"Ugh…" Owen sighed, closing the laptop and placing both hands on the desk as he pushed himself back. The chair spun lightly as it slid across the office. "Too much social work for today."
He had started at 7:30 in the morning, and it was already almost 3:30 in the afternoon. Eight hours. Standard, if you counted the roughly thirty-minute break.
On other days he worked much longer, but today he wanted nothing more. It had been a stretch filled with meetings. Yesterday, two back-to-back encounters with actors he deeply respected: Bryan and Ethan. Today, on the other hand, the decisive meeting. One that, far from being resolved quickly, had turned into nearly three hours of discussion, a constant tug-of-war between him and Derek.
At least he had managed to prevail. Convincing a director to accept an actor who wasn't their first choice was no easy task. To be fair, Derek kept his ego relatively in check.
He listened, analyzed Owen's arguments, considered the alternatives, and over these past few days they had worked well together. Still, he was a director. And for many directors, casting, especially for key roles, is delicate territory, almost sacred.
It's even harder to convince them when you're twenty-one.
It wasn't an unusual stance. In fact, many production companies, A24 included, worked this way: once the budget was approved and the lead casting was set, the rest of the cast was practically in the director's hands. He could add options, adjust names, always within budget, but the final call was his.
Cristian, the creative producer and Owen's colleague, had never interfered in the casting of The Spectacular Now. At most, he would suggest a flexible list with fee ranges to stay on budget. After that, the rest was entirely the director's domain.
'The good thing is that I won,' Owen thought, standing up from the chair and stretching his arms overhead.
Cranston would be signed. Lianne was already preparing the contract, and with some luck she could send it out that very day.
At most, between negotiations with the agent and final adjustments, the deal would be closed by tomorrow or the day after. Given Cranston's career trajectory in this reality, his fee would be considerably lower than Ethan's, another of the strong points Owen had put on the table.
It would probably land somewhere between $500,000 and $750,000. Ethan, by contrast, would have cost between $800,000 and $1 million, the upper salary range.
As for the Johnny Depp option, neither of them compared. He could have easily charged two million. Even with his career somewhat stalled by all the drama with his ex-wife.
Another key argument had been Ethan's professional moment. He was coming off The Black Phone, a horror film that had been very well received both at the box office and by critics: 72% on Rotten Tomatoes from critics and 83% from audiences.
The problem wasn't his talent, but his image. He played a sadistic killer. And while that didn't define his acting ability, public perception was still a real factor. In cinema, breaking out of certain typecasting isn't always easy, no matter how unfair it may be.
Owen was aware of the contradiction. In a way, he was participating in the very system that pigeonholes actors and limits their opportunities. But he was clear about one thing: he wanted Cranston.
To him, Cranston's acting range wasn't just equivalent to Ethan's, it was even superior. He knew his work beyond this reality: Walter White.
He didn't have such a strongly marked recent typecasting, his fee was lower, and on top of that, he fit the role almost perfectly. He even had a natural beard similar to the one Robin Williams had in the film of his past life.
Too many variables aligned to ignore them.
As for the film's expenses, everything was progressing even better than expected compared to the original budget.
A key figure like Lianne had accepted a lower fee. Derek hadn't been the most expensive option as a director, and likewise, Cranston fell within the lower-cost bracket.
If that trend held, Owen estimated that the total outlay for Good Will Hunting could come in at under twelve million dollars, or right around that figure.
In any case, his financial situation was solid, almost excessively so. It didn't matter much if the film ended up costing a bit more.
The sale of the Paranormal Activity IP had brought him 42 million dollars, received at the end of December 2022. At the beginning of January 2023, he also received his 20% post-theatrical share from the box office, totaling 14.4 million dollars.
Gross, the sum amounted to 56.4 million dollars.
However, there was one unavoidable factor: taxes.
His tax residence was California, a state with a heavy tax burden. The IP sale, taxed as a capital gain, faced lower pressure, under simplified calculations, around 24%, which meant roughly ten million dollars in taxes on the forty-two million. From that transaction, he was left with approximately 32 million net.
The box office participation, on the other hand, was taxed more aggressively, as ordinary income, approximately 40%.
On the fourteen point four million, that meant about 5.76 million in taxes, leaving a net amount close to 8.64 million.
Altogether, once both components were accounted for, Owen had around 40.64 million dollars net attributable to Paranormal Activity.
Of course, those taxes weren't paid automatically or immediately. The money had entered his accounts in full, but Owen knew perfectly well that a portion of it didn't truly belong to him. His accountant and his father, who advised him financially, handled the entire payment schedule, quarterly estimates, and reserves. It was money that was there, but money he couldn't touch.
From that usable amount, other major commitments still had to be deducted. First, the twelve million dollars he would be investing progressively into Good Will Hunting.
Additionally, there was what Owen had spent rewarding his closest circle for the work done during the IP sale and the structuring of the deal with Lionsgate. Between payments to his father and his brother, he allocated 3.25 million dollars.
He also handed out bonuses for the success of Paranormal Activity.
He wrote a check for five hundred thousand dollars to Matt, who had been with him throughout the entire process, from pre-production to post-production, working side by side with him.
And another two hundred and fifty thousand dollars to Sophie. The fact that they were no longer a couple had no influence on the decision.
He didn't forget the two supporting actors in the film either, who appeared on screen for barely ten minutes, but with whom he had even shared the night they watched the Oscars broadcast on TV, the one with Will Smith's infamous slap. He paid each of them ten thousand dollars, more than twenty times their original fee.
And of course, Tyler and Erik, the sound and lighting technicians. He gave each of them a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus.
He could have given them less, twenty or twenty-five thousand would have been more than enough to keep them satisfied, but both had helped him many times before on his short films for minimal pay, and in some cases accepting nothing more than food and travel expenses, as had happened on Black Hole.
Taken together, all those additional payments totaled approximately 4.12 million dollars.
After all of that, Owen still had roughly 36.52 million dollars available, perhaps another one hundred fifty to two hundred thousand if he added prior savings from his acting work, YouTube income, and sponsorship deals.
Even after subtracting the budgets for Good Will Hunting and Lights Out, he still had nearly twenty million dollars left.
'Damn… selling the IP was key,' Owen thought as he left the room.
If he hadn't sold the IP, he would have had barely 8.6 million. Calling that little would be unfair, it was a huge amount of money, but not for someone planning to self-finance a 12 million dollar film.
Without that sale, he would have had to go out and look for investors or settle for making Lights Out or a film in that budget range.
Owen walked down the hallway when, suddenly, a pleasant aroma caught his attention. He headed toward the kitchen. Jenna was there, focused on the stove.
"Lunch at four in the afternoon?" Owen asked, crossing his arms and leaning against the marble countertop.
"We're morning people," Jenna replied without turning around, "but our lunch schedule is a mess. So yes."
Owen smiled faintly. They both woke up early, but once the day started, they often lost track of time, absorbed by meetings, calls, and loose ends.
"What are you cooking?" he asked. The smell had already made him hungry.
"Some kind of experiment," Jenna said. "Something Mexican, with a pretty American twist."
She sprinkled seasoning into the pan, lowered the heat slightly, and only then turned around. She wiped her hands on the apron she was wearing and stepped beside him, also crossing her arms as she looked around the kitchen.
Owen glanced at her from the corner of his eye. The situation was strange, but in a good way.
After New Year's, when they had decided to start getting to know each other seriously, without rushing anything, not even two weeks had passed.
Both of their schedules were complicated, but Jenna's especially so. The Wednesday phenomenon kept growing without slowing down. Her Instagram had already surpassed 30 million followers. She wasn't shooting anything at the moment, but her life had become a constant stream of interviews, press, photo shoots, fashion, and magazines like Vogue or Vanity Fair. Because of that, days at home were scarce.
"What would people say if they knew Jenna Ortega was cooking for me?" Owen asked, his tone heavy with irony.
Jenna didn't flinch. She knew his sense of humor well. "It would be front-page news. The actress of the moment cooks for Hollywood's golden boy, the indie genius," she replied, deliberately exaggerating.
Owen made a slight face at the nickname. "A pretty efficient way of doing marketing and gaining followers," he added jokingly.
"You can post an Instagram story if you want. Face the consequences," Jenna said, with mock seriousness. "I'll even pose."
She grabbed the spatula and moved back toward the stove.
"Tempting," Owen said, watching her, "but it would be too controversial. I'll pass."
There were already rumors about his breakup with Sophie. Nothing confirmed, just scattered comments since they had both removed the photo they shared on Instagram. They were still mild, but they were there. They would probably intensify once they went to Sundance for Paperman and were seen keeping their distance.
Jenna, with her back to him, nodded. "Logic finally returning to your head."
"Let's say I was enlightened," Owen said.
Jenna laughed softly as she stirred the pan. She checked the seasoning, turned the heat up slightly, and let the aroma intensify. Then she returned to his side and settled next to him, close enough that their shoulders barely brushed.
Owen stopped looking at the kitchen and looked directly at her.
Jenna noticed. "What are you looking at?" she asked, turning her head toward him.
"How cute you look wearing an apron and cooking," Owen replied without hesitation, holding her gaze.
Jenna raised an eyebrow. She didn't seem entirely surprised, but a small smile formed on her face, clearly pleased.
"Thanks" she said. "I don't usually cook for other people. My culinary skills are standard. So I'll be expecting an equivalent gesture in the near future."
Owen couldn't help but smile. "Of course. I'm pretty good at making pizzas," he said confidently, Tyler had taught him the basics.
"I'll be looking forward to them," Jenna replied.
But Owen kept looking at her, without looking away.
"And now what?" Jenna asked, without any discomfort, returning his gaze with the same calm he had.
"I was thinking about whether this was a meaningful moment to kiss you or not," Owen replied.
Jenna tilted her head slightly, a thoughtful expression on her face. "It is, right?"
"I think so," Owen nodded. "It could be considered our first date."
"That's true," Jenna said. "We can't really have dates outside of here."
If they went on a conventional date, it was almost certain that photos would surface, paparazzi, the internet on fire, especially Twitter. And for Owen, going through a recent breakup, it wasn't the best scenario. That was why they had to settle for something much more discreet.
"How tragic. The life of celebrities," Owen remarked sarcastically.
"Does it bother you?" Jenna asked.
Owen thought about it for barely a couple of seconds and shook his head. "No. Actually, I prefer this for the beginning. Less spotlight."
Rather than a restaurant or a typical date, this felt more comfortable and protected. No rumors, no cameras, no outside noise. Getting to know each other for real, at least at first, worked better this way. It even felt more intimate.
"And you?" he asked.
"No. Same for me, more privacy, less circus around it," Jenna replied, shaking her head gently.
If it worked and, over time, they decided to make it official, there would be room for it to become public. To step into the outside world together without having to hide. They were thinking the same thing.
Jenna looked at him and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "We kind of ruined the moment with all this technical talk, didn't we?"
Owen looked at her seriously. "Yeah."
They held each other's gaze for a few more seconds. Then they both laughed at the same time.
"We're a disaster as a potential couple," Jenna said, laughing.
"We are," Owen cleared his throat, forcing a neutral expression. "Let's start over."
Jenna looked at him now with an expectant expression.
"You look great in that apron," Owen said, stepping closer and leaning in slightly.
Jenna narrowed her eyes. "Great? I liked it better when you said cute."
Owen blinked. "Are we really going to be picky about the lines?"
"'Great' is something you say to a friend," Jenna shot back, crossing her arms. "'Hey, Matt, you look great.' Not to a girl. I liked it when you said cute, not great."
'What a personality…' Owen thought, amused. Still, her argument was solid.
"All right," he said, clearing his throat. "Let's try again."
He stayed silent for a couple of seconds. This time, he looked at her more calmly. "You look beautiful in that apron."
'Beautiful…' Jenna thought. That word felt better than cute, and so did the way he said it.
A slow smile spread across her face. "Thanks."
Owen leaned in, and finally their lips met in a slow, unhurried kiss. When they pulled apart, a few seconds passed in silence until Jenna spoke in a slightly lower tone than usual.
"The food's ready. Set the table."
"Yes, ma'am," Owen replied, grabbing glasses, cutlery, and the rest. Then he left the kitchen to carry out his mission.
Jenna turned her attention back to the pan. She lowered the heat, turned it off completely, and set the spatula aside. She stood still for a few seconds, looking at the food without really seeing it. Then she brought a hand to her chest.
Her heart was beating faster than she expected.
'It's just a kiss,' she told herself. But it didn't sound convincing. It wasn't ordinary nervousness. It was something different.
'Maybe this is…' Jenna thought, but immediately shook her head.
She served the food and, with Owen's help, he had already set the table and left everything ready, they carried the plates into the dining room. Then they sat across from each other.
"Let's see how it tastes," Owen said, picking up his cutlery and eyeing the plate hungrily. His last meal had been breakfast, more than four hours earlier.
"Be kind. I'm not an expert," Jenna said, watching him expectantly.
"I know. It looks really good, and it smells great too," Owen replied before taking his first bite.
While he chewed, Jenna didn't touch her plate. She watched him in silence, waiting for the verdict.
Owen swallowed and finally spoke. "It's delicious. If this was a culinary fusion experiment and it turned out like this, you've got a great future as a chef."
Jenna smiled, visibly relieved, and only then began to eat. "If I weren't an actress, being a chef would be an interesting career."
"By the way," she added, changing the subject, "how did the meeting go? Have you already decided on the mentor role? You don't have to tell me who you chose."
"It's fine," Owen replied. "I trust your discretion, and in any case, it'll be public soon. We hired Bryan Cranston."
Jenna nodded, inwardly pleased by the trust. "Congratulations. He was the one you wanted. The actor who played Malcolm's father, Malcolm in the Middle was one of my favorite shows."
"One of mine too," Owen smiled.
Then he sighed and took a sip of water. "But it wasn't easy. I argued with Derek for almost three hours on a video call before he agreed."
Jenna tilted her head, understanding. "That makes sense. Directors always want to impose their vision. You managed it because of the position you hold on the film."
Owen nodded. That was probably the only reason it had been possible, and it wasn't just about the money.
Yes, he was fully financing the project, which in practical terms made him the boss. But his creative weight went far beyond that. The script was his. Everyone knew he had written it, and it was considered solid. On top of that, he was also the lead actor, which made his chemistry with the rest of the cast central to the film.
His creative voice carried real weight.
If Owen had been just the investor, if Derek had come in with his own script looking for financing and Owen had simply put up the money, the situation would have been very different.
Even if Owen technically had final say, Derek likely wouldn't have accepted it gracefully. Either he would have agreed with resentment, or the discussion would have escalated into something far more uncomfortable, especially if Owen had had to remind him that he was the one funding everything.
In that scenario, the script would have been Derek's vision, and his stance would have been even more rigid.
But here, Owen was the creator of the story. And that carried far more respect than simply being the one funding 100% of it. Derek might not have agreed, but he understood that the arguments had weight. Lianne had also taken Owen's side, something that might not have happened under different circumstances.
That was why, in the end, the discussion had concluded in a civilized way. Derek accepted it.
"And there are still three more important roles to cast. The battle has only just begun," Owen said, in a resigned tone, though clearly exaggerated.
Those roles were key: Skylar, the essential love interest for the protagonist's development; Chuckie, the best friend; and Professor Lambeau, the character who discovers Will's talent and serves as the bridge between him and the mentor.
Even so, Owen didn't plan to get as intensely involved as he had with Cranston. As long as the acting level was solid and there was chemistry, he saw no reason to interfere and would leave the final decision to Derek.
The shortlists were already set, with the options both he and Derek had proposed.
There was only one role he did plan to intervene in: one of Will's friends. A more secondary role, with less weight than Chuckie. In the original version, it had been played by Ben Affleck's brother. In this one, Owen had Gaten in mind. He hadn't brought it up yet, but he was sure Gaten would accept happily. It would be a way to help a friend break out of his typecasting.
And for a small role with limited dialogue, Derek wouldn't object. Gaten fit within the fee range and had more than enough acting ability to avoid any issues, along with a strong professional work ethic.
"Good luck," Jenna said, amused by Owen's dramatic tone, as she placed her hand over his and gave it a couple of gentle pats in support. "You'll handle it."
Owen smiled. "Thanks. And by the way, you'd be great as Skylar."
Jenna looked at him, raising an eyebrow. "Wow… the perks of dating the indie genius multimillionaire."
Owen laughed and, lifting his glass, replied, "One of many perks."
"You'd fight with Derek quite a bit if you tried to hire me over the other candidates," Jenna said. "Probably a six-hour argument. Twice as long as the last one. Are you willing to pay that price?"
Owen put on a thoughtful expression. "Hmm… it would be exhausting. But if it's for you, I'd do it."
Jenna placed a hand on her chest, clearly exaggerating. "You're going to make me melt."
Then she softened her tone and added, more seriously, "Although I don't think it's a good idea."
"Don't get me wrong," she clarified immediately. "Skylar is a character I loved. But honestly, the timing isn't ideal for us."
Since New Year's, as she had grown closer to Owen, Jenna had read about the character, some of the dialogue, and he had told her more about Skylar's backstory.
Even though Skylar was a secondary role, she had intense, emotionally charged scenes that really appealed to her as an actress.
Owen stopped joking and nodded seriously. "Yeah. It would be strange if I hired you, and there would be rumors."
Rumors of a possible romance. And if people started connecting the dots, the breakup with Sophie, the timing, the coincidences, it wouldn't take long for theories of infidelity and all kinds of speculation to appear.
"Besides," Owen added, half joking, half serious, "you're very expensive. Your fee must be through the roof."
"I won't deny it," Jenna replied. "Although I could lower it if it were to work on a film with such a great story, and with you."
This time it was Owen who put a hand to his chest, exaggerating. "I'm melting. I didn't know you liked working with me that much."
Jenna gave him a light kick under the table. "Don't get excited. I'm just trying to beat you in the competition of mistakes in performance."
She paused, then returned to the topic, more focused.
"Still, it wouldn't be smart. In a few months The Spectacular Now is coming out, where we're the leads and there's a romance between us. If you also hire me for Good Will Hunting, it would feel repetitive to audiences. Add everything else, and the downside becomes pretty solid."
"Even if the on-screen chemistry works in our favor, and even if my name is in a strong moment, I don't think it's worth it," she concluded.
Owen looked at her for a few seconds without saying anything. A small smile escaped him, almost without realizing it.
Jenna noticed. "What?"
"I like that about you," Owen replied. "That you're so logical and honest. Anyone in your position would be trying to convince me to give them the role or at least put them on the shortlist."
"I'm just logical," Jenna said. "And I'm not a hypocrite. If the circumstances were different, I'd probably accept being on the shortlist."
She looked at him for a moment before continuing. "But for that, whatever this is between us would need to be more established. Accepting a gesture like that requires a different foundation. Right now, it wouldn't be right. And of course, I'd also have to feel up to the character and genuinely like it. I won't take just any role."
"You're demanding," Owen said, amused.
Owen didn't say it out loud, but he liked that too. He liked that she didn't see it as wrong for him to offer her an audition in one of his projects. That she understood the logic of the profession without dramatizing it.
For Jenna, an opportunity wasn't a favor, nor something to be rejected out of pride. Nor an awkward concession. It was simply an opportunity that had to be justified through work and talent.
They kept talking, finished eating, washed the dishes together, and the date continued. A strange date, indoors.
Almost without meaning to, they started a small acting game, as if they were putting together an improvised play. Owen practiced a few of Will's lines, and Jenna read Skylar's.
He had the pages printed out, he had already begun rehearsing on his own, but having her in front of him, reading and even embodying the character, made everything more useful and a lot more fun.
Time passed without them noticing.
After that, they went to Jenna's apartment to spend some time with Juan Antonio, the chubby orange cat, so he wouldn't be left alone for so many hours.
A date split between two homes. Long, calm, and yet one that still came to an end faster than Owen would have imagined.
Sunday ended that way, and Monday arrived. With it came the key meetings to define the rest of the film's important roles.
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