Chapter 48: Signing the Deal
By the end of July, after a swift round of negotiations, Wayne had officially signed with Warner Bros. as the production and distribution company for his second film project. With the studio locked in, pre-production could now proceed without delay.
The most contentious point during negotiations had been Wayne's compensation as director. In a bold move, Jimmy initially demanded a base salary of $2.5 million plus 15% of the global box office—a staggeringly high figure for a second-time director. Warner Bros. rejected the proposal outright.
After that, both sides chose to set the pay dispute aside and focused on finalizing other aspects of the deal. The first two rounds of negotiations progressed smoothly, and only in the final session did they return to the topic of the director's compensation.
Both Warner Bros. and Jimmy knew such a high payout wasn't realistic, and so began a strategic testing of each other's limits. Wanting to expedite the partnership, both parties made concessions.
Eventually, with Wayne's consent and Warner execs subtly giving their blessing, they reached an agreement on a performance-based, tiered compensation model.
Because Jimmy had prioritized back-end profit sharing, he made significant compromises on upfront pay. Wayne's total compensation—covering his roles as director, producer, and screenwriter—was set at just $1.2 million, half of what he had initially hoped for.
By Wayne's own lean budgeting standards, he could produce the film for as little as $1 million. The rest of the budget would allow some breathing room for the crew. This wasn't thirty years into the future—at present, the U.S. dollar was still strong, and even in his previous life, the movie's budget hadn't exceeded $4 million.
Of course, earning from box office profits wasn't as simple as it sounded. In Hollywood, where studios and distributors were notorious for squeezing every drop, he'd only see those profits if the film became a massive hit.
The deal laid out a tiered profit-sharing structure:
Wayne would first receive his $1.2 million in three payments, tied to basic production milestones and domestic box office performance.
After that, he'd earn increasing percentages of North American box office revenue, based on how well the film performed:
> If domestic box office exceeded $50 million (10x the $5 million production budget), he would receive 5%.
If it exceeded $100 million, he'd earn 10%.
At $150 million, his share would rise to 15%.
If it hit $200 million, the cap, he'd receive 20%.
This percentage did not apply to international box office, and the contract clearly stated only these four tiers—no vague figures like "8%" or "11%."
The bigger the hit, the more Wayne would earn. With this model, he was now fully tied to the fate of the movie. Of course, aside from Wayne himself, no one truly believed the film would break the $100 million mark.
But this kind of tiered revenue-sharing for key creatives would soon become a Hollywood standard. It encouraged the team to stay committed and reduced the financial risk for studios by keeping upfront costs low. If creators wanted to earn more, they'd have to make better films—ones the audience actually wanted to see.
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After returning home to his Beverly Hills estate, Wayne's first move was to call his old classmate Luke Simmons and invite him over to discuss the new project.
Next, he contacted Steve Wilson, the gaffer from his last production. Finally, he confirmed the addition of Robert Carlos, a skilled cinematographer introduced through Jimmy's connections at CAA.
Of these three, only Robert hadn't worked with Wayne before. But being a rising name in the industry—and personally recommended—he wasn't likely to challenge Wayne's authority. The rest of the team were trusted collaborators who already understood Wayne's working style.
By 10 a.m. the next morning, everyone had gathered in the newly renamed Garfield Estate, seated in the living room to discuss early production plans. The only two unfamiliar faces in the room were John Gray, the production manager assigned by Warner Bros., and Robert, the new cinematographer.
"John," Wayne began, glancing around the room after a quick round of introductions, "when can we expect the initial investment funds to be available? We need to start pre-production immediately."
John surveyed the assembled group—aside from Wayne's assistant Nina and his agent Jimmy, this was clearly the project's core team. Snapping into business mode, he replied smoothly:
"Warner Bros. has already transferred the funds to Merrill Insurance. The 'Get Out' project account is live—you can begin using it at any time."
Although the investment wasn't large, Warner Bros. still opted to use a completion bond via an insurance company—a standard industry practice with both pros and cons.
The upside? If anything unexpected happened—accidents, delays, or even a shutdown—the insurance company would cover the losses and ensure the film got finished.
The downside? Every expenditure needed insurance company approval first, followed by review from the production manager. The red tape made it far more tedious than the freedom of independent filmmaking.
But this was the price of entering the mainstream commercial film world. Unless Wayne wanted to be a low-budget indie director for life, he had to start adapting—learning to work within the system's rigid structure.
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"Alright, Luke," Wayne said, shifting into a more businesslike tone, "you'll be the assistant director again. Your main focus early on will be coordinating with John on securing outdoor locations and studio space. The settings in this film are pretty simple—most of it can be shot right on the Warner backlot.
"For the exterior scenes, we'll find a quiet small town in the suburbs to use as our backdrop. Also, help me draft a casting call. Every role will be filled through open auditions."
"No problem, leave it to me." Luke responded in his calm, dependable manner. He had turned down other jobs and waited months just for this project to begin.
Naomi, sitting quietly on a sofa behind the group with a cup of coffee, almost dropped her drink when she heard that all roles would be cast through auditions. But she held her reaction. She knew Wayne valued loyalty—he would explain things to her afterward.
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"Robert," Wayne continued, turning to the new cinematographer, "coordinate with John about bringing on assistant camera operators. This film will use a lot of four-camera setups, so you'll need to be well prepared."
"No problem, Director Garfield." Robert gave a nod toward John, acknowledging the production manager.
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"Steve," Wayne said to his longtime gaffer, "same goes for you. I'll send you a rough storyboard in advance. I'm aiming for a specific look—bright daylight that still feels cold and unsettling."
"Not an issue. I've got it covered," Steve replied with his usual brevity. He didn't talk much, but his skill needed no words.
Wayne gave a satisfied nod. After glancing around at everyone once more, he said, "Alright, that's it for now. Everyone go get started on your preparations."
As people began gathering their things and leaving, only Jimmy, Naomi, Nina, and Wayne remained in the living room.
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"Wayne, about the extras and minor speaking roles..." Jimmy began cautiously.
"For any part with just a line or two, forget auditions. Pull from CAA's list of new talent," Wayne said. "Just make sure the rates are reasonable—you and John can work that out."
"Thanks," Jimmy said, noting it down.
"Oh, and Jimmy," Wayne added, "send a casting invite to Will Smith. He's a hip-hop artist, just won a Grammy recently. Should be easy to find."
Wayne had been thinking it through. The role he had in mind wasn't particularly demanding—Smith could absolutely handle it. The only part that truly needed acting chops was the maid character; the rest just needed to be convincing.
"A rapper? A Grammy winner?" Jimmy raised his brows. "Alright, but don't be surprised if he turns us down. These music guys rake in cash way faster than we do in film." Still, he wrote down Will Smith's name.
"Doesn't hurt to try. If he's not interested, we'll move on. This is Hollywood—no one is irreplaceable. Not even me," Wayne said with a wink.
"When do you want to schedule auditions?" Jimmy asked, ignoring the self-deprecating joke as he kept writing.
"Ten days from now. We can't afford big-name stars, so we're going with fresh faces."
"Got it." Jimmy snapped his notebook shut and stood up. "I'll head back to the agency. Call me if anything comes up."
Once he'd gone, only Nina and Naomi remained. Naomi finally walked over, script in hand, and sat beside Wayne.
"If I don't do well at the audition… would you replace me?" she asked quietly.
"Don't overthink it, Naomi," he said, gently pressing her hand. "You got the script before anyone else. You've had more time to rehearse than the rest. If you can't pass the audition, what do you think I'd do?"
"Just wait and see, Wayne. I'll be the best performer you've got." She didn't get the reassurance she was looking for, but she couldn't argue with his logic—she had a clear head start over the competition.
"Naomi, listen," Wayne said firmly. "I can only promise one thing: your audition must be at least on par with the others. You get what I'm saying?"
"Okay. I understand."
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In this industry, there's no escaping personal connections—especially in casting. For the same role, if two people perform about equally well, the director will almost always choose someone they trust.
So even if Naomi didn't outshine everyone else, as long as she fit the role, it was practically hers.
Let's be honest: this business has its unspoken rules. Or rather, spoken everywhere but never officially written down. Yes, the infamous "casting couch" still exists. But anyone thinking they can land a role just by sleeping with the director or producer is in for a rude awakening.
At best, it might tip the scales slightly—if they're already qualified.
No matter how beautiful a woman is, no director is going to risk millions just because of a one-night stand.
You have to be competent first. That's the bare minimum.
And if the one making shady promises is a powerful producer or casting director, they can just as easily disappear afterward—leaving the actress with no role and no recourse.
The poster child for this behavior? Harvey Weinstein.
This guy thrived on low-budget indie films and chasing awards—an environment as chaotic as the rock scene or fashion industry.