More than twenty minutes later, having read about two-thirds of the script, Jonathan Friedman forced himself to stop. He had other work today; now wasn't the time to finish it.
And though he'd only gotten through half, Jonathan Friedman was already certain the script's quality matched its brilliant concept. If filmed, it would surely become a classic.
Of course, with his professional eye, the script's flaws were obvious too.
First, the title "Butterfly Effect" felt too niche. Most ordinary folks wouldn't get this professional term from the seventies, which could turn people off. But after Simon's explanation, Jonathan Friedman couldn't think of a better fit right away, so he set that aside for now.
Second, the overall tone was too dark. Especially the ending where the protagonist returns to the womb and strangles himself with the umbilical cord—it was downright chilling when you thought about it.
But the whole thing fit perfectly with his client's style.
During the read, Jonathan Friedman had been multitasking, mulling over some ideas.
With WMA's internal turmoil and clients fleeing left and right, he was feeling the heat too.
His client, the renowned Hollywood director behind Carrie and Scarface, Brian De Palma, had recently been tempted by an invitation to jump to CAA. From what he'd heard, CAA even had a project lined up as a welcome gift.
The only reason Brian De Palma hadn't bolted like Al Pacino or Barbra Streisand was the bond built over years of collaboration.
But after two big-budget flops in recent years—each over ten million dollars—as his agent, if Jonathan Friedman couldn't land him a solid project with box office potential soon, he knew he'd lose the client.
Now, Butterfly Effect seemed tailor-made.
Fresh concept, compelling story, and right in Brian De Palma's thriller wheelhouse. Plus, from the plot, the budget wouldn't be high, making it easier to greenlight.
All these factors combined, Jonathan Friedman saw little chance of failure—it might even rival Brian De Palma's breakout Carrie.
And as an ensemble piece with plenty of roles, it could boost some of his younger clients. If CAA could pull off successful packaging deals, WMA—every bit their equal—had no reason not to follow suit.
A low-budget, low-risk Butterfly Effect would be a great test run for packaging.
Weighing all the details, Jonathan Friedman finally looked up at the young man across from him. Maybe signing a screenwriter now and then wasn't a bad idea.
Decision made, he spoke again: "So, Simon, do you have any other scripts?"
From Jonathan Friedman's tone, Simon knew the meeting had paid off.
But since Butterfly Effect had hooked him, he didn't want to pull out the other script right away—that would just split the agent's focus during pitches.
In fact, Simon planned to submit scripts only every one or two months once he had an agent.
Still, to boost his value in Jonathan Friedman's eyes, he confirmed: "Yeah, but it's still in progress—needs some time. It's a story about death, blending in some Eastern fatalism. In Eastern thinking, if Death has marked your time, no matter what, you can't escape its grip."
Jonathan Friedman had asked casually, but Simon's pitch piqued his interest again.
Simon didn't elaborate, though, and Jonathan Friedman didn't press.
There'd be plenty of time to chat later; right now, handle the present.
"In that case, let's talk contract. Simon, you've clearly done your homework, so you probably know about signing with agencies. What are your terms?"
Simon nodded, not holding back: "First, I only write what interests me—no commissioned scripts or long-term gigs. So I want a straight script agency deal."
Just that first demand made Jonathan Friedman want to shake his head.
Hollywood produced only a few hundred original-script projects a year. If everyone relied solely on originals, the over ten thousand members of the two coasts' writers' guilds would starve. Most screenwriters survived on adaptations, script doctoring, and studio contracts.
Simon's demand boxed him into a tiny niche.
He considered explaining, but glancing at that young face, Jonathan Friedman dropped it.
Let the kid learn from some setbacks.
From Jonathan Friedman's shifting expression, Simon could guess his thoughts but pressed on: "Second, if possible, I'd like to try directing. So I want some control over my scripts."
Jonathan Friedman's eye twitched as he reassessed Simon, finally saying: "Actually, Simon, I'm very curious about your age?"
Simon pulled out his wallet, handed over his driver's license: "Mr. Friedman, I'm not hiding it from you, but when pitching scripts, I'd suggest avoiding my age with studio execs."
Jonathan Friedman took the license, glanced at the birthdate.
February 22, 1968.
He'd suspected, but he checked his desk phone's display: today was June 19, 1986.
So this kid had just turned eighteen earlier this year.
Shaking his head in bemused silence, he handed back the license: "Alright, I'll try to ignore that going forward. But Simon, you know most Hollywood directors don't get their first shot until after thirty, so you're way too..."
Simon cut him off with a shake of his head: "You're wrong, Joe. Steven Spielberg isn't; Martin Scorsese isn't; George Lucas isn't; Francis Ford Coppola isn't either. So why should I settle for being one of the mediocre masses?"
Jonathan Friedman was stunned.
Even years later, he vividly remembered that summer afternoon in 1986, the spirited young man's resounding words in his office.
Steven Spielberg isn't;
Martin Scorsese isn't;
George Lucas isn't;
Francis Ford Coppola isn't either.
He had no idea the boy had less than a hundred bucks in his pocket—if he didn't find work soon, he'd be on the streets.
After a long pause, snapping back, Jonathan Friedman resumed discussing the contract.
Simon had made too strong an impression; unconsciously, he eased up on terms for a newbie.
Ultimately, a screenwriter's ceiling in Hollywood was limited, and the revenue for an agent at his level was negligible.
Instinct told him giving the kid some leeway now might pay off unexpectedly later.
So they quickly hashed out the basics.
Straight script agency contract, three-year term, 10% commission. Simon retained some script control—basically, if he wanted to direct one himself, he could prep it without the agent.
The full details were more complex, so Simon would sign tomorrow.
Finally, to soften Jonathan Friedman's evident shock, Simon explained he just wanted to make ultra-low-budget experimental films for practice.
Like, one 16mm camera, a few thousand bucks, two or three people.
Jonathan Friedman warmed to that, offering whatever help he could.
They hit it off, and by the time the meeting wrapped, it was past 5:40.
Bidding farewell again to Jonathan Friedman, who'd walked him to the door, Simon turned and saw two guys and a girl waiting in the outer lounge—all young.
As the door opened, the three who'd been chatting stood respectfully, glancing curiously at Simon, the guy who'd kept them waiting over an hour. The two men looked envious and wary; the short-haired girl eyed him with interest.
Simon just nodded politely. The girl seemed familiar, but he didn't dwell and headed out.
Only after leaving WMA headquarters, recalling a name from over an hour ago, did it click: the short-haired girl was probably Courteney Cox, the obsessive Monica Geller from the famous Friends.