He had built an entire business model around exactly that instinct.
He understood the voting process better than almost anyone else in the industry, treating the whole campaign like a calculated public relations equation rather than an artistic hope.
He used that expertise to talk promising directors into handing him their films at a fraction of their actual value.
He fully expected the same outcome here.
“You don’t want an Oscar?” Weinstein asked, almost amused at the idea.
“You don’t want to be the youngest filmmaker to ever win Best Director?”
“No,” Adam said simply.
The single word landed harder than Weinstein expected.
His confidence flickered for just a fraction of a second before he covered it.
His predatory gaze swept over Adam, and then Angelina Jolie beside him, committing both of their faces to memory.
“Fine,” Weinstein said, his tone turning cold.
“You’re sharper than I figured.”
He turned and walked off, clearly unhappy.
It hadn’t taken long for Adam to make his first real enemy in town.
“You really shouldn’t have brushed him off like that,” Jolie said once Weinstein was out of earshot, her voice carrying more worry for herself than for Adam.
Whatever Adam wasn’t afraid of, she clearly still was.
“He’s an independent producer with a reputation for not paying what he owes people,” Adam replied smoothly.
“I have plenty of studios who actually want to work with me.
I don’t need someone looking to get something for nothing.”
He glanced at her.
“You should be careful around him too, by the way.
He is well known for using award campaigns as bait—promising people the world to get them into a room, and then never delivering.”
Jolie’s expression shifted, caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief.
“His campaigns actually fail that often?”
“No, that’s the thing—he is genuinely good at the campaigning part.
He just doesn’t follow through on the personal agreements he makes to get there.”
That landed harder than anything else Adam had said all night.
A reputation like that was exactly what someone in her position feared most: a figure powerful enough to actually deliver on his promises, who simply chose not to.
It also left her wondering, quietly, whether the director standing in front of her now would turn out to be any different.
Word about who Adam was had clearly started circulating, because over the next several minutes, a steady trickle of models and minor actresses drifted toward him, each looking for an opening.
Adam turned every one of them down, gesturing toward Jolie each time as though the matter were already settled.
The women who got turned away shot her looks caught somewhere between envy and resentment.
Jolie, for her part, leaned into the role without hesitation, planting herself by Adam’s side and making it clear to anyone else circling that the spot was taken.
A few minutes later, Michael Ovitz reappeared, this time with a clean-shaven, sharply dressed man trailing beside him.
“Jeff Robinov,” Ovitz said, gesturing between them.
“President of Warner Bros.
Pictures.
Jeff, this is Adam Cole—the director behind Saw.”
Robinov extended a hand, already smiling.
“Adam.
Genuinely one of the better thrillers I’ve seen in years.
The way Jigsaw forces people to actually confront what they value—that is not something you usually get in this genre.”
He laid the praise on thick, clearly aware that flattering the work tended to land better than flattering the filmmaker directly.
Adam understood the move for what it was, but there was nothing rude about it, and he wasn’t about to be difficult over basic social niceties.
“I appreciate that,” Adam said, returning the handshake with an easy smile.
Jolie stayed quiet beside him, careful not to interject.
Men like this—studio presidents, agency founders—represented exactly the kind of connection that could change the entire trajectory of someone in her position.
Of the three men she had stood next to tonight, though, she was fairly sure Adam was the one actually worth investing real attention in.
He was young, carried himself with more composure than actors twice his age, and on top of all of that, he was a genuinely talented filmmaker with a hit behind him.
Whatever this conversation turned into, she had no intention of looking anywhere else tonight.
After a bit more small talk, Robinov got to the point.
“So, what is next for you?
A sequel to Saw, or something else entirely?”
“Not a sequel,” Adam said.
“Not yet, anyway.
I’m actually planning to sell the rights to Saw to whoever is interested.
My next project is going to be a different kind of horror film altogether.”
That got Robinov’s attention immediately.
“Wait—you hold the rights yourself?”
People in this industry didn’t need much convincing to understand what that meant.
Internally, Warner Bros.
had already run the analytics on Saw.
They were projecting well past a hundred million dollars in total global value once everything was accounted for: theatrical runs, television licensing, home video, and future installments if the formula held up the way it usually did.
For a film made on a shoestring budget, that kind of long-term return was almost unheard of.
A gold mine like that, sitting unclaimed and apparently up for sale, was exactly the kind of opportunity nobody in this room was going to let pass quietly.