When the Sundance awards were announced, Sex, Lies, and Videotape won the Audience Award.
It missed out on the Grand Jury Prize.
The independent distributors circling the film used the loss as a weapon.
Feigning sudden hesitation, they stepped back.
They tried to freeze the young director out and starve him into a dirt-cheap offer.
Steven Soderbergh paced the cramped hotel room.
He lost his nerve.
“How am I supposed to just sit here?” Soderbergh rubbed the back of his neck.
“The buyers are all suddenly in a wait-and-see phase.
Missing the main prize gave them an excuse.
They’re trying to wait us out.”
Aaron sat in the armchair in the corner.
He remained completely unbothered.
“They aren’t afraid to buy the film, Steven.
They’re just using the jury as leverage so they don’t have to pay what it’s worth.
It’s a standard freeze-out.”
The film wasn’t unsellable.
It was a standoff over price.
The lowball offers missed the mark.
Aaron had no intention of letting the director cave to cheap street tactics.
He needed an aggressive buyer to break the stalemate.
At eight o’clock that evening, a heavy knock rattled the door.
Harvey Weinstein stood in the doorway.
In 1989, he was a loud, aggressive indie distributor who built Miramax by pushing controversial films to grab headlines.
He wore a heavy coat and a scowl.
“I heard Soderbergh’s guy was young, but I didn’t expect a teenager.” Harvey bulldozed his way into the room without waiting for an invitation.
He looked Aaron up and down with blatant dismissal.
Aaron didn’t stand up.
He offered a polite, detached nod.
“Aaron Anderson.
CAA.
I’m handling Steven’s negotiations.”
Harvey scoffed and waved a thick hand.
“Let’s cut the bullshit.
We both know RCA/Columbia owns your home video rights.
All you’ve got left to sell is the North American theatrical run.”
Harvey tapped a finger against the wood.
“Miramax is offering a flat six hundred grand.
Take it.
Nobody else in Park City is writing a bigger check.”
Soderbergh shifted on the edge of the bed.
The temptation was obvious in his posture.
It was real money.
It guaranteed a theatrical run.
Before the director could open his mouth, Aaron shot him a cold, flat look.
Aaron pulled a cigarette from a pack.
He lit it and took a slow drag.
He let the silence stretch until Harvey grew irritated.
“Sex, Lies, and Videotape is the best thing playing at this festival.
You know it, and I know it.” Aaron’s voice dropped into a calm register.
“Missing out on a subjective jury prize doesn’t mean the product took a hit.”
Harvey waved a hand.
“It represents risk, kid.
It’s a movie about sex with no actual sex in it.”
“Risk is your problem, Harvey.
The price tag is ours.” Aaron exhaled a thin cloud of smoke.
“Look at the market.
Adult dramas are booming.
Rain Man just swept the Globes.
Audiences want something real.
The fact that the eroticism is entirely psychological isn’t a gimmick.
It’s a hook.
It’s the counter-programming Miramax built its brand on.”
“I still have a bottom line, Aaron.” Harvey dropped the act and leaned in.
“Six hundred is a generous floor.”
Aaron shook his head.
“We don’t care about Sundance.
If we don’t get the right number right now, we’re packing up and taking the film directly to Cannes.”
Harvey’s eyes narrowed.
“This is the kind of art-house cinema the French eat alive.” Aaron leaned forward.
He kept his voice deadpan.
“CAA is circling.
You pass, it goes to the Riviera.
I’m not taking pocket change for a masterpiece.”
Harvey ground his jaw.
He saw the final cut.
He knew the title was a marketing dream and the movie was brilliant.
He just hadn’t expected the kid across from him to realize he held the upper hand.
“So what’s the magic number?” Harvey asked.
His voice hardened.
Aaron held up two fingers.
“Two million.”
Harvey laughed.
It was a harsh, barking sound.
“That’s a joke.
No independent film has ever sold for over a million dollars at this festival.
Ever.”
Aaron didn’t blink.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Harvey paced the short length of the room.
“Two million is fantasy land.
One million.
That is it.
That is the ceiling.
You push past that, and I walk.”
Soderbergh gripped the edge of the mattress.
His face flushed.
His breathing turned shallow.
He vibrated with the urge to scream yes.
Aaron crushed his cigarette into the ashtray.
He looked at Harvey.
He stripped away the agent persona and locked eyes with the distributor like a rival debt collector.
“You’re not going to walk, Harvey.” Aaron’s voice dropped to an icy calm.
“Because you need a flagship title.
You want Miramax to sit at the grown-up table with the major studios, and you know this is the only film at this festival that gets you there.
Let’s stop playing games.”
Harvey’s jaw tightened.
The kid was reading Miramax’s corporate strategy like an open book.
“One-point-five million.” Aaron leaned back into the armchair.
“Cash.
Plus a guaranteed two-million-dollar print and advertising commitment for a nationwide rollout.
We don’t just want a release.
We want a campaign.”
“A million-and-a-half?” Harvey spat the words.
“You are out of your goddamn mind, kid.
It’s a debut indie film!
There is no precedent for that number!”
“This tape is the new precedent.” Aaron spoke smoothly.
“One-point-five.
If you don’t say yes in the next ten seconds…”
Harvey stared at him.
The silence in the room was suffocating.
His face turned a mottled red as he weighed the extortion against the genius of the film.
He was trapped.
“You are a ruthless little bastard,” Harvey muttered.
“Ten percent of one-point-five is a hundred and fifty grand.” Aaron didn’t break eye contact.
“I’m just protecting my commission.
Do we have a deal?”
Harvey gave a curt nod.
“I’ll have my legal department draft the paperwork.
Within the hour.”
Harvey glared at Aaron.
He didn’t see a kid anymore.
He saw a fellow extortionist who had just broken the Sundance record over his knee.
“You’re gonna fit right in at that agency, Anderson.” Harvey turned and slammed the door behind him.
The latch clicked.
Soderbergh leaped off the bed.
He let out a breathless, half-crazed laugh.
“Aaron…
are you insane?!
One-point-five million?
A two-million-dollar ad spend?
You just rewrote the entire indie market!”
Aaron allowed himself a faint, cold smile.
The history books would remember Soderbergh, but the power had shifted.
“Like I told you, Steven,” Aaron said.
“I’m just the muscle.”
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Thank you so much for reading!
Peace out,
Lucent