Chapter 165: Buy First, Talk Later
Although it was already the early 1990s—and works centered on homosexuality were becoming increasingly common, even forming a new niche within art-house cinema, aided in no small part by festivals like Sundance—Neil Jordan's self-written and self-directed The Crying Game was still a striking surprise.
Burbank, Dawnlight Pictures — conference room.
"Before The Crying Game was released in the UK," Neil Jordan said with a helpless shrug, "I wrote to almost every well-known British film critic, asking them not to mention the twist—that Dil is actually a man—in their reviews after the preview screenings."
He gave a bitter smile.
"In the end, they did keep quiet about the twist… but nearly all of them tore the film apart anyway."
The film's cold reception in the UK—and the wave of negative reviews—had clearly shaken Jordan's confidence.
Aaron exchanged a glance with Brad Grey beside him, then smiled.
"But you've seen the response in the United States," Aaron said calmly. "That narrative reversal is exactly what audiences find compelling."
The film's greatest highlight was undoubtedly Jay Davidson's performance as Dil—so convincingly feminine that the character became the emotional linchpin of the entire story. A man presenting himself through a woman's appearance and identity wasn't just provocative; it was unforgettable.
"Don't worry," Aaron continued. "Dawnlight will step up the promotional push next. We're going to campaign seriously for the Oscars."
Fame and profit—when both were on the table, Aaron had no intention of holding back.
He then left Brad Grey and Neil Jordan to continue discussing the next phase of the plan. As for Interview with the Vampire, that conversation could wait until The Crying Game's reputation had fully spread.
After all, at this point, Neil Jordan's name alone still wasn't quite enough to make Tom Cruise fall perfectly into line.
As the MPAA relayed new developments, countries across Europe began forming a pan-European film industry alliance, aiming to revive a movie sector that had been sluggish since the Gulf War.
At the same time, the European Union proposed ending preferential import policies for American films and was even considering an import quota system to push back against Hollywood's overwhelming dominance.
"Across Europe, domestic films generally hold less than 35% market share,"
Evelyn Beckett reported as she entered Aaron's office.
"France is the only exception—and even there, it's because of very strict protectionist policies."
"No wonder they're trying to block Hollywood," Aaron replied casually.
He paused, then asked, "What's the situation with Marvel? Do they still control the film rights to Spider-Man?"
"Marvel Comics?" Evelyn blinked. "I'll check immediately."
Back in 1985, Cannon Films had acquired a five-year option from Marvel to produce a Spider-Man movie. Unfortunately, Cannon later poured enormous funds into big-budget disasters like Superman IV and Masters of the Universe, forcing them to slash Spider-Man's budget to under $10 million. The project stalled and never entered production.
By 1990, the rights expired. Cannon itself was acquired by Pathé, while its former chairman Menahem Golan created a shell company—21st Century Film Corporation—and negotiated a two-year extension with Marvel.
"But Golan's Spider-Man script never got approval from Stan Lee, right?" Aaron asked.
"Correct. Stan Lee is Marvel's chief creative authority now."
Aaron nodded. Marvel was already controlled by Ronald Perelman, who had taken the company public and aggressively expanded it into trading cards, toys, stickers, and collectibles. Comics now accounted for barely a quarter of Marvel's business. Perelman wasn't interested in storytelling—he was interested in financial leverage.
Evelyn continued, "When Cannon's Fantastic Four license was about to expire, they rushed out a low-quality film just to retain the rights. Marvel was furious and spent over a million dollars buying and destroying the prints."
"Spider-Man is Marvel's crown jewel," Aaron said calmly.
"The only hero who can truly rival DC's Superman and Batman. Of course they won't let him be butchered."
"Golan even pitched the script to Columbia Pictures, but it was rejected," Evelyn added.
Aaron tapped the desk thoughtfully.
"Then let's buy 21st Century Film Corporation outright—and renegotiate directly with Marvel for an extension."
Evelyn's eyes lit up. "You want to make Spider-Man?"
Aaron smiled faintly.
"Whether we make it or not doesn't matter yet. First, we secure the rights. With Dawnlight Pictures' current reserves, development won't be a problem."
"Understood."
The acquisition went smoothly. Dawn Pictures purchased 21st Century Film Corporation, whose only real assets were several Spider-Man scripts and the soon-to-expire licensing agreement.
Negotiations with Marvel followed quickly. Once the license expired, Marvel granted Dawnlight Pictures a five-year film option, in exchange for 5% of box-office revenue. All other rights—comics, toys, merchandise—remained with Marvel. After all, films were primarily a marketing engine to boost merchandise sales.
As the U.S. election approached, Senate races across the states concluded, with the final presidential vote just weeks away.
The contenders were clear:
Republican incumbent George H. W. Bush,
Democratic nominee Bill Clinton, governor of Arkansas,
and independent billionaire Ross Perot.
On the rooftop of the Bradbury Building in downtown Los Angeles, Aaron Anderson stood beside Jack Wells, gazing toward Koreatown.
"Clinton's visiting LA again at the last minute—surveying the riot-damaged areas?" Aaron asked.
Jack chuckled. "We're betting on him to win. Racial issues alone will bring him plenty of votes here."
Aaron nodded.
"True enough."