Cannes was a world away from Los Angeles.
Nestled along the French Riviera, the Mediterranean resort town was a playground for the rich, and during the annual film festival, it transformed into a chaotic, glamorous circus.
The Croisette was packed wall-to-wall with tourists, aggressive paparazzi, and yacht-hopping industry elites.
By the time Aaron and Nicole arrived, the opening ceremonies were already over.
Aaron didn’t care; his focus was locked entirely on the films competing for the Palme d’Or.
The cast and crew of Sex, Lies, and Videotape—including director Steven Soderbergh and leads James Spader and Andie MacDowell—had touched down shortly after them.
Miramax was already working the press, hosting a massive conference at their hotel to manufacture the necessary hype.
Up in their suite at the iconic Carlton Hotel, Nicole stepped out onto the balcony, letting the warm Mediterranean breeze catch her hair.
She wrapped her arms around Aaron from behind, pressing a kiss to his shoulder blade.
“Aaron, it’s absolutely breathtaking here.”
Aaron turned, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her in.
He kissed her, then tapped the festival schedule against her hip.
“It is.
But there’s a lot of ground to cover.
There’s an Australian film in the main competition this year called Sweetie.
Directed by a New Zealander, Jane Campion.”
“Are you thinking of signing her?” Nicole asked, resting her chin on his chest.
“Depends on whether she wants to actually make movies in Hollywood,” Aaron said.
He wasn’t interested in pure arthouse cinema.
If a project couldn’t cross over and make real money, it wasn’t worth the bandwidth.
Nicole smiled, her fingers tracing the lapel of his shirt.
“Well, the Cannes premiere of Sex, Lies, and Videotape is getting incredible word of mouth.
I heard several international distributors have already come knocking, asking for your price.”
Aaron brushed a stray curl from her face.
“Let them wait.
It drives the floor price up.
Right now, I’m more interested in an Italian film screening in a bit.
Want to be my date?”
“What movie?”
“Cinema Paradiso.”
“Just let me get ready,” Nicole murmured.
She stepped closer, sliding into his space to wrap her arms around his neck, pulling him down for a deep, lingering kiss that almost made Aaron reconsider leaving the hotel room at all.
An hour later, they were seated inside a quiet, opulent theater.
As they waited for the lights to dim, Aaron leaned over, keeping his voice low as he gave her the rundown.
“The director is Giuseppe Tornatore,” Aaron explained.
“He’s part of the new wave of young Italian filmmakers.
Only thirty-three.
He got some buzz a few years back with his debut, but this is his second feature.”
“Is it any good?” Nicole asked.
“That’s the million-dollar question.
When it released in Italy last year, it bombed.
He recut it, released it again, and it still flopped.”
“Earlier this year, they took it to the Berlin Film Festival, and the festival chairman trashed it to the press.
Tornatore actually pulled the film in the middle of the festival and dragged it here instead.”
Nicole raised an eyebrow.
“And you want to see a movie with that kind of track record?”
“There’s something there,” Aaron said.
“I’m meeting with Tornatore right after this.”
As the screen lit up, they fell silent.
The film was an unabashed love letter to movies, following Toto, an eight-year-old boy in a post-WWII Sicilian village, and his unlikely friendship with Alfredo, the local projectionist.
Through a mix of flashbacks and present-day narration, it tracked Toto’s journey from a starry-eyed kid in the projection booth to a famous director.
It was beautifully shot and emotionally heavy.
But as the movie stretched past the two-and-a-half-hour mark, Aaron could see the cracks.
The narrative dragged in places, and the pacing was entirely too indulgent.
It was raw clay—brilliant, but in desperate need of a sharp editor to make it commercially viable in America.
When the credits finally rolled and the theater erupted into a polite applause, Nicole turned to him in the dim light.
“You’re going to buy it, aren’t you?”
Aaron stood up and offered her his hand.
“Let’s go find the director.”
That evening, the Mediterranean air was perfectly crisp as Aaron led Nicole into a quiet lounge to meet Gabriele Carosi, the executive from Cristaldi Film, and Giuseppe Tornatore.
The two Italians looked exhausted.
They carried the heavy air of men who believed their film was already a lost cause.
“I’m Aaron Anderson.
CAA,” Aaron said, taking a seat across from them and handing over his cards.
They exchanged polite greetings, though Tornatore looked highly skeptical of the teenager sitting across from them.
Aaron didn’t waste time on small talk.
He leaned forward, holding their attention.
“I’ll cut right to the chase.
I think Cinema Paradiso is brilliant, and I want to underwrite the North American distribution rights.”
Carosi blinked in surprise.
“You want to underwrite?
The film…
it has struggled.”
“I know,” Aaron said.
“You might not know my name yet, but you know my current project.
I’m the one steering the international rights for Sex, Lies, and Videotape.”
That got their attention.
With their film having bombed so spectacularly in Italy, Carosi and Tornatore had essentially given up hope of a lucrative international run.
Having a powerhouse American agency suddenly offer to champion their movie was like throwing a life preserver to drowning men.
The agreement was struck before the drinks arrived.
“When is your official festival screening?” Aaron asked.
“Three days from now,” Tornatore replied, a new spark of hope in his eyes.
“Perfect,” Aaron nodded.
“I’m going to put CAA’s weight behind this.
I’ll organize a press conference for your premiere, and I’ll have Steven Soderbergh sitting in the front row to publicly bless the film.”
For the next three days, Aaron operated at a relentless pace.
He ushered Soderbergh through a gauntlet of VIP receptions while simultaneously driving up the bidding war for the European and Japanese rights to the Soderbergh picture.
True to his word, he packed the house for the Cinema Paradiso screening.
With Soderbergh’s highly publicized attendance drawing the global press, the film played beautifully.
The Cannes crowd, inherently romantic and deeply nostalgic about cinema, devoured it.
The festival was a triumph.
On the eve of the closing ceremony, Aaron and Nicole were at a lavish Miramax-sponsored reception at the InterContinental.
They had just grabbed drinks when a broad, heavy-set man shouldered his way through the crowd and planted himself inches from them.
Harvey Weinstein.
Harvey’s eyes shifted immediately to Nicole, his gaze raking over her with an aggressive, lingering intensity.
“Kidman, right?
You just starred in the Australian thriller, Dead Calm.”
Nicole went rigid.
“Thank you, Mr.
Weinstein,” she replied, her tone polite but icy.
Instinctively, she stepped a fraction of an inch closer to Aaron.
Aaron casually shifted his stance, stepping directly into Harvey’s eyeline and blocking the producer’s view of her entirely.
“It seems Miramax has been on a buying spree this week, Harvey.”
Harvey let out a gruff laugh, though his eyes remained shrewd.
“We’ve picked up a few things.
But I have to admit, Anderson…
I didn’t expect you to swoop in and snatch up that Italian picture.”
“I have a good eye,” Aaron said.
“Let’s talk numbers,” Harvey pressed, trying to bulldoze the conversation.
“Don’t try to take me to the cleaners, Aaron.
We both know Cinema Paradiso died a miserable death at the Italian box office.”
Aaron took a sip of his champagne, completely unbothered by the sheer presence of the big man trying to intimidate him with his size.
“I’m not in a rush, Harvey,” Aaron said, his expression cold and factual.
“Tomorrow is the closing ceremony.
Let’s see who wins what.
We can talk price after the awards.”
Harvey’s jaw tightened, realizing he had been completely outmaneuvered.
Aaron held the cards, and the price was only going to go up.
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Thank you so much for reading!
Peace out,
Lucent