After a fast-tracked sit-down with Quentin Tarantino and director Tony Scott, Aaron closed the deal.
He unloaded the True Romance spec script for a clean $65,000.
It was a solid commission, but pushing it into active production was going to be a waiting game—Scott’s schedule was locked.
The bottleneck was Days of Thunder, a massive racing blockbuster Paramount was banking its entire summer on.
“Simpson and Bruckheimer are producing, Tony’s in the chair, Cruise is above the title, and Paramount is cutting the checks,” Paula Wagner said, tossing a copy of the production breakdown across Aaron’s desk.
Aaron reviewed the breakdown.
It was Top Gun on asphalt—a calculated, formulaic cash grab.
“Paramount greenlit sixty million,” Paula added, watching for a reaction.
Aaron didn’t flinch, but the number registered.
“Sixty?”
That was flagship studio money.
Carolco Pictures was currently burning through sixty-five million on Schwarzenegger’s Total Recall, inching past the record Stallone set with Rambo III.
Cruise was a domestic golden boy, but he hadn’t proven he could carry international action receipts on Arnold’s level.
A sixty-million-dollar blank check meant Paramount was desperate to manufacture a franchise.
“Carolco isn’t slowing down, either,” Paula noted.
“They just dropped five million to buy out Hemdale’s sequel rights for The Terminator.
They’re gearing up for Cameron and Arnold to do the sequel, and the whispered budget is astronomical.”
Aaron knew the history well.
It was standard industry lore: James Cameron had famously sold the original copyright for a single dollar to producer Gale Anne Hurd just to guarantee he could direct.
Hurd then leveraged half that copyright to Hemdale to secure production cash, marrying Cameron along the way.
The first film was distributed by Orion, but a massive sequel was way out of Hemdale’s weight class—they were a boutique indie shop.
Selling their stake to Carolco, who was now partnering with Cameron’s ex-wife Hurd, was the only way a sequel that size would get financed.
Aaron took a slow sip of his coffee.
Sixty-million-dollar budgets and five-million-dollar rights transfers meant hustling spec scripts for $65,000 commission cuts was pocket change.
The real leverage was in controlling the underlying intellectual property.
“Carolco is making a lot of noise,” Aaron said.
“They’re throwing around massive budgets, and from what I hear, a lot of that capital is foreign.
The founders have deep European pockets.”
It was undeniable—Carolco had just aggressively poached Paul Verhoeven from Orion, fresh off RoboCop, to helm Total Recall.
“It’s a risky model, though,” Aaron mused.
“They only finance and produce.
They don’t touch distribution.”
In the current market, most independent studios survived by distributing low-budget slate fillers.
Paula gave him a seasoned look.
“Carolco is strictly in the blockbuster business, Aaron.
If they tried to absorb the P&A on movies of that sheer size, they’d bleed out.
They leave the distribution costs to the Big Six.”
Aaron nodded.
Carolco wasn’t a legacy studio; they were putting all their chips on two massive bets a year.
He shifted gears.
“I heard the female lead for Days of Thunder is going to be a fresh face, right?”
He knew exactly what that role represented: a launchpad, a guaranteed ticket to the A-list alongside the biggest movie star in the world.
Paula offered a diplomatic smile.
“For that kind of casting, you’ll have to get in line with the producers and the director.”
Aaron didn’t blink.
It was a polite lie.
It was a Cruise picture—Tom was running the show, and he had absolute veto power on his leading lady.
“Just a friendly heads-up,” Paula added, dropping the PR tone for a blunt, off-the-record warning.
“Your client is a little…
tall.”
Paula had seen Nicole Kidman at the CAA mixers; she knew exactly who Aaron was angling for.
“Your roster is full of fresh faces, Aaron.
You should be looking at high-quality indie projects to build their tape,” Paula advised.
The underlying message was clear: a tentpole like Days of Thunder was a closed circuit, and Aaron didn’t have the juice to push a newcomer into it.
“Don’t worry,” Aaron replied smoothly.
“I’m not putting her in that line anyway.”
As May bled into June, the summer box office detonated.
Paramount dropped the Lucasfilm juggernaut Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.
Spielberg’s latest blockbuster utterly dominated, pulling a massive $29.5 million opening weekend.
Aaron was making quieter moves.
First, he cut through the NBC bureaucracy to lock Adam Sandler into a developmental contract at Saturday Night Live.
Then, he found the pivot for Nicole: an independent script titled Wild at Heart, directed by David Lynch.
Late that night in her West Hollywood apartment, Nicole lay propped against the headboard, flipping through the bound script.
“Lynch,” she murmured.
“He’s the poster boy for the arthouse crowd.
Zero commercial appeal, but the critics give him a blank check.”
Aaron lay beside her, staring up at the ceiling.
“The Elephant Man and Blue Velvet put him on the map.
It’s critic bait.
It buys you credibility.”
“And the male lead?
Nicolas Cage?”
“Not exactly a newcomer,” Aaron corrected.
“His real name is Nicolas Coppola.
Dropped the surname so he wouldn’t get tagged for riding coattails.”
Nicole looked up from the pages.
“Francis Ford Coppola?”
Aaron nodded.
“Nephew.”
Nicole closed the script, resting it on her lap, and looked over at him.
“I thought you were strictly in the commercial business.
Why are we chasing a gritty indie crime picture?”
Wild at Heart was dark, violent, and surreal.
It had a modest budget and lacked any A-list heavyweights, utterly unsuited for box office receipts.
Aaron shifted, leaning on his elbow.
“Tony Scott and Tom Cruise are teaming up for a sixty-million-dollar racing tentpole called Days of Thunder.
They need a female lead—that was the original target for you, but it’s a closed circuit, and the competition is a bloodbath.”
“Tom Cruise?” Nicole raised an eyebrow.
“Isn’t he Pacino’s height?
We already know I don’t fit in the frame with guys that size.”
At 5’11”, her height had been a recurring hurdle in casting rooms.
“If Cruise wanted you in the picture, he’d have the DP shoot you on an apple box,” Aaron said.
“It’s his movie.
He runs the show.”
“With every actress in Hollywood throwing themselves at him, why would I want to stand in line?” Nicole tapped the script on the bed.
“Besides, I like this one.
It’s dark and gritty—it has actual substance.”
“Good,” Aaron said, his voice dropping to a low, husky murmur as he reached over and clicked off the bedside lamp.
______________________________________________________________
Thank you so much for reading!
Peace out,
Lucent