The North American videocassette release of Run Lola Run was already underway, and overseas distribution continued apace.
To boost video sales and international revenue, Orion and Warner fanned the flames. Simon's unexpected Best Editing Oscar win dominated media coverage in the days that followed, even eclipsing The Last Emperor's multiple awards.
Most outlets rallied behind Simon, decrying the Academy's conservatism and stagnation for denying Run Lola Run the nominations and honors it deserved.
Then, on April 13, the 41st Cannes Film Festival announced its lineup for the upcoming May event. Pulp Fiction secured one of the twenty-one slots in the main competition.
At the Cannes press conference, a journalist raised Simon's Oscar experience and asked whether this year's jury president, renowned Italian director Ettore Scola, would discriminate against Pulp Fiction because of Simon Westeros's youth. The response was diplomatic boilerplate, but when the exchange reached America it sparked another round of debate.
Pulp Fiction was scheduled for June 3. With news of its Cannes selection, Orion promptly released the first television trailer.
The film's seamless narrative structure made crafting an effective trailer difficult.
None of Orion's attempts satisfied Simon, so he edited it himself. After careful consideration, the initial 90-second spot featured Robert De Niro, John Travolta, Robert Redford, and other heavyweights. A series of suspenseful, meticulously chosen dialogue exchanges built to a freeze-frame on the mysterious glowing briefcase.
The plot remained under wraps, so media quickly pegged it as a heist picture.
That misreading was exactly what Simon wanted. Tossing out a provocative hook to fuel discussion had always been the simplest, most effective marketing tactic—When Harry Met Sally's strong box-office trajectory had already proved it.
In its third week of wide release, When Harry Met Sally added another $12.11 million for a cumulative $49.16 million. The weekly drop settled at 21 percent—a far gentler slide than other Easter holdovers.
Despite a 50 percent screen expansion in its second week, Tim Burton's Beetlejuice still fell nearly 25 percent.
Orion's own Johnny Handsome, released opposite When Harry Met Sally, plunged 51 percent to just $1.97 million. The $22 million production had grossed only $13.3 million in three weeks. Its theatrical run would effectively end next week when its one-month exhibition contracts expired.
To Simon, Johnny Handsome's failure signaled Orion's steep decline this year.
After breakout hits the previous two years, the overexpanded studio had scheduled a slate rivaling the majors—surpassing even underperforming giants like MGM.
Yet apart from Pulp Fiction, Simon saw no other genuine blockbuster potential in Orion's long lineup.
Post-crash, Hollywood faced lean years ahead. Orion's fall—mirroring Cannon, New World, and De Laurentiis Entertainment—was inevitable. Simon could only watch from the sidelines.
Early in the month Daenerys had finalized and signed the overseas distribution deal for When Harry Met Sally with Disney, receiving the $30 million buyout in late April.
Against the film's $15 million budget, the company had essentially doubled its money upfront. Of course, profits would be split with co-investor HandMade Films.
Per the original agreement, after recouping costs Daenerys claimed 60 percent of net profits. Thus, of the $30 million buyout Daenerys received $16.5 million. Once the $15 million budget was covered, the studio would take 60 percent of all further revenue.
Before When Harry Met Sally's release, Daenerys had been hemorrhaging cash. Now money was finally flowing in, and Amy Pascal's constant tension visibly eased.
Simon could tell she had feared Daenerys would rise and collapse as quickly as Cannon and others.
Though Simon himself was wealthy, he would not indefinitely prop up a failing studio. Amy knew that perfectly well.
Daenerys's expansion appeared equally reckless, yet Simon understood exactly how strong his slate truly was.
Both majors and second-tier players typically spread bets across many projects, hoping a few would hit big. Success there ensured profitability.
Thanks to his foreknowledge, Daenerys had effectively stocked its net with guaranteed winners.
April 21.
Early Monday, Simon read in the Los Angeles Times that talks between the AMPTP and WGA had collapsed again.
Santa Monica.
At Daenerys headquarters by eight, Simon finished reviewing recent Rain Man dailies just as the workday began. Amy had arrived early too. When he emerged from the screening room she said, "Simon, did you hear?"
It was Monday—time for the weekly departmental meeting with executives and project heads.
Simon and Amy entered the conference room together, nodding to the early arrivals. "Of course. Which means our reality-show projects can move into active production."
A breakdown in negotiations meant no quick restart; both sides needed posturing time. Resuming talks would take at least another month.
In American television, producers typically developed pilots in March and April, then pitched them during May's upfronts to networks and cable channels.
With the strike ongoing, few had even scripts, let alone pilots.
Had a settlement come this month, everyone could have rushed to meet upfront deadlines. Now that was impossible. Missing the key window would impact network schedules for the entire year.
Amy nodded, then added, "But I've heard the WGA is trying to cut deals with smaller producers first. What do we do?"
Simon recalled that in 1988 many independents did sign early agreements—only for the Big Four networks to refuse their programming and face an antitrust suit in response.
He shook his head firmly. "Whatever others do, we stay out."
Even if the WGA won the suit, networks could easily punish defectors. Signing early offered Daenerys no advantage. Simon had no intention of walking into that mess.
As they spoke, more executives and project leads arrived, and the meeting began.
The sprawling slate required substantial staff. After months of aggressive hiring, Daenerys now had dedicated film, television, distribution, HR, and finance departments. Even excluding temporary project hires, permanent employees exceeded fifty.
The original two-floor lease had grown cramped. Simon had been scouting larger premises.
It was not easy.
If all went well, he planned to rebrand Daenerys Films as Daenerys Entertainment next year, spinning off film, television, and distribution into subsidiaries—a move that would trigger another major expansion.
Having already relocated once, Simon did not want to repeat the disruption in a year or two.
The meeting ran over two hours, breaking up near noon.
Overall, every project advanced steadily.
Basic Instinct and Rain Man were shooting.
Scream would begin filming at month's end in a Northern California town.
With negotiations stalled, Simon was determined to slot Dead Poets Society and Steel Magnolias into the lucrative Thanksgiving and Christmas frames. Prep on both would accelerate; shooting should start within one to two months.
The two low-budget Sundance pickups—Sisters and Metropolitan—he had delegated entirely to their producers.
As for Blue Steel, Simon had adopted a "men earn, women spend" attitude and given Katherine free rein. If it lost money, so be it—she was his woman, after all.
Finally, only the four reality pilots and Batman—which Simon personally controlled—remained in early stages.
That afternoon Daenerys launched the first round of casting for Batman's lead.
Simon had publicized the stringent terms: five-picture deal, fifteen-year commitment, salary fully at Daenerys's discretion.
Predictably, every A-lister and most second-tier actors balked.
Yet Hollywood never lacked talent.
Despite the harsh conditions and additional restrictions, over 1,200 submissions arrived. A near-open-call process left Simon no time for personal involvement. Casting directors handled the afternoon entirely.
The initial round involved only résumé and tape review; most would be eliminated, leaving roughly 200 for round two.
Simon knew this would miss qualified actors and allow some favoritism. But that was the industry. Eliminated despite merit? Bad luck. Advanced through connections? Also a skill.
Fairness belonged in dreams.
Meanwhile, Simon and Amy visited Culver City.
East of Beverly Hills and north of Santa Monica, Culver City lacked glamour. Simon's interest stemmed from the historic MGM lot at its center.
Casino magnate Kirk Kerkorian, transforming MGM into a hotel company, had sold the half-century-old lot to television producer Lorimar-Telepictures.
Flush with hot money a few years earlier, Lorimar had expanded aggressively.
Now, post-crash and amid the strike, the narrower-focused company faced crisis. Without memories of its fate, Simon's previous life had barely registered Lorimar's existence.
The studio was already seeking buyers for assets to avoid bankruptcy.
The storied MGM lot was its crown jewel. Simon and Amy spent the afternoon touring the twenty-hectare facility before leaving. At Amy's inquiring glance, Simon shook his head regretfully.
Lorimar's asking price—one hundred million—was reasonable.
But most soundstages and buildings were dilapidated; renovation would cost another hundred million. And despite its history, the location dissatisfied Simon.
Close enough to Beverly Hills, yet forty kilometers from Malibu. Commuting daily would devour two to three hours.