Monday, August 28, 2023
Neon's headquarters in New York occupied several floors of a modern building in Manhattan.
The main conference room was spacious, clean, and understated. A long dark-wood table stood at the center, surrounded by leather chairs. The walls were decorated with framed posters of some of the most important films distributed by the company, displayed discreetly enough to keep the room from feeling like an exhibition.
Everything conveyed a certain sense of luxury.
Not the excessive kind, nor one designed to impress visitors, but that of a company that, in only a few years, had managed to become one of the most respected names in independent cinema in the country.
Several of Neon's most important people were gathered around the table.
Tom Quinn and Tim League, the company's founders, occupied two of the main seats. Near them sat Jeff, president of the acquisitions department, alongside Ryan, who was responsible for overseeing the team's day-to-day operations.
Although their titles might have seemed similar, their roles were not exactly the same.
Jeff worked from a broader position and held more authority.
Ryan, on the other hand, handled the more direct side of the process: coordinating the team, attending festivals, analyzing projects, holding conversations with producers, and overseeing the initial negotiations.
Daniel, a creative and development executive, was also there.
He had been one of the people sent months earlier to the offices of Second Take Films to attend the private screening of Good Will Hunting. He had not gone alone.
He had been accompanied by Wendy, a high-ranking executive in the marketing department, and Ryan himself.
All three had returned from that screening with the same conclusion.
Neon needed that film.
Daniel, in particular, had argued for the project relentlessly. He had been one of the main people responsible for the company making a better offer than the other competitors and securing the distribution rights.
Now, several months later, the final result was in front of them.
Tom finished reading the financial report and closed the folder. The sharp sound of the paper against the table caused the quieter conversations to fade away.
He looked up and glanced at Tim, Jeff, Daniel, and Ryan.
"Three hundred thirty-six and a half million dollars," he said.
The room fell silent at the number.
It was not as though any of them had only just discovered how much the film had earned.
Since its release, they had all followed the box office almost obsessively. They reviewed the daily results, the weekends, the percentage drops, and the international performance. Every new figure generated reports, phone calls, and updated projections.
But this was different.
The commercial run was over. It was no longer an estimate or a matter of wondering how much further it could grow.
Three hundred thirty-six and a half million was the final figure.
"I told you," Daniel said with a smile.
He remembered that cloudy morning when he had traveled with Ryan and Wendy to the offices of Second Take Films.
The three of them had had the privilege of being part of the small group of people who saw Good Will Hunting before almost anyone else.
And Daniel had left that room convinced.
Not only that the film was good, but that they had something exceptional in front of them. A work capable of succeeding with both critics and audiences.
During the internal discussions, he had been the one who insisted most strongly that Neon needed to make an offer that would be difficult to refuse.
He argued that the film possessed a very rare combination: prestige, emotion, excellent performances, and enormous commercial potential. He also maintained that several of its scenes would become classics and be remembered for years to come.
That was why Neon ultimately offered Owen 60% of the revenue generated after the film's theatrical exhibition, in addition to committing nearly 20 million dollars to the marketing campaign.
Under different circumstances, they never would have given that much of the margin to a 21-year-old.
A more typical offer would have left Owen with between 40 and 50 percent, a figure that would already have been extraordinarily generous.
But Owen owned the film outright.
He did not need Neon to recover someone else's investment, nor did he depend on them to retain the rights. He could choose his distributor, and several companies were competing for the project.
If they wanted to win, they had to give up more.
"Good thing we listened to you," Tim said with a faint smile.
Daniel had proven to have one of the best cinematic instincts in the company.
Part of his job consisted precisely of identifying films with potential.
He had been one of the people who most strongly supported the acquisition of Parasite, which for several years became the highest-grossing film in Neon's history.
Now that record belonged to Good Will Hunting.
And not by a small margin.
Owen's film had surpassed Parasite by more than one hundred thirty million dollars.
That represented tens of millions in profits for the company and an unprecedented return on investment in its history.
When they received confirmation that Owen had chosen Neon, several members of the team celebrated it as a victory.
And with good reason.
They had been caught in the middle of a genuine bidding war against A24, their most direct rival, and Searchlight, a specialized division backed by Disney's practically unlimited resources.
Neon could not compete with them through money alone.
Daniel, Ryan, and Wendy had seen that potential from the very first screening. The selection at Cannes confirmed that they had not been exaggerating. The critical reception finished cementing it.
But now they also had something to present to the board and the partners.
Financial validation. The best in the company's history.
"This week, the collection account manager should send Owen the first advance from the box office," Tom commented as he lightly tapped one finger against the table. "Around fifteen million dollars."
For months, Neon had been receiving reports from exhibitors and the corresponding settlements from the film's theatrical run.
However, the money did not go directly into Second Take Films' accounts.
Although Owen owned Good Will Hunting outright and received a larger share than Neon of the net box office revenue, the theaters did not have a contractual relationship with him.
Nor with his production company.
The exhibitors in each territory negotiated with and reported to the distributor. In this case, Neon.
In a traditional arrangement, that meant the remittances from the theaters would first reach the distributor, and then the production company.
Allowing tens of millions of dollars to pass through another company's accounts and relying solely on its reports could be dangerous. There could be "delays," accounting tricks, or deductions that should not have been there.
Owen knew that.
So during the contract negotiations, he had demanded the use of an independent revenue management system known as Collection Account Management.
The way it worked was fairly simple.
A neutral company managed a bank account created specifically for the film. The remittances from exhibitors were deposited there instead of going directly into an account controlled by Neon.
Then, the administrator reviewed the distribution agreement, applied the agreed-upon percentages, and automatically transferred to each party what they were owed.
Owen did not have to chase Neon to get paid.
Nor could Neon delay payments or unilaterally alter the calculations.
Everything was recorded and supervised by a third party.
Those seated around the table nodded.
Ryan leaned back slightly in his chair. "That guy is going to walk away with more than one hundred million dollars from the box office alone," he commented, still with a certain degree of disbelief.
By that guy, he meant Owen.
Ryan had met him during that first private screening, but he had also crossed paths with him in Cannes, during the world premiere and at some of the celebrations afterward with the film's team.
Even so, it still felt strange to him.
Owen was practically the same age as his son and had just produced, written, and starred in a film capable of earning him a nine-figure fortune.
"One hundred million nine hundred fifty thousand dollars, to be exact," Jeff corrected. "Before taxes."
He paused. "But yes. It is still an absurd amount of money."
Of the 336.5 million dollars earned worldwide, approximately half remained in the hands of the theaters.
That left close to 168.2 million dollars in revenue for the production company and the distributor.
Under the agreement they had signed, 60% went to Owen and 40% to Neon.
For Neon, that amounted to roughly 67.3 million dollars.
The company had spent approximately eighteen million on marketing and distribution, which brought its pre-tax profit to around 49.3 million.
An extraordinary profit from a single film, and that was still not the end.
The box office represented only the first major source of revenue.
There were still digital sales, rentals, home media, international licensing, television, and streaming platforms.
In all of those markets, both Neon and Owen would continue making money.
"Imagine all the films he will be able to make now," Daniel murmured, still somewhat incredulous.
What had happened with Paranormal Activity had already been considered the miracle of the previous year.
Owen had financed the film with barely twenty thousand dollars and ended up turning it into a worldwide phenomenon that nearly grossed one hundred fifty million.
The story appeared everywhere.
The young filmmaker who had beaten the system.
The independent creator who had made a film with almost nothing, retained ownership of the intellectual property, and ended up earning millions.
No one outside the contracts knew the exact amount Owen had received from the box office, but the most reasonable estimates placed it somewhere between five and fifteen million dollars.
And that had only been the beginning.
Months later, news broke that he had sold the intellectual property rights to Paranormal Activity to Lionsgate. The most reliable sources spoke of a deal worth close to thirty or forty million.
Adding together the box office, the sale of the rights, and the other subsequent revenue, it was entirely possible that a single film had raised his net worth to nearly, or even above, fifty million dollars.
Instead of keeping the money and simply enjoying it, Owen had reinvested it.
Thirteen million in Good Will Hunting.
Six million in Lights Out.
And close to fifteen million in Black Mirror.
Three different projects, all financed with a degree of independence that few filmmakers could imagine.
Now, after the success of Good Will Hunting, his net worth would probably end up surpassing one hundred million dollars once the later revenue, licensing deals, and other agreements were taken into account.
The question was no longer whether he could finance another film.
It was how many he could make.
"He did not need investors before, and now he needs them even less," Ryan commented. "He can continue financing his own projects and retain complete control."
The idea sounded strange even when said out loud.
A filmmaker who was not yet twenty-five could produce films without looking for a production company to help him make them, without giving up rights, and without depending on investors who scrutinized every decision.
It was a unique situation, but also a testament to the audacity of trusting his own projects and taking on all the risk himself.
"He could even make his own blockbuster," Daniel added.
Jeff tilted his head slightly. "That would be much riskier."
It was one thing to finance dramas or horror films with budgets ranging from five to fifty million dollars at most. But investing between seventy and one hundred million in a major production packed with visual effects, massive sets, and an enormous marketing campaign could cause him to lose everything he had earned if it went wrong.
"Either way, we need to keep an eye on his next film," Tim interjected.
They all knew it would not be easy.
There had still been doubts surrounding Good Will Hunting.
It was his first major drama as both a screenwriter and leading actor. No one knew whether he could sustain a film of that caliber or whether his talent as an actor was enough to carry it.
Now there was no longer any doubt about his acting talent.
The competition to distribute his next project would be far more aggressive.
A24 would be there again.
Searchlight as well.
And who knew how many others.
Probably even larger distributors like Universal itself, which had already closed a deal with him.
Besides, everything would depend on the kind of project.
If he wrote another drama, a thriller, or an auteur film with commercial ambitions, Neon could compete.
But if he decided to produce a more commercial and expensive film, he would probably look for a distributor with greater international infrastructure.
Tom crossed his arms. "At least we already have a close relationship with him," he said.
A close professional relationship, of course.
That was the only thing they could control.
Maintain the relationship.
Stay present.
Show that they could treat his films with the same care they had shown Good Will Hunting.
After that, the conversation moved on to the next item on the agenda.
…
Much of the industry was talking about Owen.
Good Will Hunting's theatrical run had ended, and with it came the final assessments. The box office figure, the fortune it had generated, the growth of Second Take Films, and the questions surrounding his next moves dominated conversations across studios, agencies, and production companies.
Everyone wanted to know what he would do next. What kind of film, how much money he would be willing to invest, and who would manage to distribute it.
Meanwhile, Owen was in his office, focused on matters that were considerably less speculative and grand.
Preproduction on Curve was moving quickly, and he still had budgets to review, details to confirm, and the casting process to keep track of.
At around four in the afternoon, Larry arrived at the offices.
They greeted each other warmly and talked for a few minutes about matters of little importance.
Then, instead of sitting on opposite sides of the desk as though they were about to have a formal meeting, they settled into the lounge area at the other end of the office.
Two sofas faced each other around a low table.
Owen made coffee and set a cup in front of Larry before sitting down on the opposite sofa. "So… what brings you here?" he asked curiously.
Larry was his manager, but the relationship between them had stopped feeling purely contractual a long time ago.
Owen trusted him.
He could even consider him one of his friends.
During the most demanding preproductions, such as Good Will Hunting or the Black Mirror episodes, Larry had acted as a kind of right-hand man.
He communicated with CAA and other agencies, checked the availability of actors, directors, and producers, coordinated meetings, and handled part of the logistics so Owen could focus on other matters.
In practice, his job was a blend of manager, adviser, and personal representative.
That had also completely changed Larry's professional life.
Before meeting Owen, he had been an independent agent who struggled to retain clients and had no major star on his roster.
Now he no longer worked as an agent.
He was the trusted manager of one of Hollywood's most valuable young actors and took part in projects involving millions of dollars.
His primary compensation came from a commission on the professional income Owen earned through contracts with third parties.
That could include salaries for acting in other people's films, payments as a hired screenwriter or producer, and endorsement deals with brands like Rolex.
Larry did not receive a percentage of Owen's business profits. He was not entitled to a share of the Good Will Hunting box office, for example.
Even so, Owen had not ignored all the work he had done.
Larry had devoted months to the preproduction. After the film's success, Owen had given him a bonus of nearly five hundred thousand dollars.
"I came because I received two offers for you," Larry replied seriously.
Then he took a small sip, as though he had just mentioned something completely ordinary.
Owen raised an eyebrow. "Offers for what? A film, a series, some kind of brand campaign?"
Larry held up two fingers. "Two leading roles in films."
That managed to surprise him.
Receiving a direct offer was already significant. Receiving two at the same time, and for central roles, was not something that happened every day.
In fact, it was the first time it had happened to him.
"Which ones?" Owen asked, leaning forward.
"The first is a film that already has distribution through A24," Larry explained. "It's called Babygirl. Nicole Kidman is starring in it, and Halina Reijn is directing. They want you as the male co-lead."
Owen barely had time to process the name of the project.
Larry continued before he could ask any questions. "The second one comes from Netflix."
He paused briefly, then added:
"They want to offer you one of the leading roles in their next major production: Frankenstein, directed by Guillermo del Toro."
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