Ira Deutchman fell silent. After so many years in Hollywood, how could he not understand the truth in Simon's words?
Yet understanding a principle did not mean one could always act on it.
As a Northwestern graduate, Ira carried a subtle sense of intellectual superiority over much of Hollywood. That sense had quietly shaped his behavior, compelling him to maintain the dignity of a cultured man. Though he knew exploiting crowd-pleasing elements could boost box office, he had always resisted it deep down.
The waiter arrived with their meals just then. Simon waited until the server departed before asking, "So, Ira, do you still want the job?"
Ira hesitated, then asked, "Simon, is it truly right to pursue a film's commercial success so single-mindedly?"
"Many independent filmmakers claim they don't make movies for money. But that's not quite true. Choosing film means they possess a stronger desire for recognition than most. Deep down, they desperately want more people to see their work." Simon met Ira's gaze steadily. "As a distributor, your fundamental duty is to get as many eyes on the film as possible. That is your responsibility to the filmmaker and to the investors. Right or wrong does not enter into it. Take a film exploring the meaning of life and promote it with sex as the hook, the director may be furious. But if a film that might have earned a few million grosses ten, twenty, or more and even wins Oscars you'll find afterward that he not only harbors no grudge but eagerly wants to work with you again. Ira, only victors are ever right. Victors are above reproach."
Ira's expression shifted as he absorbed Simon's words. After a moment he said sincerely, "Simon, I need to be honest. Before this meeting I wanted the job very badly. Now I realize your expectations for the company I would run far exceed anything I imagined. I'm not sure I can meet them."
Simon smiled. "Truthfully, I'm not certain either. I chose you because you fit perfectly on paper. At thirty-five you're young enough to remain malleable, unlike the sixty-year-olds set in their ways yet experienced beyond newcomers. But if you accept, you'll have one year on probation."
"One year?"
Simon nodded. "Exactly. Even if you take the job, it's a one-year trial. I will oversee Highgate closely, personally guiding you away from traditional, conservative thinking. After one year, if your results satisfy me, we sign a formal long-term contract."
Ira caught the implication. "Simon, you mean Highgate operates completely independently. I report only to you, not to Ms. Pascal?"
"Correct. And Highgate's autonomy will be greater than you think. Daenerys Pictures and New World keep production and distribution separate, but Highgate will have its own fully independent system for both. Aside from financial oversight by the parent company, you'll have substantial freedom."
Ira's expression flickered for a few seconds before he made up his mind. "Simon, what should I do in the coming year?"
"Familiarize yourself with Highgate and make any adjustments you see fit, hire or fire as needed. Take over distribution of the arthouse titles already in the pipeline. For the next year you'll handle project scouting, acquisitions, and distribution yourself. I'll be deeply involved in major decisions, offering guidance and pushing you to abandon strategies I consider outdated. I'll also source some projects for you to work on." Simon paused to let that sink in, then continued. "As for evaluation, commercial performance is the core metric—but not absolute. Film is a high-risk business; I allow my people to fail. Every project will be judged individually. As long as you give each your full effort and follow a path I believe is right, we'll formalize the contract after one year."
Ira listened carefully, then asked, "And the budget for the coming year?"
"Thirty million dollars, purely for film operations. Use it however you see fit: production, acquisitions, distribution. You needn't spend it all by next year's deadline; just pursue the projects you believe in." Simon added, "Your salary will be one hundred fifty thousand dollars, no bonus clause. But if your work is exceptional, you'll receive a signing bonus when we formalize next year. You can gamble on whether your boss is generous or stingy. Oh, and once you start, you may use the company jet for business travel. If we sign long-term, you'll gain family vacation privileges. Work here long enough, and the company may even buy you your own plane."
Thirty million might not cover one major studio tentpole. Simon's Batman carried a public budget of fifty million.
Yet Ira felt no dissatisfaction. Even in Cinecom's most flush year, he had never commanded thirty million freely. His mind was already racing through possibilities. Though Simon did not forbid production, Ira resolved to focus the entire sum on acquisitions and distribution, lower risk, shorter cycles. At an average of five million per arthouse project, thirty million could fund six films next year.
Production could wait. If he earned a formal contract, he would have more budget then anyway.
With that settled, Ira stood and extended his hand across the table with a smile. "Boss, I look forward to the day I have my own private plane."
Ira proved decisive. The next day he signed the agreement and threw himself into Highgate.
Over the following days Simon finalized two more Batman supporting roles.
With Black Mask going to Willem Dafoe, Commissioner Gordon went to Tommy Lee Jones and Alfred the butler to Anthony Hopkins.
Both would later become giants. Jones joining the twenty-million-dollar club with the Men in Black series, Hopkins winning an Oscar for The Silence of the Lambs.
A decade later assembling them for supporting parts would have been impossible. Now, neither had yet reached that stature; both were solidly second-tier.
At forty-something, Tommy Lee Jones had debuted in the seventies but had only one notable credit, 1980's Coal Miner's Daughter. Of his five films before accepting Gordon, only one a low-budget sci-fi thriller from New World, Storm Warning had grossed over six million; the rest barely cleared one million each.
Fifty-one-year-old Anthony Hopkins was even quieter, appearing mostly in television movies and series in recent years.
Both were reliable, recognizable character actors at modest rates, perfect for Gordon and Alfred and, crucially, both agreed to five-film contracts.
In the original timeline, Marvel supporting players like Scarlett Johansson and Samuel L. Jackson commanded higher pay than many leads precisely because their roles were indispensable, yet they had not signed the long-term deals binding Thor, Hawkeye, or Hulk.
Unlike Catwoman, Gordon and Alfred were inseparable from Batman. As long as the series continued, replacement was unlikely and Simon had no intention of allowing it.
Negotiations settled starting salaries at $150,000 each, with raises capped at $300,000 per sequel. Simon was not overly generous, but for supporting roles the increments were fair. If either reached later stardom, $300,000 or even $500,000 would seem trivial.
Though unable to restrict their outside work as he had with lead Adam Baldwin, Simon privately resolved if necessary to curb their careers. Swapping the lead in The Silence of the Lambs, for instance.
Advancing his DC universe took priority; everything else was secondary.
With core roles set, minor parts were finalized over the same period; true extras would be cast during production.
Casting complete, the film moved into intensive script readings and rehearsals. Co-producer Joe Silver flew back to Melbourne in late October to coordinate sets and locations for the early-year shoot.
Amid the bustle, Halloween approached.
Compared to the previous year, October had been dismal.
In 1987 the month grossed nearly $180 million; this year, even before it ended, projections hovered around $130 million nearly a third down.
November and December looked sparse as well. The writers' strike had depressed quality across the board; majors responded by tightening releases to manage risk.
Thus Daenerys rolling out Scream, Steel Magnolias, Dead Poets Society, and Rain Man stood out sharply in the year-end slate.
At Simon's insistence and after urgent talks with chains, Rain Man secured 1,136 screens. Combined with the others, all four Daenerys titles qualified as wide commercial releases.
Simon also approved $5 million in dedicated advertising per film covering television, radio, newspapers, and magazines. Including prints and other costs, total marketing per title would exceed $8 million, with more to follow if early returns warranted.
In an era when traditional distribution still leaned conservative, Daenerys's spend approaching production budgets struck many as reckless. Simon ignored the criticism.
Escaping reliance on major-studio pipelines hinged on this push.
The market would never again align so perfectly in Daenerys's favor. Once the majors recovered from the strike, a too-prominent Daenerys would face coordinated pressure from all sides.
After a final barrage of network and MTV spots targeting teens, Scream's release date arrived.
The previous week, Galaxy International's Halloween 4 had nudged the weekly total to $32.67 million with an $8 million opening hardly a threat.
On October 28, Scream launched wide on 1,755 North American screens.