Saturday, January 7, 2023
"Goodbye, everyone. It's been a pleasure," the man said, wearing a cordial smile.
His hair was neatly slicked back, already threaded with gray that he made no attempt to hide. His face was angular, his eyes light-colored, and a short beard, somewhere between gray and brown, carefully trimmed.
The call ended.
The man remained still for a second, as if letting the silence fill the space left behind by the farewells. Then he slowly turned in his leather swivel chair, giving his back to the desk, and directed his gaze toward the large window of his office.
It was Ethan Hawke.
From there, the view of Los Angeles stretched wide, bathed in the morning light, already close to noon.
The office was spacious, bright, and designed for work. A dark wooden desk occupied the center. The walls were covered with framed posters, set photographs, memories of cinema accumulated over the years. There was no excess, no ostentation: every object was there because it had been part of his journey.
Hawke rested one forearm on the chair's armrest and brought his other hand to his beard, stroking it slowly, thoughtfully.
The meeting had been good. Better than he had expected.
He had a solid professional relationship with Derek Cianfrance, they had known each other for years, shared similar codes and a comparable way of understanding cinema. With Lianne Halfon, the bond was different, but just as reliable. She didn't jump into projects on impulse, and that, for someone like him, was a clear sign of seriousness.
Besides, they all moved within the same ecosystem. Same agency, CAA, same work logic and circuits.
What had been curious, and in a way disconcerting, was meeting Owen.
The indie kid of the moment. The name that had appeared almost out of nowhere and that, in barely a year, had built a career that took others decades. An improbable success, a fortune made overnight, and instead of slowing down, a second film already underway, self-financed, with a finished script, a director attached, and a top-tier executive production company.
And all of that at twenty-one.
Hawke couldn't help thinking of his son, who was exactly that age. And of his eldest daughter, who at twenty-five was already older than Owen. The comparison wasn't uncomfortable, but it was striking.
It was also known that Owen didn't come from a film family. He wasn't one of those commonly labeled a nepo baby. Though he did come from an upper-class family, with a good education, he had studied at USC and had never lacked anything.
Still, he had made his own way. He had even sold his own car to finance his first film when his parents stopped giving him money. Ethan remembered it well, having watched with his children the episode of The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon where Owen told his story among other anecdotes.
The role he had been offered wasn't something one auditioned for. Out of respect and real industry practice, that kind of part didn't go through casting.
Two days earlier, they had sent him the formal offer along with the complete script. He had read it carefully, without rushing. Then came the Zoom meeting, not to close anything, but to talk, to feel the project out, and to see whether everyone was breathing the same creative air.
Nothing was signed yet. In cases like this, there were almost always two or three names circulating. It wasn't about competing in auditions, but about finding the right person. The actor who best understood the material, who fit with the director, the production company, and above all, with the protagonist.
Hawke took out a cigar and held it between his fingers for a few seconds before lighting it. As he did, his gaze drifted to some undefined point in the room. He had very good feelings about the film.
It was a big project, not because of its budget, but because of its solidity.
The script was very well built, the team was strong, and there was already advance marketing thanks to the phenomenon that had formed around Owen, with the highest ROI and the subsequent sale of the IP for a figure no one could quite pin down.
'Probably more than thirty million between box office and rights sales…' Ethan thought, exhaling a dense cloud of smoke.
He, with decades of career behind him, had built a net worth close to fifty-five million dollars. And a twenty-one-year-old kid had managed more than half of that in barely a year, or perhaps even more. Thinking about it was, at the very least, disconcerting.
And now that same kid was putting together a new twelve-million-dollar project. Everything pointed to him financing it himself, together with the production company he had created, and to him once again retaining a percentage of the box office when the film reached theaters.
Like many others, Hawke had had his doubts when he read that Owen was writing a drama. It was no small leap. But that doubt no longer existed. The script was great. The team around it was solid. And the speed at which the project was moving made one thing clear: that movie was going to make it to theaters. No question about it.
Now all that remained was to wait.
One day, they had told him.
Ethan couldn't deny that he was a little anxious. It was a strange feeling for someone his age and with his career, but it was there. The film had something special.
Its potential was similar to Manchester by the Sea: a contained story, seemingly small, yet with an enormous capacity to go far. Very far. The kind that, if the right pieces fall into place, end up competing for major awards.
Over the course of his career, he had accumulated four Academy Award nominations. Two as a supporting actor: Training Day in 2001 and Boyhood in 2014, and two as a screenwriter, for Before Sunset in 2004 and Before Midnight in 2013. He hadn't won any of them. Even so, four nominations already placed him in a category of absolute respect within the industry.
But he had always wanted to win one. Even if it was just one.
And that mentor role could be the opportunity. At the very least, a real chance to fight it all the way to the end. Besides, his last acting nomination had been almost ten years ago. He wanted to return to that stage as a contender.
Ethan sighed. He pushed the thought aside, stood up, and left the office.
He began walking through the wide hallways of his home, flooded with natural light. The mansion was quiet at that hour, with high ceilings and light-colored walls.
He crossed a long corridor and reached the kitchen.
Leaning against the marble island was his daughter Maya. Her hair slightly messy, still carrying that carefree look of someone who had just woken up, she was calmly eating a bowl of cereal with milk, as if the day were just beginning and nothing else mattered.
Ethan stopped for a moment and watched her. "Breakfast this late?" he asked.
His daughter, though close to turning twenty-five, was still a frequent visitor at her parents' house. It wasn't unusual for her to stay the night, especially when it was time to bathe the two dogs that Ethan and his wife had.
According to Maya, there was no way she would let strangers take care of that. She preferred to do it herself; she said the animals suffered less stress that way than if they were left in someone else's hands.
Maya stopped looking at her bowl and lifted her gaze. "Good morning, father."
"Good afternoon," Ethan corrected with a faint smile as he opened the refrigerator and took out a bottle of water.
Maya rolled her eyes. "It's eleven."
"Almost twelve."
"Whatever," she snorted. "You're very funny today. Did something good happen in that meeting you had about the golden boy's movie?"
"The golden boy?" Ethan repeated, raising an eyebrow as he took a sip from the bottle.
"Owen Ashford," Maya said, in an exaggeratedly solemn tone.
"And why would he be a golden boy?" he asked.
"Why?" Maya shot back, as if the question were almost offensive, standing up from her chair. "He's the guy who got expelled from college and then went on to make the biggest success in history of cinema in monetary terms. And on top of that, the critics liked it too. He literally spat in the face of USC and everyone who's been trying to make it as an actor for years."
Ethan gave a slight nod, but Maya didn't stop. She spoke faster and faster.
"He got two of his short films accepted into Sundance, with an acceptance rate of under one percent. Do you realize what that means? And in one of them he doesn't even act, he put his sister in the lead role. Then he created a YouTube channel with over two million subscribers in a matter of months and used it to do advance marketing for his new movie without spending practically anything."
'Breathe,' Ethan thought, but he said nothing.
His daughter continued.
"And now The Spectacular Now is about to be released. He wrote the script, sold it to A24, they cast him as the lead, and he's acting opposite Jenna Ortega as the love interest! The most famous actress of the moment!" she exclaimed. "Do you get now why they call him the golden boy?"
"I didn't know you were such a big fan," Ethan said, looking at her with some curiosity.
"I'm not," Maya shook her head. "I'm just fascinated by his story. It's so absurdly unrealistic for ninety-nine percent of mortals that it's almost offensive. The American Dream in its most extreme version: a single successful case used to sell false hope to millions."
Ethan allowed himself a faint, amused smile.
"So is he like that on Jimmy Fallon?" Maya asked. "Or is it all just TV showmanship?"
Ethan took a second before answering. "Yes and no," he said at last. "He's not as talkative as in an interview, that's where he has to be entertaining. But the vibe is the same. Calm, focused. Very professional for a twenty-one-year-old."
"Prematurely mature. Strange for someone who got expelled from college," Maya remarked, crossing her arms.
"Maybe I should stop giving you money," Ethan replied casually. "See if you go through the same process he did."
Maya let out an exaggerated, clearly fake laugh. "Sure, as if Mom would ever allow that."
"Speaking of mothers, where is Ryan?"
Maya rolled her eyes. By "mothers," he meant, on the one hand, her biological mother, from whom Ethan had already separated. And then, specifically, her stepmother: Ethan's current wife, Ryan.
"Working out," Maya replied, gesturing vaguely toward the interior of the house. "In the gym."
Ethan nodded, as if it didn't surprise him in the slightest.
"I can't believe it," she went on, shaking her head. "The two of you, who aren't exactly young anymore, up early, full of energy, training like it's nothing, and me, in the prime of my life, struggling to function before noon."
"Improve your habits," Ethan said.
"Make me," Maya replied, returning her focus to her supposedly nutritious breakfast.
Ethan gave a small, amused shake of his head and left the kitchen.
A while later, he joined his wife in the home gym. They worked out together, as they usually did, following a routine that had become almost automatic.
The body responded, the mind, not so much. At times he managed to focus, at others, his thoughts inevitably returned to the same place.
Good Will Hunting and the decision.
The day moved forward with apparent normality, but that faint unease lingered, never quite disappearing.
A little later, he picked up his phone. He hesitated for a few seconds before writing. He didn't want to seem impatient.
In the end, he sent Derek a brief, measured message. It wasn't intrusive or explicit. It picked up on one of the points they had discussed in the meeting, delving just a bit deeper into the character's arc, like someone who keeps thinking about the project even after the call has ended. An elegant way of making it clear that he was committed, that he cared, and that he was still waiting for an answer.
Now there was nothing left to do but keep waiting.
…
1:48 p.m.
A man in his late sixties stood in front of the mirror, getting ready. He carefully combed his hair to the side, then paused for a moment to make sure his beard was neat.
It was Bryan Cranston, an actor widely recognized, above all, for his role as Hal in Malcolm in the Middle.
"I look good," he murmured to himself, adjusting his crisp, perfectly pressed white shirt.
"You do, honey," a voice replied from the doorway. "But that's the fifth time you've checked the mirror. You're fine. Now go to your office, the meeting starts in twelve minutes."
Bryan turned his head. His wife was leaning against the doorframe, holding a cup of coffee, watching him with a mix of tenderness and patience.
"If you say so, it must be true," he replied, offering a slightly anxious smile as he stepped out of the bathroom.
She noticed the nerves instantly. "Just show them the enthusiasm you have for the character," she said. "The same enthusiasm you've been drilling into my head for the past two days. If you do that, they'll know you're the right one."
At two in the afternoon, Bryan had a video call with Owen Ashford, Derek Cianfrance, and Lianne Halfon, a meeting to see if he would land the role of Sean Maguire in Good Will Hunting.
He had heard a few things about the project. He knew it was a dramatic film and that behind it was a young actor who also wrote and produced. A promise. Not much more than that. It wasn't a project he had been following closely.
That was why he had been surprised when, two days earlier, his agent brought him the offer. Not an audition.
It wasn't impossible, but it wasn't common either. He was represented by UTA, a major agency, not minor or second-tier, but different from CAA or WME. UTA more focused on theater and adult cinema, on respected actors rather than loud stars.
And yet, what had truly caught him off guard was something else.
He had no prior relationship with any of the people involved. Not with the director, not with the production company, not with the protagonist.
No one owed him favors. No one was calling him out of inertia.
Which meant they wanted him because they had seen his work.
His career had been steady, but quiet. Malcolm in the Middle had been his most mainstream role, the one audiences remembered fondly. After that came a lot of theater, especially Broadway, and independent film.
The respect within the acting world was high. Mass recognition, not so much.
"I know…" Bryan said softly as he finally left the bathroom, "but this could be the opportunity I've been waiting for."
He wasn't talking about money or fame. He was talking about something deeper. He knew his level as an actor, he had built it through years of craft, rehearsal, and discipline.
He had always sought real challenges, roles that truly demanded something of him. And though he never said it out loud, like any serious actor, he knew what reaching the highest level of recognition meant: not mainstream success, not fleeting popularity, but that kind of prestige that validates an entire career.
His wife nodded. She knew all of that. She knew about the unseen work and the constant effort.
"Wish me luck," he said, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
"You won't need it," she replied, gently nudging him toward the hallway. "Go."
Bryan took a deep breath and headed to his office.
He sat down in his chair, the laptop already on and ready to join the call in a few minutes. He couldn't be late.
Two minutes later, his phone vibrated on the desk. He glanced at the screen: Robert Newman, his agent.
He answered. They didn't talk much, just a brief greeting, a wish of good luck, and that was it. They hung up quickly.
He had worked with Robert for more than fifteen years. By that point, he wasn't just his agent, they were genuinely friends. Something rare in Hollywood, where relationships tend to be functional and disposable.
Bryan could also tell that Robert was excited about this role. And it wasn't hard to see why. If the deal went through, the salary would be substantial, and so would the commission.
"Greedy old man," Bryan muttered with a faint smile.
He knew his friend well. Like any agent, he always kept one eye on the money, though it's not as if actors dislike money either. In his case, however, it wasn't quite like that.
It wasn't that money meant nothing to him. But with a net worth close to five million dollars, a spacious two-story home of his own, and a daughter who was already an adult, it wasn't an urgent concern. He lived comfortably and at ease.
Even so, the contrast was obvious.
If he landed the role, the paycheck would probably fall somewhere between $500K and $750K. A very solid figure, especially when compared to theater. On Broadway, the standard was eight shows a week, a demanding rhythm, both physically and mentally. The pay hovered around $30K to $35K per week. His last run had lasted sixteen weeks.
Four months of intense work to end up earning between $480K and $560K.
Here, by contrast, they were talking about a film. A month of shooting, maybe two at most. Less time and wear and tear. More visibility, and the same money, or even more.
Not bad at all.
He finally joined the call a couple of minutes early.
The conversation went on longer than expected. It wasn't an audition. There were no lines to read, no scenes to perform. They talked about the script, the tone of the film, the character, and how he fit within the whole. It was an easy, natural conversation.
The impressions were good.
Bryan clicked with the director and the producer without effort, but what caught his attention most was the protagonist, the screenwriter, the financier, and the face of the project everyone in the media was talking about.
With Owen, there was an immediate connection. He felt genuine kindness, a clear openness from Owen toward him, something that even bordered on admiration.
They didn't test chemistry. Even so, they got along well. Bryan sensed respect from the very first moment, and not the hollow, perfunctory kind.
In the middle of the conversation, he realized something else. Owen knew his work. Malcolm in the Middle came up, as did Broadway plays and other films he had been in. That was when he thought that the offer had probably originated with him, that it had been Owen who had put his name forward.
The call ended.
Bryan closed the laptop and stayed seated for a few seconds, processing the meeting. A few minutes later, he heard a knock at the door.
"Come in," Bryan said, pulling himself out of his thoughts.
His wife entered and sat down in the chair across from him. "So?" she asked, without preamble.
"It was good," Bryan nodded.
She raised an eyebrow. "Good good, or just… meh good?"
"Good, goodo" he replied. "Owen knew me, and not just in passing. I felt a lot of respect from him. I'd say he was the one who had me in mind for the role from the start."
She smiled, relieved. "That's a very good sign," she said. "We don't know who else is being considered, but if the guy who put up all the money and wrote the script connected with you like that…"
"…it's an advantage," Bryan finished, nodding slowly.
She rested her elbows on the chair. "Connecting with the person steering the ship always helps. And even more in a case as particular as this one."
Owen wasn't just one of the investors. No. He was the sole financier of the project, in addition to being the producer, the screenwriter, and the lead actor. His decision carried real weight, hard to match.
Bryan agreed, though his own thoughts were a bit more nuanced. Owen was young, and he was surrounded by figures with years of experience like Derek and Lianne. It remained to be seen how much he imposed his vision and how much he let the balance tilt toward others' judgment.
Even with that doubt, he couldn't deny it: his chances were good.
"Now all that's left is to wait," he said at last.
…
3:15 p.m.
Owen was still on a video call with Lianne, Derek, and Francine, the casting director. About fifteen minutes had passed since they had finished their conversation with Bryan Cranston. A fruitful meeting. At least for him, it had left very good impressions.
Now it was time to decide.
Between the two real options for the mentor role in Good Will Hunting: Ethan Hawke or Bryan Cranston.
They were the only two actors who had received offers. For a role like this, there was no long list, no mass auditions. There was no need. The goal was to choose the right actor, not to compare ten versions of the same character.
The option Owen had initially floated, Johnny Depp, had been ruled out. The fee was excessively high and, after analyzing it with Derek and Lianne, they reached a clear conclusion: he wasn't the best choice.
He could overshadow the film, shift the center of the narrative, and on top of that, his acting style didn't quite fit the naturalism the character required. Added to that was the constant media noise surrounding him, which was unnecessary for a project like this.
Owen had conceded without issue. There was logic in all of it. And, honestly, it made no sense to inflate the budget when there were options as solid as Hawke or Cranston. Even purely from an acting standpoint, they could work much better.
From a marketing perspective, it wasn't a problem either. The film was already generating conversation on its own. His name, his recent trajectory, and the narrative of the independent filmmaker who had broken the system and was moving at his own pace were more than enough of a hook.
The discussion stretched on for nearly three hours. Three hours of constant back-and-forth.
Mostly between Owen and Derek.
Owen wanted Cranston.
Derek wanted Hawke.
Both laid out their reasons clearly. The strengths of the actor they supported, but also the doubts they had about the other option. There were no raised voices or impositions, but there was firmness. Each was convinced that his choice was the right one for the film.
Lianne didn't take sides. She listened, structured the conversation, and laid out the pros and cons of each option with calm objectivity.
She was the one who kept the discussion from becoming personal, and also the one who, little by little, tipped the scales.
Owen insisted, but not from a position of power. He didn't say it was his money or his movie. He avoided that shortcut. Instead, he talked about the character, about the dynamic with the protagonist. He gave concrete, grounded arguments.
Derek was reluctant, not out of ego, but because he genuinely believed Hawke brought something important. But as the conversation progressed, and with Lianne's constant mediation, he began to give ground. Not all at once. With reservations.
In the end, he agreed.
Not as a defeat, but not with full conviction either. It was a reasoned decision, yes, though influenced by something more practical. Derek understood the situation: if Owen and Lianne were aligned on Cranston, dragging the discussion out further wouldn't lead anywhere. It would only waste time.
And deep down, he knew it. Cranston delivered. Acting wouldn't be the issue. He was a solid actor. Maybe not the option Derek had pushed from the start, but not a wrong choice either.
Derek took a deep breath and gave his approval.
Owen disconnected from the call as soon as it ended. Mentally, the whole discussion had been exhausting, closer to a battle than a simple creative decision.
…
[Cranston Residence]
The doorbell rang insistently.
"I'm coming!" Bryan called from inside the house.
A day had passed since the meeting. A long one. A day of waiting. He walked down the hallway at an unhurried pace, though inside he had been replaying the call over and over for hours. He opened the door.
Standing in front of him was Robert.
His old friend and agent wore that unmistakable expression of restrained triumph. In one hand, he held a clearly expensive bottle of liquor, loosely wrapped in an elegant bag.
Bryan opened his mouth to ask what he was doing there, but stopped halfway through the sentence. He looked at the bottle. Then at the smile. Then back at Robert.
"Did I get the role?" he asked, incredulous.
Robert lifted the bottle just a few inches.
"Why else would I be standing outside your house with this?" he replied.
Bryan froze. Literally stood still for a couple of seconds. Then his face broke into a wide smile.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, pumping his fist.
They slapped hands hard, like two teenagers celebrating an absurd victory.
"You look like two kids," came a voice from inside the house.
Bryan's wife appeared in the hallway, shaking her head, though with a clear smile. She walked over and hugged him.
"Congratulations," she said. "You deserve it."
"Thank you," Bryan replied, still riding the adrenaline.
Robert was already stepping inside as if it were his second home.
"This calls for a proper celebration," Bryan said. "Dinner tonight. No excuses."
He turned to his wife.
"Call Taylor," he added. "Have them come over. Tonight, we celebrate."
The door closed behind them, already planning a celebratory dinner for landing the role.
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