A serial killer driven by a twisted sense of conviction, one who forces people to cherish their own lives — such a character had never appeared in recent cinematic history.
Based on Dawson’s years of industry experience, this film was guaranteed to make an impact as long as the director was even halfway competent.
Of course, the box office was always a gamble.
After all, no one could predict whether an audience would actually embrace such a dark, twisted character.
But Dawson believed this was a bet worth taking.
If he lost, he would simply leave CAA and start fresh somewhere else.
At over thirty years old, he had absolutely no interest in remaining a bottom-tier agent forever.
He wanted to become one of the company’s five senior partners.
If this succeeded, he would finally get his shot.
If it failed, he would just pack up and leave.
Sitting calmly across the desk, Kevin watched Dawson’s shifting expressions and knew instantly that the proposal and script had won him over.
What came next was simple: wait.
Wait for his agent to lock down suitable investors.
But before that, there was one crucial thing Kevin needed to do — register the script with the Writers Guild and the Directors Guild.
T/N: The Writers Guild of America (WGA) and The Directors Guild of America (DGA) are industry organizations that protect intellectual property and credit rights for writers and directors.
These steps were absolutely essential.
They would prevent plagiarism and firmly secure the copyright of Saw in his own hands.
Kevin knew exactly how lucrative the franchise would become, eventually spawning eight or nine massive sequels in the future.
For the sake of those long-term profits, he was more than willing to give up a portion of his director’s salary now just to lock down the intellectual property.
He was confident that the copyright alone would eventually pay him back a thousand times over.
“So, Dawson,” Kevin asked, his expression perfectly composed.
“Do you think the proposal is viable?”
“Of course.
You’re the genius director I’ve been betting on.”
Dawson didn’t hold back his praise.
In his eyes, this was the first time Kevin’s supposed talent had truly materialized.
Now, their fates were entirely bound together.
If they succeeded, they would both rise to the top.
If they failed, they would both crash and burn.
Though, realistically, a failure would be much harsher on Kevin.
But in this battle, neither of them could afford to lose.
“My next step is to start pitching this to anyone who might be interested,” Dawson said.
“You need to start prepping for the shoot immediately.
Our entire future depends on whether this film succeeds.”
Kevin stood up and shook his agent’s hand.
There was no need for more words — this project was the key to both of their futures, and neither intended to slack off.
…
The next morning, Dawson walked into a CAA conference room with the project proposal firmly in hand.
Unlike traditional companies, almost every agent at CAA functioned like a partner, creating a uniquely aggressive system that drove the agency forward through a complex, intertwined compensation structure.
Every celebrity and client was managed by an entire agent team, with the client’s most trusted agent serving as the core.
Dawson was a part of several teams, but because he lacked a true, flagship client of his own, his internal standing at the company had stagnated.
That said, his income wasn’t bad at all.
Being involved in multiple teams meant he collected a slice of the commission from each one.
This was the true strength of CAA’s system — if you were capable enough to juggle the work, you could make a very comfortable living without ever signing an A-lister.
But what Dawson wanted right now wasn’t money.
It was status.
Inside the conference room, dozens of agents who hadn’t yet headed out for the day were seated around the table, discussing their agendas.
At the head of the room sat Michael Ovitz — one of the company’s senior founding partners, and undeniably the most powerful man in the building.
On the surface, he looked like a standard middle-aged corporate executive with oval glasses.
But the occasional, predatory glint in his eyes hinted that this man was far from ordinary.
And indeed, Michael Ovitz was anything but ordinary.
Having founded CAA in 1975, he had grown the agency into a Hollywood titan over the past sixteen years, commanding a terrifying share of the industry’s resources.
Looking over the murmuring room, Ovitz tapped his knuckles sharply against the table, and the room instantly fell silent.
After checking that he had everyone’s attention, Ovitz began to speak.
“Even though CAA has become the most powerful agency in Hollywood, we still have glaring weaknesses,” Ovitz began.
“If we want the major studios to fully accept our project packaging model, we need more competent directors — directors who can actually generate massive profits for the studios.”
“Only then can we force those production companies to give us ground, hand over a larger share of the profits, and ensure that both we and our clients earn even more.”
After laying out the company’s macro strategy, he cut straight to the point.
“So — has anyone signed a promising new director recently?”
Several agents took turns presenting their recent recruits.
Seeing his opening, Dawson also stepped forward and respectfully slid his proposal across the table to Ovitz.
“This is a film project from Steve Kevin, a genius director from USC, that I recently signed.
It includes a complete horror script, a detailed production plan, and an itemized budget.” Dawson took a breath.
“The only issue right now is funding.
I’m hoping CAA can leverage its resources to push this project forward.”
“Oh?” Ovitz raised an eyebrow.
“A genius director from USC?”
The pitch caught his attention.
With a flicker of curiosity, Ovitz flipped open the thick proposal.
The flawless script formatting and highly organized pitch deck immediately made a strong impression, because most first-time directors couldn’t even manage to prepare something half this thorough.
Technically, assembling a package like this wasn’t even a director’s job — that responsibility usually fell to a producer.
But seeing a rookie director deliver something this comprehensive proved he was dead serious, not just some arrogant amateur trying to scam his way into a budget.
With that thought in mind, Ovitz’s interest sharpened.
He turned to the script itself.
It didn’t take long for Jigsaw — an antagonist driven by a twisted, philosophical conviction — to catch his eye.
He immediately understood why this script stood out from the pile.
The script, after all, was the bedrock of any successful film.
A director’s job was simply to translate that story effectively through the lens of a camera.
Judging by this proposal alone, the story certainly wasn’t the problem.
If they backed this, what they really needed was an experienced assistant director to help minimize the rookie’s inevitable on-set mistakes.
At the same time, they would need to assign a veteran producer to control the budget — using the purse strings to keep the young director’s wilder impulses firmly in check.