Keeping a room full of jaded industry veterans engaged through the final frame, without anyone drifting off or mentally checking out, proved the picture worked.
He knew the true test was coming at the end.
Once the film finished and they were forced to sit with the climax, he knew Jigsaw would be firmly engraved into their minds—a new classic character permanently inserted into film history.
The film moved relentlessly forward, dragging the audience through the protagonist’s struggles, and then it was over.
The moment the screen went black, the critics began scribbling furiously in their notebooks.
Roger Ebert, however, didn’t hold a pen.
He scanned the dimly lit room, located Adam, and walked over at a slow, unhurried pace.
“You must be the director, Adam Cole,” Ebert said, his voice carrying the calm authority of a man entirely comfortable with his own influence.
“I am Roger Ebert.”
“Thank you for coming,” Adam replied.
“It’s an honor.”
Ebert studied him for a moment, his interest clearly piqued.
“Where did you come up with a character like Jigsaw?”
Adam had been ready for this question for months.
“I grew up in an orphanage,” Adam answered, leaning into the reality of his current life.
“I saw a lot of elderly people pass away in front of me, mostly slowly, from illness.
But as I grew up, I also watched plenty of people my own age throw their lives away—indulging in drugs, recklessness, just absolutely refusing to respect the lives they were given.
They squandered everything, and only regretted it when the consequences finally came.”
Adam held Ebert’s gaze.
“Jigsaw came out of that observation.
He’s not a serial killer who kills randomly.
His purpose is to force people to actually value what they have.
Even the people in the film who failed his tests weren’t given a death sentence right away.
They had a real opportunity to save themselves.
They just didn’t seize it.”
Ebert nodded repeatedly as Adam spoke, turning the concept over in his mind.
From a purely thematic perspective, Saw pushed far beyond the realm of ordinary horror.
It possessed its own distinct philosophical framework.
It terrified the audience while implicitly functioning as a brutal morality play about the value of human life.
It was a rare, undeniable masterpiece of the genre.
Having extracted the insight he needed, Ebert decided right then that he was going to go home and write a glowing, full-throated review.
A work this impressive deserved the audience his platform could provide.
“Director Cole,” Ebert said, offering a genuine smile.
“You are indeed a genius.”
He turned and headed for the exit.
Dean watched the exchange with open shock.
He shuffled over to Adam the moment Ebert was out of earshot.
“Are you Roger Ebert’s son?” Dean asked incredulously.
Adam’s face darkened slightly.
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t misunderstand me,” Dean corrected quickly.
“I just haven’t seen Roger Ebert treat someone in this industry that well in a very long time.
As you can probably tell, he’s not exactly a sociable guy among the press corps.
He’s impervious to flattery.
The only thing studios can do is pay his honorarium to keep him from destroying them.
Getting him to actually praise a movie?
That only happens if he genuinely loves it.”
Dean shook his head in mild disbelief.
“That stubborn old man doesn’t even care about the money we pay him.
His reviews always dig out something unexpected, and his influence on a movie’s early reputation is massive.”
Adam nodded slowly.
He had known Ebert’s name in his previous life as a legendary critic, but experiencing that influence in 1991 was a useful reminder.
In this era, men like Ebert shaped the opening weekend box office in a way that wouldn’t last forever.
It was highly beneficial not to offend them.
Dean steered Adam away from the departing press toward Shay.
The rest of the media would be handled by New Line’s publicity team.
Having taken the studio’s money, the print journalists possessed enough basic professional integrity not to speak ill of the picture.
That was simply how the machine functioned.
Shay waved them over the moment he spotted them.
Spread across the table in front of him were detailed release schedules—documents meticulously tracking every film currently in theaters and every competitor slated for the coming months.
Terminator 2: Judgment Day.
The Silence of the Lambs.
These were massive blockbusters that had been running for months.
Adam felt a wave of relief seeing the board laid out.
October and November were traditionally off-season stretches for the North American box office, meaning there were no invincible blockbusters directly blocking their path.
But Halloween was approaching fast.
According to standard theatrical strategy, Halloween was prime real estate for horror.
However, it wasn’t an exclusive claim.
Every other studio with a horror film in the can was targeting the exact same weekend.
Theater screens were finite; if New Line claimed more, another studio got less.
It was a zero-sum, life-and-death struggle for distribution.
Shay looked up from the schedules, clearly gauging Adam’s read on the battlefield.
“The films currently showing aren’t a real threat to us,” Adam said smoothly.
“But Halloween is going to be fiercely competitive.
Every horror film is aiming for it.”
“Exactly,” Shay said, nodding.
“Which is why I need you aggressively promoting this picture at universities across the country.
I want you building grassroots buzz before we even hit the date.”
“Not a problem,” Adam agreed instantly.
Any promotion that drove the box office was promotion he was eager to execute.
The conversation immediately shifted to logistics.
The promotional tour was scheduled to kick off just before Halloween, with the very first stop locked in at the cinema right next to Adam’s alma mater, the University of Southern California.
Before that, an aggressive warm-up campaign would flood the press.
The next morning, Adam walked out of his hotel, bought a stack of newspapers from a street vendor, and brought them back up to his room to read the first wave of reviews.
“A genius director’s masterpiece.
This Halloween, a superb work you absolutely cannot miss.
In this film, you witness how Jigsaw, acting in the name of God, punishes those who refuse to cherish life…”
Adam picked up the next paper.
“The most worthwhile horror film of the year.
I guarantee you, this will become an even more classic thriller than The Silence of the Lambs, released earlier this year.
You will absolutely regret not watching it.”
Adam smiled slightly, reading that one twice.
The Silence of the Lambs had been produced on a budget of around $19 million, vastly larger than Saw’s $1.3 million, though New Line’s current promotional spend was likely matching what Orion Pictures had done.
There was a naive assumption among some in the industry that a genuinely good movie would automatically guarantee a massive box office.
Adam knew that was pure nonsense.
The Shawshank Redemption was a cinematic masterpiece, yet its initial $25 million investment would barely recoup $16 million in its theatrical run.
It would only manage to break even years later, slowly recovering its costs through word-of-mouth in the DVD market.
A good film and a commercially successful film were two entirely different beasts.
Adam intended to ensure his debut was undeniably both.