Chapter 95: PolyGram's Ambition
The 48th Golden Globe Awards had just concluded, and the night's biggest winner was Dances with Wolves, produced by Orion Pictures.
Kevin Costner, with his self-directed debut film, took home Best Motion Picture – Drama and Best Director, outshining heavyweights like Martin Scorsese (Goodfellas) and Francis Ford Coppola (The Godfather Part III).
"Orion just bought itself a little more time to live," Aaron Anderson muttered from the couch of his West Hollywood apartment, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand.
Dances with Wolves had already surpassed $90 million at the North American box office. After sweeping the Golden Globes, it was now the frontrunner for the Oscars — a huge morale boost for the struggling studio.
Nicole Kidman approached with a glass of champagne, smiling.
"And Kathy Bates won Best Actress in a Drama for Misery," she said, handing him the drink.
Aaron raised an eyebrow, taking a sip. "What's there to celebrate? The world's literally at war — Bush just invaded Iraq two days ago."
Nicole chuckled softly. "Come on. Both Kevin Costner and Kathy Bates starred in Ghost, didn't they? Their wins can only help your movie's publicity."
Aaron smiled faintly. She was right. The more attention Dances with Wolves drew, the better the buzz for Ghost — which was set for release that summer.
He glanced at her. "Weren't you supposed to audition for Tom Cruise's new movie, Far and Away?"
Nicole's expression soured a little. "Yeah… but the female lead wasn't decided by the director or producer. Tom Cruise himself picked her. My agent said I didn't even make the final round."
"Because of the height difference?" Aaron asked.
Nicole nodded quietly. That said it all.
Aaron shrugged. "Forget it. You'd have been window dressing anyway. In Cruise's movies, nobody remembers the women — Days of Thunder, Rain Man… can you even name the female leads?"
He smirked, setting down his glass. "Once Ghost hits theaters, you won't be short on scripts. Even if you're not Julia Roberts, it'll still make you a star overnight."
Julia Roberts, of course, had just taken home the Golden Globe for Best Actress in a Musical or Comedy for Pretty Woman. Offers were flooding her way nonstop.
Nicole smiled, resting her head on his shoulder. "By the way, did you keep up with the Sundance Film Festival?"
Aaron shook his head. "Not really. Nothing particularly impressive this year — no new directors worth backing."
As the founder of Dawnlight Films, he was always scouting talent, and Sundance was the perfect place to find promising indie filmmakers.
Nicole brushed her hair aside and said, "What about Poison? It won the Jury Prize. The critics are calling it groundbreaking — very avant-garde."
Aaron ran his hand absentmindedly along her thigh, lost in thought. "Yeah, I heard. Purely artistic, though. Zero commercial value. It's just another controversial New Queer Cinema film."
He wasn't wrong. Poison had a similar tone to My Own Private Idaho, but without the star power — and with even bolder, riskier subject matter.
It was a true-blue independent production — fragmented, provocative, and unapologetically queer.
"The first segment," Aaron explained, half to himself, "is shot like a mock documentary. It's about a boy with a masochistic streak who shoots his abusive father after witnessing him beating his mother… then vanishes without a trace."
He paused, then smirked faintly. "Brilliantly shot, sure. But try selling that in theaters."
The second segment of Poison told the story of a scientist who accidentally drank a chemical serum of his own creation.
His skin began to decay, and soon the rot spread like an infection to anyone who touched him.
Though his devoted female assistant refused to abandon him, she too succumbed to the infection — and in the end, the scientist died as his body completely decomposed.
The third story followed a gay prison inmate, haunted by memories of violent sexual encounters from his past.
After several tense interactions with another prisoner, he ultimately assaulted him.
All three narratives revolved around sex in one form or another — the boy's masochism, the scientist's corrupted creation, and the prisoner's forbidden desire.
The central metaphor was clear enough: the true "poison" the film spoke of… was sexuality itself.
Aaron exhaled faintly after hearing about it.
"At best, that's a limited-release art film. Not my kind of project."
An NC–17-rated piece might win praise in small circles, but it wasn't something Aaron Anderson or Dawnlight Films needed.
He already had enough going on.
Quentin Tarantino was prepping Reservoir Dogs, and Dawnlight had worked with young directors like David Fincher and John Singleton. There was no real need to keep chasing new, untested talent.
And then there were his trusted collaborators: Edward Zwick, who directed Ghost, and Jonathan Demme, whose The Silence of the Lambs was shaping up beautifully.
Those were names worth investing in.
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After the Golden Globes, Dances with Wolves continued its triumphant run, sweeping awards from the Directors Guild, Producers Guild, and several critics' associations.
In the U.S., the "Big Five" film critic groups — the National Society of Film Critics, National Board of Review, Los Angeles Film Critics Association, New York Film Critics Circle, and Boston Society of Film Critics — often dictated Oscar momentum.
Alongside the Golden Globes, BAFTAs, and the two major guild awards, they served as the true weather vanes of Hollywood's awards season.
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That evening, the Château Marmont in West Hollywood buzzed with life.
A glamorous party was underway — hosted by PolyGram, celebrating the opening of its Los Angeles office, marking the European company's official step into Hollywood production.
"Congratulations, Michael," Aaron said, raising his glass. "Looks like PolyGram's making a serious play for the film industry."
Michael Kuhn, the sharp British executive behind PolyGram's film ventures, chuckled modestly.
"PolyGram's already had its hands in a few Hollywood films," he said. "We're just making it official now."
He wasn't wrong — the company had invested in Wild at Heart, Barton Fink, and My Own Private Idaho.
"Let me introduce someone," Michael said, motioning to a man nearby.
"This is Paul Webster, head of PolyGram's U.S. division."
"Mr. Anderson, a pleasure," Webster said, clinking glasses.
"Please," Aaron replied with a smile, "just call me Aaron. Dawnlight and PolyGram have already worked together — I'm sure there'll be plenty more opportunities."
During their chat, Aaron learned that Paul Webster was already developing a political satire film titled Bob Roberts, to be directed and starred in by Tim Robbins, with Paramount handling distribution.
Though modestly budgeted, Bob Roberts would mark PolyGram's first independently produced American feature, a clear signal of their ambition.
As the two men walked away to greet other guests, Aaron drained his wine and leaned back, thinking aloud:
"So, PolyGram's really planning to make a serious push into filmmaking, huh?"
Foreign companies had long preferred to invest rather than produce — leaving the creative and logistical heavy lifting to the American studios.
But PolyGram's move suggested a shift.
They weren't content with just writing checks anymore — they wanted to own a piece of Hollywood itself.
Aaron chuckled softly. "Well… they'll learn soon enough."
Competition in Hollywood was already cutthroat. Local studios were locked in endless battles for box office dominance.
As for foreign newcomers?
The road ahead would be even tougher.
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