whispers to louder conversations.
"I'll say this much," he finally spoke up. "Harry Jackson might have left our ship, but he hasn't sunk it. He's building his own. If Providence keeps climbing, it'll give FunTime Productions some serious credibility. And credibility can be dangerous."
A murmur spread around the table. Someone asked, "Should we see him as competition?"
Mason's gaze drifted toward the skyline. "We treat him as inevitable. He's got money and patience, and apparently a knack for spotting talent. But instinct only gets you so far. Let's see how he navigates the real storm of a release. One decent showing at Toronto doesn't make him Scorsese."
The conversation shifted back to American Edge. Their project was flashier, featuring two big-name stars and supported by a marketing budget that dwarfed Harry's entire production.
Still, Mason couldn't shake the feeling of unease. He had known Harry since he was a kid running around boardrooms, wide-eyed but distant. And now, watching him revive their Television Department only to destroy it and leave the very company he was supposed to inherit, Mason felt a twinge of something like resentment.
______
Meanwhile, Harry was discovering that a film's journey didn't just stop after its premiere. Each morning, Lisa would drop off piles of clippings, emails, and festival reviews at his desk. She looked both excited and a bit overwhelmed, as if she had to shield Harry from the unpredictable opinions of critics.
"Film Comment published a piece," she mentioned one afternoon, sliding the magazine over to him. "They described the film as restrained. And unsettling in its restraint."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "That's just their polite way of saying it's boring."
Lisa chuckled. "Hey, it's better than calling it indulgent."
Gregory popped in with a sheet of box office predictions. "If Fox gets the marketing right, you could see five to six million in the first couple of weekends. It's modest, but for an indie film like this, that's pretty solid."
Harry leaned back in his chair, feeling a mix of relief and caution. "So we're still in the game, then."
Gregory flashed a grin. "Alive and kicking."
The nights were tougher.
Alone in his hotel suite, Harry replayed everything in his mind—the fourteen takes of the library tracking shot, the long hours spent with Daniel Hayes trying to capture just the right look of paranoia, and how Javier Bardem sometimes improvised with a quiet menace that even unsettled the crew. He recalled the fatigue, the nagging self-doubt, and wondered if audiences could pick up on that through the screen.
Rachel called him from London, her voice unexpectedly soft. "Your little film is making waves over here," she said. "The Guardian described it as... 'a stern but promising debut.'"
Harry chuckled lightly. "That's such a British thing to say."
"Don't make fun of it, Harry. It means they're actually noticing you. They didn't claim you were flawless; they said you have potential. And potential can take you far."
After they hung up, he found himself gazing at the twinkling city lights. Potential. It felt like both a weight and a blessing.
Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, Mason was gearing up for his company's own launch. His meetings in the boardroom became more intense, his demeanor more frigid. "Harry might have potential, but we're the ones with a track record. Our film will remind everyone of the vast difference between just trying and truly dominating."
Yet, as the buzz from Toronto reached a boiling point and Fox announced they'd expand the release, Mason poured himself a late-night whiskey and looked out of his office window. For the first time in years, he sensed the looming threat of competition—not from Paramount or Universal, but from a twenty-five-year-old kid who had once walked behind him in the hallways.