Chapter 61: I'll Be the Director
Miramax Films. The heavy oak door to Harvey's office was shut tight.
Inside, on the wide couch opposite Harvey's desk, Bruce, Quentin and Estelle sat with very different body language.
Estelle held a cigarette between her fingers, smoke curling upward.
Quentin was sprawled on the leather couch, boots propped on the coffee table, scuffing the polished surface. He clutched the script, pages rustling, eyes wide.
"Holy shit! Bruce! Holy shit!" Quentin jumped up, the script crumpling in his hands. "Where did you pull this New York crime story from?" He waved the pages, practically vibrating with excitement. "This structure! This pacing! This multi-threaded chaos! Crazier! More intricate! More incredible than Pulp Fiction!" He spun around, ecstatic.
Harvey Weinstein leaned back in his high leather chair, an imposing figure. His thick fingers turned the script slowly, brows furrowed, lips pressed into a hard line.
Quentin's enthusiasm didn't sway Harvey. He turned the last page, exhaled heavily, lifted his gaze to Bruce's calm face and tossed the script back onto the desk with a soft thud.
"The script, Bruce, is a solid story," Harvey said with authority. "Black humor's strong, structure... clever enough." His tone turned cold. "But," he paused for effect, "the structure's too complex! Multi-thread storytelling even crazier than Quentin's! Will audiences follow it? Too risky! Right now, first—Inglourious Basterds is priority one
Quentin can't spare a minute. Second, The English Patient is next year's awards contender, its budget is already killing me—resources must stay focused. Miramax isn't a casino, Bruce, we can only handle so much at once."
He leaned back, hands folded over his stomach. "Still... a good story is a good story." He forced a smile. "Here's what I'll do—$350k, I buy it, shelve it. After Basterds wraps and Patient is rolling, we develop it properly. Earliest... end of next year, maybe early the year after."
Bruce listened quietly; when Harvey finished, he glanced at Estelle beside him—a silent signal.
Estelle stubbed out her cigarette and sat up straight. "Harvey, $350k is conservative given Bruce's market value and the script's originality and quality." She smiled professionally. "Considering its unique multi-thread structure and strong New York flavor's commercial potential, we believe $400k better reflects its worth and our ongoing partnership."
Harvey's eyes narrowed, studying Estelle, then the still-calm Bruce. After a moment: "Fine. Four hundred thousand. Estelle, you always squeeze every penny for your star client."
Estelle smiled. "Harvey, pleasure doing business."
Bruce felt quiet relief; price settled, but the real negotiation had just begun.
He met Harvey's calculating gaze. "Harvey, since the script will soon belong to Miramax, I want to discuss production."
Harvey raised an eyebrow. "Production? I said earliest is end of next year—"
"No, Harvey," Bruce cut in. "I want to start it now." Ignoring Harvey's deepening frown, he laid out his plan. "Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels' core appeal is story and structure—visual spectacle isn't essential. It can be a low-budget indie. A successful indie runs one to five million; we can hit the low end."
Bruce continued: "First—cast: no stars. New York's packed with talented, affordable theater actors and underground artists who'll bring authentic street energy; salaries slashed. Second—locations: warehouses, rundown apartments, dive bars, back alleys—cheap and everywhere. Third—shoot: tight script, concentrated scenes, efficient execution wraps in under thirty days."
Harvey's eyes gleamed as he calculated. Bruce's plan appealed to his instinct for betting small to win big.
Indies cost little, risk is low, upside explosive—Miramax's founding strategy. Harvey's resistance softened, though doubt remained. "Interesting. But who directs? Multi-thread pacing and ensemble control are crucial—mess that up and every saved dollar goes to waste!"
Bruce had waited for this. He took a breath, met Harvey's scrutiny, and said clearly: "I'll direct."
The office fell completely silent; then Harvey looked like he'd just heard the funniest joke of the year—first shocked, then his face twitched, about to erupt in laughter.
Bruce didn't give him a chance to speak, continuing: "And zero salary." He paused, then played his final card. "Not only that—my $400,000 script fee, after the agent's commission, I'll invest back into the film as personal financing.
As long as you allow outside investment, that $400,000 becomes my stake in this movie. There's only one condition: the company must officially greenlight Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels today, start pre-production, and begin shooting within a month. Oh—and once the film releases, I share in the box-office profits proportional to my investment."
Harvey stared like he was looking at a lunatic: "Zero salary? And you're throwing in four hundred grand—just to direct?"
"Bruce White, what do you think directing is—playing around? Just because you've written a few good scripts? Have you ever operated a film camera? Do you know how to communicate with a cinematographer? Do you know how to manage a budget?"
Bruce met Harvey's gaze calmly: "Harvey, did you forget Sundance '92?"
Harvey's expression shifted sharply. At the 1992 Sundance Film Festival, Reservoir Dogs burst onto the scene. Quentin Tarantino—previously a video store clerk who'd only shot a few ignored shorts—arrived with a debut drenched in violence, profanity, and unconventional narrative, stunning everyone. Miramax had bought exclusive distribution rights at a bold price—and won the bet.
Bruce glanced at Quentin beside him; Quentin gave him an encouraging smile. Bruce turned back to Harvey: "Before Quentin shot Reservoir Dogs, how many film cameras had he handled? How much budget management experience did he have?
But his instinct for stylized violence, his grip on non-linear storytelling, his ability to unlock an actor's potential—those are exactly why you, Harvey, dared to take the bet! Sorry for using you as an example, Quentin."
Quentin gave Bruce an encouraging smile: "Bruce, I'm glad you think this way. I've told you: only the director is the true author of a film. Looks like you listened—keep going."
Bruce took a deep breath and continued: "The script for Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels is right here. Its rhythm, its structure, how every character's fate meshes and collides—no one understands it better than I do, because I created it! My grasp of it is the same as Quentin's understanding of his own scripts!"
Bruce leaned forward, eyes intense: "Harvey, back then you dared to bet on Quentin the newcomer—and you won big, Miramax profited massively! So why won't you bet on me now? Bet that the mind that crafted this script can translate into directing instinct! Bet that I can squeeze the rawest, most authentic New York edge out of the smallest budget!"
His voice lowered slightly: "Besides, I'm investing my script fee, working for zero salary—my fate is tied to this film's success or failure! The company's risk has been minimized to almost nothing! You're only using the money you paid for the script,
plus production costs that are minimal for the company, to develop a project that might earn you another fortune! And if it succeeds, you'll gain not just a profitable movie but a director who could earn you ten or a hundred times more in the future! Any way you look at it, this deal is worth it!"
With that, Bruce fell silent and sat quietly, leaving Harvey to think.
Finally Harvey's chest heaved; he grabbed the cigar he'd nearly crushed and ground it fiercely into the ashtray! He lifted his eyes, every storm inside them settling into a gambler's fierce determination.
"Kid," Harvey said through clenched teeth, threat mixed with excitement, "you'd better pray you're a genius director and not just some writer who got lucky!" He pointed at Bruce. "Four hundred grand script fee—counted as your investment! Director? Zero salary—you said it! Within one month I want to see the crew list! Location scout reports! Storyboards! Shooting schedule... Now! Go! Go! Go!"
Bruce's tension released; a rush of adrenaline surged through him, almost overwhelming. Yet his face stayed calm. Saying nothing, he simply nodded to Harvey, then stood and walked toward the heavy oak door.
"Bruce!" Quentin finally reacted, catching up to walk out with him; Estelle followed moments later.
"So... Quentin, I just jumped in headfirst—any advice for me?"
"Bruce, you need an experienced assistant director to help you out."
Bruce's eyes lit up: "Sounds like you have someone in mind?"
"Yes, I'll have him call you, Bruce!"
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