Find a quiet spot, turn the page, and let’s see what this story has been hiding 🌙 ✦ In truth, Jimmy had started regretting the deal not long after the contract was signed.
Maybe the “genius” Professor Horowitz kept praising was only brilliant in a classroom.
Jimmy had seen some of Evan’s experimental shorts.
The heavy blood, the grim themes, the uncomfortable darkness of them had left a bad taste in his mouth.
He had nearly written Evan off when the call came in that morning.
“Not that kind of experimental film,” Evan said.
“This time I have a complete script and project plan.
It’s a real feature, and I need it for my thesis film.” He knew the impression he had left on Jimmy.
Otherwise, the man would not have gone months without contacting him.
Still, Jimmy was a competent agent in at least one respect.
When Evan had needed help renting equipment before, Jimmy had not brushed him off.
“You want to shoot a feature?” Jimmy asked.
“Evan, I need to remind you that a feature isn’t the same as those things you made before.
You can’t do this alone.” He paused, saw the steadiness in Evan’s eyes, and seemed to decide that arguing was not his job.
“Fine.
What do you need me to find?” “I’ll call you in a few days,” Evan said.
“I need a basic crew: lighting, makeup, props, set dressing.
I can handle the camera myself.
I don’t need famous people, and I can’t afford them anyway.
I need people who are competent and affordable.” “Okay.
CAA can put names in front of you.” Jimmy leaned back.
“You’re putting the crew together yourself?
Independent production?” “Yes.
Which means I need to raise the money first.
I would love for a company to invest and let me focus only on directing, but that is basically impossible.” Jimmy swallowed the rest of his coffee and fought the urge to roll his eyes.
Then he pulled out a few bills and tucked them under the cup.
“All right.
I’ll wait for your call.
I have another meeting.” Evan watched him leave the cafe.
Jimmy probably thought he was talking nonsense.
Evan left money under his own cup, walked out, and sat in his truck for a moment, looking at the folder on the passenger seat.
The script was set.
The project was set.
The next problem was the one that trapped so many directors before they ever got near a camera: money.
Horowitz had been right.
Plenty of older directors were still running around the city looking for money to make their first features.
Did none of them have talent?
Of course they did.
That was the trap.
No one wanted to invest before you proved you could deliver, but without investment you had no way to prove it.
Across two lives, Evan had lived almost sixty years.
He understood that money mattered first.
You could have the right script, the right plan, the right instincts, and still have nothing if you could not afford to put the production in motion.
Hollywood was full of people who had almost everything required for success.
Almost was worthless.
He drove back to his apartment, went upstairs, and brought down a boxed stack of materials along with a few changes of clothes.
Then he headed for Ventura County, where the Greater Los Angeles sprawl thinned toward the wild edge of Los Padres National Forest.
The Rosenberg farm sat near that boundary, far enough from Hollywood for the noise in his head to settle.
The drive carried him past the San Fernando Valley, another major production hub, though much of its output belonged to the adult industry Hollywood preferred not to discuss.
Its scale was a blunt reminder of how profitable moving images could become.
Country music played in the truck while Evan drove, going over his preparations again and again.
Had he missed anything?
Had he assumed too much?
Was there any weak point in the plan?
Soon he reached the edge of Los Padres National Forest.
He had grown up on this farm, with fields stretching out in one direction and cattle in the other.
It had never really changed.
That was what made it one of the few places where his mind could settle.
He drove in past a few ranch hands, exchanging quick greetings, then parked in front of a wooden farmhouse.
His father was sitting in a reclining chair on the porch, a pipe between his teeth and two golden retrievers sprawled at his feet.
The dogs shot up the moment Evan opened the truck door, circling him in a blur of wagging tails.
“Dad, where is Mom?” Evan asked, rubbing the dogs hard before sitting beside Reuben.
“I came back because I need to talk to you about something.” “Mm.
Your mother is making dinner,” Reuben said.
“She learned a new beef-and-potato stew from television.
One of the steers kept starting fights, so James took him down yesterday.” Reuben looked his son over.
Evan seemed thinner than the last time he had come home.
He hoped the kid had not gotten into anything stupid.
Reuben understood young men.
He had smoked enough weed in his own youth to worry about what Evan might be doing now.
“While Mom is busy,” Evan said, lifting the box he had brought from the truck, “can we go to your study?
I have something to discuss.” He followed his father upstairs to the study, which doubled as Reuben’s workroom.
A row of old hunting rifles lined one wall, and a large mounted deer head watched over the room.
Reuben sat behind the heavy oak desk, took out an enormous revolver, and began cleaning it with practiced ease.
Ever since moving to the farm, he had become attached to hunting and guns.
If Reuben was sitting still, there was a decent chance a firearm was within arm’s reach.
“All right,” Reuben said.
“What do you want to talk about?
Please don’t tell me you got some girl pregnant.
I may have to consider putting a round in you with this thing.” Evan looked at him helplessly.
Even after all these years, he still had not fully adapted to Reuben’s version of father-son bonding.
He would never forget being thirteen and having Reuben walk into his room at night with a copy of Playboy, apparently determined to provide healthy sex education.
“Dad, look at this.
I made it.” Evan opened the folder and handed over the screenplay and project plan.
Reuben took the plan first and set the thick screenplay aside.
The moment he saw the documents, he understood.
This was about an agreement between father and son.
Since childhood, Evan had not asked for many toys or much allowance.
He had spent weekends helping Reuben clean guns, going hunting with him, watching football with him, and doing it all until he left for college in Los Angeles.
In exchange, Reuben had promised to put up money for one film after Evan graduated.
Reuben finished the project plan, then picked up the screenplay and skimmed through it.
After a rough pass, he set it down.
“Listen, Evan.
Whatever producing experience I had is badly out of date.
I haven’t worked in the industry since you were five.
If you want the money, I’ll call the accountant tomorrow.
But you get one chance.
If you mess it up, I’ll help you find a company where you can intern.” He looked at his son seriously.
Money might be the only kind of support he could still give.
“Dad, what do you think?” Evan asked.
“If you were still producing, would this project get your investment?” He had come for the money Reuben had promised, but he wanted the answer even more.
If Reuben were still a producer, would he risk money on a project like this?
His father thought for a moment.
“From my old point of view?
No.
I would not invest.
The plan is solid, and the budget is not high, but under normal circumstances I would never put money behind a first-timer like you.
Not a chance.
“You could send it to a few small companies and see what happens, but don’t build fantasies around it.
I’m paying for your first movie because your last name is Rosenberg.
That’s the only reason.” Evan was not disappointed.
He had expected as much.
That was how the business worked, and his father had put it gently.
At a film company, he probably would not even get in front of an executive.
Being allowed to leave the script and plan behind before getting told to wait for a call would already count as generous.
“All right.
I’ll show it to Mom later.
Maybe she can give me advice.” Evan gathered the documents.
“Dad, you know how long I’ve been preparing for this.
I don’t want anything to go wrong.” “Of course,” Reuben said.
“Sometimes I think you may be rushing.
You could graduate, find a crew job, work for a few years, build experience, then make your own film.” How could Evan not rush?
1991 was almost here.
He knew that with every year that passed, the opportunities only shrank.
“I’m going to see how Mom’s beef is coming along,” he said.
“I’ll put this in my room.” Evan carried the box to the room at the end of the upstairs hall.
It looked almost exactly as it had when he left.
His mother must have cleaned it regularly.
At the foot of the bed were the little dog beds he had once made for the two golden retrievers, though they were far too big for them now.
The room was simple and warm.
A desk stood near the balcony, and a wooden bookshelf rose beside it.
Along with a small collection of books, it held childhood toys, old comics, and a guitar.
The box he had brought held the experimental shorts he had shot during college, seven or eight videotapes in all.
He tore off the tape, arranged the cassettes neatly on the shelf, gave them one satisfied look, and went downstairs to the kitchen.
“Mom, I could smell dinner before I even got inside.” Anna Rosenberg looked considerably younger than Reuben.
She was of English descent, around five foot nine, with blonde hair pinned up while she stirred a pot with a spoon.
“Oh, honey.
How is school?” she asked, setting the spoon down and turning to hug him.
“I learned this beef-and-potato stew from television.
I don’t think I ruined it.” “Same as always,” Evan said.
“I had enough credits a while ago, but I told Professor Horowitz I’ll spend the rest of the year shooting my thesis film.” “You’re going to become a great director,” Anna said.
“You’ll make your mother proud.
Go call your father.
Dinner is almost ready.
If he’s still playing with those guns, I’m throwing every one of his toys away.” “Hey, sweetheart, I’m already down here,” Reuben said as he walked into the dining room.
“Looks like you’ll need another excuse to throw out my collection.” ✦ ✦ ✦ 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.