Mark Anderson spent three days completing the first workable draft of Jaws before handing the production paperwork to Megan Carter.
Once that was done, he and Paul Stevens immediately threw themselves into preproduction.
There was far too much work remaining for either of them to relax.
Mark had to turn the screenplay into storyboards, prepare a preliminary budget, search for suitable coastal locations, conduct scouts, reserve camera and sound equipment, audition actors, and assemble departments for cinematography, lighting, production design, makeup, wardrobe, marine work, and transportation.
He also had to organize script meetings and construct a shooting schedule that could squeeze as much production value as possible from their limited resources.
With only $700,000 available, every unnecessary expense could cost them something they actually needed on screen.
Even with the audiovisual system handling much of the complicated postproduction and creature work, the budget was still painfully small for a feature involving boats, beaches, crowds, and open water.
Mark therefore personally reviewed almost every major expense and refused to spend money simply because it made production more comfortable.
The system could save him millions in visual effects, but it couldn’t magically provide actors, locations, boats, cameras, meals, transportation, and an experienced crew for free.
Fortunately, Paul was far more useful than his personality suggested.
He talked too much, argued with people he disliked, and sometimes behaved as though professionalism were an optional extra, but he had built an enormous network during film school and his years in the industry.
Equipment houses, freelance camera operators, sound crews, stunt people, assistant directors, local production workers, and struggling actors—Paul always seemed to know someone who knew someone.
Megan was inexperienced but learned quickly.
Instead of the centralized government film-approval process that existed in the original source world, she dealt with the American production requirements Mark actually needed: company paperwork, insurance, location agreements, local filming permissions, production accounts, and coordination with the jurisdictions where they intended to shoot.
By the time Mark was ready to move forward, Silverline had released the approved $700,000 into the production account and Megan had helped organize the documentation needed for location work.
After nearly a month of frantic preparation, Mark finally had something resembling a film crew.
Their destination was Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts.
The island offered almost everything Mark needed to recreate the fictional seaside community of Amity Island.
Quiet coastal towns, beaches, harbors, docks, fishing boats, and large stretches of open water could all be found within a relatively compact area, while a substantial portion of Jaws depended on making the audience believe an ordinary summer resort had suddenly become hunting territory for a great white shark.
Mark had studied how the original film used Martha’s Vineyard and wanted the same grounded coastal atmosphere rather than a location that looked artificially designed for horror.
The crew flew east from Los Angeles, traveled onward to Massachusetts, and eventually reached Martha’s Vineyard with their essential equipment.
Paul had arrived ahead of the main unit to coordinate local transportation and accommodations, but their budget gave him very little flexibility.
Instead of luxury hotels, most of the crew was placed in simple local inns and rented rooms close enough to the planned shooting areas to keep daily travel costs under control.
Nobody on the crew complained much.
Film work often meant sleeping wherever production could afford to put you, waking before sunrise, working twelve-hour days, and returning exhausted enough that the quality of the wallpaper barely mattered.
As long as there was a clean bed, a shower, and somewhere to charge equipment, most experienced crew members considered the accommodations acceptable.
Their male lead apparently disagreed.
Shortly after everyone arrived, Mark was inside his room revising the next day’s schedule and preparing notes for the evening production meeting when Paul suddenly rushed through the door.
“Mark, we’ve got a problem. Ryan Cole refuses to get out of the car.”
Mark slowly looked up.
“What now?”
“He says he wants a luxury hotel. If we don’t move him somewhere better, he says he’s staying in the car.”
Mark closed his eyes for a moment.
They had barely reached the location.
Mark dropped the schedule onto the desk and followed Paul outside.
Parked near the entrance was one of the production vehicles, and inside the back seat sat a rugged-looking man around thirty with thick eyebrows, a square jaw, and exactly the kind of dependable appearance Mark had wanted for Martin Brody, Amity Island’s police chief.
The man was casually scrolling through his phone as though an entire production crew wasn’t waiting on him.
When Mark opened the door, Ryan glanced up.
“Director.”
That was all.
Ryan Cole had enough credits behind him to be recognizable without being famous enough to demand a major star’s salary.
Under the professional grading structure used in this parallel world’s entertainment industry, he was considered a Tier Three actor, meaning an experienced working performer capable of handling substantial roles and beginning to build industry recognition.
The same system broadly classified professional directors, actors, cinematographers, and screenwriters from Tier Four through Tier One, with an extremely rare Master classification reserved for people whose careers had genuinely reshaped their fields.
Tier Four meant a competent professional who had properly entered the industry, while Tier Three represented experienced working talent with independent credits.
Tier Two covered established names with awards, profitable projects, and recognizable industry status, while Tier One was reserved for elite filmmakers and performers whose work could influence financing and audience interest by itself.
Mark was currently considered a Tier Three director.
In formal status, he and Ryan weren’t particularly far apart.
On the set, however, the director was still responsible for the production as a whole, and Ryan couldn’t even be bothered to put away his phone when Mark arrived.
Mark climbed into the vehicle and sat across from him.
“Paul says you refuse to check in.”
Ryan’s manager sat beside him, a heavyset young man wearing glasses, and answered before his client could speak.
“Mark, these accommodations aren’t acceptable. The rooms are cramped, everything is old, and we don’t think Ryan should be staying there throughout production. If he gets sick or can’t rest properly, that affects your movie too.”
Mark took a slow breath before answering.
“The contract says accommodations will be selected according to production requirements and local availability. We chose this place because it’s close to our main locations, which means the cast and crew can get more sleep and spend less time being transported every morning.” He looked directly at Ryan.
“If I put you in a luxury property farther away, we lose a huge amount of time just moving you back and forth before accounting for wardrobe, makeup, blocking, and actual shooting.”
“I don’t care.”
Ryan finally put down his phone.
“I’m not staying here. Find me a proper hotel or we can terminate the contract.”
Mark’s eyes narrowed slightly.
That attitude was very different from the actor he had auditioned.
During casting, Ryan had been cooperative, polite, enthusiastic about playing Brody, and willing to repeatedly assure Mark that he understood the production had a limited budget.
Now that they had traveled across the country, gathered the crew, secured the locations, and built the schedule around him, his personality had changed almost overnight.
Mark had encountered actors like him before.
They behaved perfectly throughout auditions and contract negotiations, but once principal photography became difficult to reorganize without them, new demands suddenly appeared.
Better accommodations, personal transportation, extra assistants, schedule changes, upgraded meals—each request came with the same threat hanging behind it.
Give me what I want or replace me.
A wealthy studio could simply enforce the contract, recast the part, absorb the delay, and let attorneys handle the consequences.
Mark had neither the money nor the time for a prolonged fight, especially when every lost production day burned through funds he desperately needed on screen.
“Fine.”
Ryan looked up.
“I’ll arrange the hotel.”
Mark turned and stepped out of the vehicle.
Paul was already waiting nearby and immediately approached him.
“Well? Is His Majesty finally willing to come inside?”
Mark shook his head.
“Find him a hotel.”
“What?”
Paul stared at him as if he had lost his mind.
“Why should we find him anything? He signed the contract. Everyone else is staying here, and nobody’s complaining.” Paul pointed angrily toward the vehicle.
“Actors are supposed to follow reasonable production arrangements. He waited until we got all the way here before pulling this crap because he thinks we can’t replace him.”
“I know.”
“Then why give in?”
“Because shooting matters more.” Mark placed a hand on Paul’s shoulder before his friend could march toward the car.
“Arguing with him for two days costs us two days of production. We can deal with everything else after the movie is finished.”
Paul remained furious.
“The nearest luxury place that satisfies what he wants is almost an hour from some of our shooting areas once island traffic gets bad. We’re probably looking at four hundred dollars or more a night, plus transportation, and someone has to pick him up every morning.”
Mark knew exactly how ridiculous it was.
Their entire production budget was only seven hundred thousand dollars.
Spending hundreds of dollars every night simply because one actor considered himself too important to sleep where the rest of the cast and crew were staying was money Mark would much rather put into the movie.
Still, he sighed.
“Production comes first. Book it.”
Paul muttered several curses under his breath but eventually pulled out his phone and began making calls.
After comparing the available options, he found a high-end property that met Ryan’s demands and arranged transportation for him.
The next morning, Ryan arrived on location on time.
To Mark’s surprise, once the cameras were ready, he worked seriously.
He knew his dialogue, followed blocking instructions, repeated takes without complaining, and delivered a convincing version of Martin Brody’s uneasy, grounded personality.
By the end of the first shooting day, Mark finally relaxed a little.
If Ryan wanted an expensive room but remained professional whenever the camera was running, Mark could tolerate the irritation.
The movie was more important than his pride.
For the next two days, Ryan continued working without any major problems.
Mark gradually began to think the hotel dispute had simply been an unpleasant test of patience rather than the beginning of something worse.
He had overestimated Ryan Cole.
On the third day, the male lead caused trouble again.
(End of Chapter 6)