Aaron had no interest in chasing ten percent of a screenwriter’s fee.
He passed Bruce Joel Rubin off to Jack, giving the junior agent a solid client while keeping his own schedule clear for the work that actually mattered.
The industry was moving fast.
Rain Man had just crossed the hundred-million-dollar mark domestically, and momentum was everything.
Los Angeles was holding its breath, waiting to see who the Academy would validate at the Shrine Auditorium in late March.
At a pre-Oscar party at the Beverly Wilshire, the air smelled of expensive scotch and hairspray.
Aaron stood near the bar with Paula, a senior CAA powerhouse.
To the rest of the room, he was just another junior agent standing in her orbit.
He was perfectly fine letting them believe that for now.
“I’m hearing things, Aaron,” Paula said, keeping her voice leveled just below the noise of the room.
“Word is you bought an option.
You’re trying to play producer.”
“I’m not waiting for a promotion, Paula.
I want to build a package.”
Paula frowned.
“You’re an agent.
Your job is to service the talent, not write the checks.
You’re stepping out of your lane.”
“Promoting a project is part of the job,” he said evenly.
“I’m not dropping my roster.
Soderbergh is covered through Cannes.”
Paula followed his gaze across the room to Tom Cruise, who was insulated by a wall of studio executives.
“You want to pivot.
Admit it.”
“And if I do?” Aaron watched Cruise.
“Put Tom in a picture, and it doesn’t just get made.
It gets an automatic summer release date.”
Paula gave a tight, dismissive laugh.
“I know the script you bought.
Tom isn’t playing a ghost.
He’s the biggest draw in the world; he doesn’t fade into the background.”
“Everyone has a number, Paula.
What if I get a studio to offer him ten million?”
Paula went dead quiet.
Ten million was a threshold.
Only a handful of untouchables—Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Eastwood—could pull that kind of cash upfront.
Suggesting it for an unproven supernatural romance was either pure delusion or the most aggressive play of the year.
“Ten million,” she repeated, staring at him.
“You’re out of your mind.
Tom hasn’t crossed that line yet, and you think you’re going to be the one to carry him over it?”
Aaron didn’t argue.
He knew the numbers.
Cruise was a massive star, but he was still hunting for the one defining blockbuster that would turn him into a permanent institution.
Later that night, driving down Santa Monica Boulevard, the actress of a local theater caught Aaron’s attention.
The poster for Warner Bros.’ new thriller Dead Calm featured a striking, tall redhead.
Nicole Kidman.
An Australian import.
She was raw, talented, and—crucially—completely unrepresented in Los Angeles.
While the senior partners were busy throwing themselves at Dustin Hoffman, he was looking for blank slates.
Three days later, Aaron sat across from her in a booth at a quiet diner off Sunset.
Up close, Kidman was imposing, though her tight auburn curls felt like a holdover from the early eighties.
“Mr.
Anderson,” she said, choosing her words carefully.
“I appreciate the lunch, but I’ve only been in the States for a month.
I’m still figuring out how the city works.”
“It’s Aaron,” he said.
“And figuring out the city takes time you don’t have.
Right now, you’re just another audition tape sitting in a pile of hundreds.
I can bypass the pile.
I want to sign you.”
Nicole offered a polite, skeptical smile.
“You seem a bit young to be making promises for CAA.”
“I closed the Sex, Lies, and Videotape deal at Sundance last month,” he said.
“My age didn’t seem to bother Miramax when they cut the check.”
Nicole leaned back, assessing him.
“I read about that in Variety.
They called it a record.”
“It is,” he said.
He bypassed the usual agent routine.
No fake flattery, no promises of stardom.
“Here is the reality.
You need a foothold.
I need a roster I can control.
Sign with me for one year.
If I haven’t moved the needle on your career by then, you walk away.
No penalties.”
Nicole narrowed her eyes.
“Why are you being so transparent?
Most of the people I’ve met here spend an hour telling me how beautiful I am before they get to the contract.”
“Because taking ten percent of a standard scale fee isn’t why I’m doing this,” he said, leaning in slightly.
“I don’t want to spend my life babysitting a dozen actors just to pay my mortgage.
I want to build the projects from the ground up, and I need clients to put in the lead roles.”
Nicole stared at him.
It was a jarring pitch, completely devoid of the usual Hollywood warmth.
He wasn’t pretending to nurture her art; he was offering a mutual transaction.
“So,” she said, a faint smile breaking through.
“I’m just a piece of the puzzle.”
“You’re the lead,” he corrected.
“But you have to trust that I know how to get the movie financed.”
Nicole looked out the window, thinking about the quiet, isolating month she’d spent taking meetings that went nowhere.
A CAA agent offering a direct, no-bullshit contract was the best hand she’d been dealt since landing at LAX.
She reached across the table.
“One year, Aaron.
Let’s see what you can do.”
Aaron shook her hand.
The roster was growing.
Now, he just needed to find the money to get the script off the ground.
________________________________________________________
Thank you so much for reading!
Peace out,
Lucent.