Find a quiet spot, turn the page, and let’s see what this story has been hiding 🌙 ✦ Horowitz picked up the folder from the coffee table.
Under Evan’s expectant gaze, he opened the clasp and pulled out two bound documents.
The one on top was a thick stack of pages.
Beneath it sat a much thinner project plan.
“Happy Death Day?” Horowitz murmured the title under his breath and opened the screenplay.
At first, he only skimmed.
After a quick pass, he gave a small, approving nod.
The script was written in proper Hollywood format, not like the loose scene notes students sometimes tried to pass off as screenplays.
A professional script was the spine of a production.
Done correctly, it made the whole process easier to understand: investors could see the movie, producers could plan it, directors could stage it, and actors could work from it.
Evan’s pages had the right pieces in the right places: scene headings, action lines, character cues, dialogue, parentheticals, transitions, and clean INT./EXT.
sluglines that told the crew where and when a scene was supposed to happen.
There were no scene numbers cluttering the page, either.
Those belonged in a locked shooting script, not a clean draft.
For a student project, the level of discipline was unusual.
On his second pass, Horowitz slowed down and read more seriously.
When he reached the absurd premise of a girl being murdered day after day, he could not help smiling.
Halfway through, he found more than a few things that did not obey everyday logic.
Some of it was ridiculous on its face.
But the script kept making itself work.
It used old Hollywood tools to hold the impossible together, and Horowitz understood that certain stories were not meant to be picked apart like courtroom testimony.
The appeal was in the structure, the hook, the cruel little turns of design.
This was obviously a dark horror-comedy with a little cult edge to it.
“This script has something,” he said.
“If you can shoot what is on the page, it could appeal to a real audience, especially younger viewers.” Horowitz set the screenplay down, surprised despite himself.
This was far beyond a graduation short.
Judged only as a script, it was sharply professional.
Evan’s knowledge base was clearly deeper than most students his age.
“Professor, you know I’ve been studying darker genre films since freshman year,” Evan said.
“I shot a few experimental shorts before, but the other students and most of the faculty never really took to them.
“Almost every professor except you disliked that style.
They thought the darker tone, the absurd setups, the blood, the uglier side of human nature, all of it was too narrow.
That is why I wrote this one.
It still has my instincts in it, but the style is not quite as aggressive.” It was not that Evan wanted to make only dark films.
In his previous life, he had worked in projection booths and watched all kinds of movies, but most of them had blurred together.
Near the end of that life, when illness had narrowed his world, he had fallen hard for darker cinema.
Good, bad, polished, cheap, he had watched all of it.
His greatest advantage now was the library of images left in his head.
Since so many of those memories leaned toward darker films, he had naturally studied that language first.
“A strong personal style is not a bad thing,” Horowitz said.
“But film is still mass entertainment.
You need to understand the balance.
I can see that this script goes well beyond the usual thesis film, but getting it made will be difficult.” He tapped the screenplay, already thinking through the practical problems, then picked up the thinner document beneath it.
“All right,” Horowitz said after a few minutes.
“I have to admit, you’re better prepared than I expected.
You even built a detailed project plan.
With a complete plan attached, this isn’t just a script anymore.
It’s a coherent commercial package with a clear selling point.” “Professor, I know a first-time independent filmmaker is almost never going to get studio money,” Evan said.
“But I wanted the plan anyway.
I’m not underestimating how hard a feature is to make.
I want as much of the work done up front as possible.” Plenty of people came to Hollywood thinking a good script was enough to make a company open its wallet.
Reality was colder.
A script might spark interest, but a stranger asking for a million dollars needed more than a clever premise.
Every day, countless scripts landed on desks across the city, and only a tiny fraction were ever bought.
Even the ones that sold could sit in development for years, gathering dust in some studio archive.
The key to getting a film made was the business package submitted to potential investors or production companies: development, casting, shooting, risks, and solutions laid out in advance.
“Evan, with this, I can at least try to help you look for funding,” Horowitz said.
“I have seen directors twice your age still running around trying to raise money for their first feature.
A lot of them need exactly this kind of complete package.” He flipped through the thin plan.
It considered nearly everything the production might run into, including likely problems and ways to solve them.
The budget was not large by studio standards, but for a first-time director, it was still a mountain.
A newcomer with no track record would be ignored by film companies and private investors alike.
Horowitz was already thinking about whether any film funds for young directors might be worth approaching.
“Professor, I have a way to raise the money,” Evan said.
“This plan was built around the amount I can realistically get.
I may not be in class much for a while.
Time is tight, and I need to make sure the movie’s finished before graduation.” “Your credits were already enough last year,” Horowitz said.
“What you need now is to make something, not sit through another lecture.
Do the work.
If you can produce what is on this page, I believe it will give you a real advantage when you start looking for work.” Horowitz looked at him.
Evan had a reputation among classmates for being isolated, cold, and difficult to know, but Horowitz understood the reason.
Evan had spent almost all his time learning.
He was a smart kid, and more important, he knew what he wanted.
Evan finished his coffee, gathered the screenplay and project plan, and stood.
“Professor, I have a meeting with my agent,” he said.
“I should go.” “Go,” Horowitz said, patting him on the shoulder.
“If you need help, call me.” Evan left Horowitz’s office and walked to a cafe near campus.
He ordered coffee, took a table by the window, and watched people pass while he waited for his agent.
He had been born in 1970 and had spent twenty years in Greater Los Angeles, yet the memories of his previous life still felt as real as yesterday.
When he was young in that other life, he had stumbled across Cinema Paradiso and become fascinated enough to learn projection.
Illness had eventually cut short more than a decade in projection booths.
Bedridden and adrift, he had fallen into dark films again, watching them day after day until the morning he woke into this world.
Fate, if that was what it was, had at least been fair in one respect.
It had taken away a sick life and given him this one.
After he turned five, his parents moved to a farm in Ventura County.
His father was not some grand tycoon, but the family had enough money to give him a good education and room to prepare.
In this life, Evan had not grown up ignorant.
He knew exactly what he wanted, and he had worked for it without stopping.
His family background helped.
He had attended private schools from childhood, and from grade school through his teenage years, his mother had often taken him to visit sets run by old friends.
She let him watch the machinery of the movie business up close.
Learning to become a director was expensive.
Books were only the beginning.
Once college started, film stock, equipment rentals, and experimental shorts all cost real money.
An ordinary family would have struggled to support that kind of education.
“Hey, Evan.
What did you need?” Jimmy said as he pulled out the chair across from him.
“God, if you hadn’t called, I might’ve forgotten I had a film director for a client.
Waiter, can I get a latte?” Jimmy was only a few years older than Evan, dressed in a neat suit that made him look energetic and eager in the way young agents often tried to be.
“Jimmy, I’m graduating soon,” Evan said.
“I’m about to start my first feature.
In a little while, I’ll need you to help me hire crew.
Basic production staff first, then a few actors.” He studied his agent.
Jimmy had come to him during junior year, fresh out of the CAA mailroom.
He had heard that USC’s film and video program had a gifted young director and had practically sprinted over in hopes of signing him.
“What kind of movie?” Jimmy asked after a sip of coffee, already frowning.
“Those bloody experimental shorts again?” ✦ ✦ ✦ Ready for more?
CREATORS’ THOUGHTS TheBacklot Thank you for reading.
I hope this chapter drew you further into the story.
Stick around, because there’s still a lot waiting just ahead.