Near Marina del Rey, in an office park south of Venice Beach.
Michael Ovitz had just parked when Jennifer Rebold approached. "Mr. Ovitz, the boss is waiting. This way, please."
No Simon to greet him personally Ovitz felt a flicker of irritation but kept his composure in front of the attractive assistant. He followed her into a spacious warehouse filled with vehicle parts of every kind. Simon stood beside a middle-aged white man, heads together over an unusual "motorcycle."
"Good afternoon, Michael," Simon said, breaking off the conversation to shake hands. He gestured to the other man. "This is Adam Locklite. He used to design for General Motors; now he runs his own studio."
Ovitz shook hands with Locklite, then turned his attention to the vehicle.
It qualified as a motorcycle only because it had two wheels broad, racing-style tires. Everything else was pure science-fiction: aggressive, high-tech lines that bore no resemblance to any conventional bike.
Ovitz had kept tabs on Simon's activities and quickly guessed its purpose. "Simon, is this a prop for Batman?"
It was, in fact, the Batpod from Nolan's Dark Knight trilogy sleek, intimidating. Simon had rejected Nolan's utilitarian Batmobile in favor of his own design but kept the Batpod concept. Once Batman was green-lit, he had commissioned its construction.
Simon led Ovitz closer. "Exactly. What do you think?"
Ovitz studied it carefully. "Striking design. But I don't see an engine. Does it actually run?"
Adam Locklite spoke up. "Mr. Ovitz, it uses in-wheel hub motors. Power, transmission, and braking are all integrated into the wheels and driven electrically. So yes—it runs."
Ovitz's curiosity always strong was piqued. He asked detailed questions about range, torque, weight distribution. Soon the three men were deep in discussion, and Ovitz even took it for a short, slow lap around the warehouse.
Many details remained unfinished; top speed was still low. Simon's goal was a reliable thirty kilometers per hour on camera more than enough.
Stepping off, Ovitz recalled the advantages Locklite had listed. "Remarkable. I had no idea such technology existed. We may be on the verge of another automotive revolution."
Locklite wheeled the Batpod back to the center and shook his head. "It isn't new at all, Mr. Ovitz. Hub motors are almost as old as the internal combustion engine. In 1900 Ferdinand Porsche built the first electric vehicle with wheel-hub motors. But for a century the industry focused on gasoline engines, so electric drive never caught on."
Ovitz nodded. "A shame."
Simon couldn't help adding, "I've always thought that because we chase profit rather than pure discovery, we've missed too many opportunities. Apollo put men on the moon in the sixties, yet space exploration has regressed ever since."
Ovitz shrugged. "I thought Apollo was a wasteful boondoggle."
Simon countered, "Before the Age of Sail, several nations had chances to dominate the world. In the end it was tiny Britain population of a few million that built an empire on which the sun never set. The cosmos above us is a thousand times vaster than the oceans. Who knows what it might offer?"
They chatted a while longer, then settled at a workbench. Locklite tactfully withdrew.
Simon picked up a wrench and twirled it absently. "How did the talks with Sony go?"
Ovitz was momentarily surprised few knew the real purpose of his Tokyo trip but he didn't deny it. "Sony wants a major Hollywood studio. CAA is expanding its services. Actually, Simon, the Japanese were very interested in you. They specifically asked about Daenerys."
"I'm not interested in them," Simon said flatly, then moved to the point. "Since you're back, Michael, I think it's time this farce ended. Levinson and the others have achieved what they wanted. From now on, I want them silent."
Ovitz's smile faded. "Simon, you shouldn't have fired Barry outright."
Simon met his gaze. "Michael, we're both smart enough to see it. All three believed Rain Man was doomed. Barry didn't want a flop to tarnish his new A-list status after Good Morning, Vietnam. Hoffman feared repeating last year's Ishtar disaster. So they pinned the blame on me. They've succeeded. Now it stops."
Ovitz had hoped to extract further concessions for his clients, but with the motive laid bare he let it go. He and Simon were cut from similar cloth; petty obstruction would only make him look foolish.
He did not want to look foolish.
"I'll speak to Barry and the others," he said after a pause. "What's your plan going forward?"
"I remember you loved the script, Michael. So do I. I'll take over post-production personally until it hits theaters." Simon paused, then continued, "Since none of them wants further association with Rain Man, the project is no longer theirs. Daenerys will pay every remaining contractual obligation in full. In return, they stay quiet. And at minimum the entire country now knows the film exists. That's not nothing. Marketing works whether the buzz is positive or negative; the goal is simply getting audiences to notice."
Ovitz caught the implication without taking offense on his clients' behalf. "You used the same strategy on Basic Instinct?"
"Exactly. Controversy marketing. Very effective. Try it yourself when you run a studio someday."
Ovitz shook his head instinctively. "I have no plans to run a studio."
"Passing up the chance would be your loss. CAA's ceiling is too low; you must feel it yourself, or you wouldn't be consulting for Sony." Simon added casually, recalling Ovitz's future trajectory, "But if you ever take the reins without absolute control, the loss will be far greater."
Ovitz thought of Sony's offer during the trip: acquire a major studio and install him at the helm.
CAA's influence appeared boundless, yet the agency model was inherently limited. Six hundred clients generated only a hundred or two million annually most of which covered salaries and partner payouts. Little remained for Ovitz personally.
Even struggling MGM earned more than that. MCA parent of Universal, the company he had recommended to Sony was a colossus by comparison.
Neither man had time to linger. Once terms were settled, Ovitz departed. Simon spent more time with Locklite refining Batpod details, then returned to Daenerys headquarters in Santa Monica.
He had barely settled at his desk when Amy knocked and entered, folder in hand.
She passed it over. "The Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers just submitted this new offer to the WGA."
Simon opened it. Two proposals were inside: the new one and the mid-June version the writers had rejected.
A quick scan showed the producers had come back swinging.
The new contract extended the standard three-year term to four.
On the core issue residuals for syndicated one-hour network shows the producers completely rejected the WGA's demand for per-rerun payments. They insisted on a revenue-percentage model and slashed the rate to 1.2% well below the hoped-for 2%.
The June offer, while capping total payments, had at least allowed writers to choose between fixed or percentage residuals.
Other WGA demands—higher film residuals, minimum pay rates, greater creative control—were pared back further. Overall the new package was worth roughly fifty million dollars less than June's proposal: the equivalent of one month's wages lost for each of the guild's ten thousand-plus members.
The producers also demanded a response within one week. Failure to ratify would delay further talks another month.
Today was August 5.
At the end of July, ABC having signed with Daenerys—swiftly resumed Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?. Only two episodes remained per week, yet viewership had surged, recently topping twenty million.
NBC and Fox were heavily promoting their newly acquired Daenerys reality formats. CBS, shut out, had rushed its own obstacle-course show into promotion.
All four networks had publicly announced plans for additional reality programming and vowed to expand projects using non-guild writers.
The pressure could not have been clearer.
Simon closed the folder and looked at Amy. "Do you think the WGA will accept?"
"They're running out of options," Amy said, nodding. Then she added, "I'm just worried about our scripted television pipeline."
With the New World acquisition complete, Simon's first directive had been to restart stalled scripted series. Funding was no longer an issue, but Daenerys's reality successes had crushed the writers in this strike. Retaliation against the company's scripted slate seemed likely.
Television relied far more heavily on writers than features did.
Simon considered it, brow furrowed. "We'll see how it plays out. Everyone's fighting for their livelihood. I doubt the writers will turn down paying work after six months without income. If they do, we'll hire non-guild or bring in overseas talent."
Amy knew that was the only practical course for now. Changing topics, she asked, "How did the meeting with Ovitz go?"
"We reached an understanding," Simon said. "CAA has no interest in a permanent rift."
Amy still looked concerned. Levinson was out, but she wasn't convinced Simon supervising the edit himself was ideal. "Are you really going to oversee the recut of Rain Man personally?"
"Who else? Besides Levinson, I'm probably the only one in Hollywood who knows the project inside out."
Amy suggested, "We could bring in the film's editor."
"I checked," Simon said, shaking his head. "Stu Linder longtime collaborator of Levinson's. No. I want zero further connection between this film and that team."