Spy King production meeting.
"Luke, I get that you've thought this through, but are you sure we can't wait for Bob to get back before tackling this scene?" Director Cohen asks.
"Time waits for no one, and we've got the airport locked in. Miss this window, and we're looking at a one- or two-month delay. That blows our shot at the May release," Luke counters.
"Does it have to be May? Christmas slot's solid too—give us breathing room," Cohen pushes.
"No choice if we wanna win," Luke stands firm.
He keeps the real why under wraps.
Deep down, Luke knows the score: No matter how hard he grinds, Spy King solo ain't toppling Return of the King. Spy flicks cap out below epic fantasy blowouts, especially for a fresh IP built from scratch.
Only play to snag the crown? Pit Pirates 2: Dead Man's Chest right up against Return's release date.
Pirates 2 needs to edge out Return at the box office while knocking a cool $100 mil off its haul.
That leaves just enough runway for Spy King to sneak the win.
2003's a banner year for Hollywood—market's exploding like fireworks on the Fourth.
Return of the King? $1.14 billion monster, stealing the show.
Pixar's Finding Nemo? $940 mil global, runner-up glory.
Matrix Reloaded? $745 mil, hot on the heels for third.
Scores like these? Unthinkable two years back.
Even the late Sommers was dreaming big with The Mummy Returns—hoping for $600 mil to lock the yearly champ, easy street.
In just 24 months, the industry's gone full throttle, everyone's chasing the dragon. Golden slots? Bloodbaths now. Lock in your date or watch it slip away into chaos.
Seeing Luke dig in, Cohen throws up his hands: "Alright, if you're set on it, let's double-check the details."
"Sounds good," Luke nods.
They dive in, ticking off the shoot specs one by one.
This was Bob's wheelhouse, but with him AWOL, it's on Luke to captain.
Bottom line: Spy King's big action hook? Heights. Vertigo city.
Why? Luke can't go full Rambo here—squashing baddies left and right kills the stakes. No tension, no thrill.
That's why Tyson gets to scrap with him toe-to-toe.
Fights max out quick, so amp the rest.
Enter Luke's high-wire circus: Scaling the Burj, death-defying leaps off its side, hand-clinging a jet, stratospheric skydives... All engineered to poke the phobia bear.
Spy King's stunts? Laser-focused, all sky-high vibes.
This next one's a two-parter, stitched together for a B-tier system rating.
Part one: Luke vaults onto a transport plane's wing mid-taxi, gunning for the cabin.
But takeoff acceleration hits—balance gone, he tumbles, snags the door, dangles like a piñata.
Depp cracks the hatch from inside; Luke hauls ass aboard.
Straight rip from Tom Cruise's Mission: Impossible 5 bag of tricks, with a few tweaks.
Big switch: Cruise rocked an A400M prop job; Luke swaps to a C-17 jet.
Props vs. jets? Night and day—jet wash'll slam him harder while clinging for dear life.
Upside? Way more popcorn-munching edge.
Bonus reason for the C-17: Ceiling's higher—13,700 meters vs. A400M's 11,000.
At 11K, what's another 2,700 feet between friends?
That feeds right into part two:
Landed the intel after cabin-clearing chaos.
But radar's painted 'em—SAMs inbound.
Luke suits up, bails from 13,500 meters.
Jump-off instant: Missile nails the plane, fireball yeets him into the void.
Hey, latest drops first on [redacted site]!
Skydiving at that altitude? Hardcore extreme sports turf.
But Luke cranks the dial—for the boom sync, he's tumbling ass-over-elbows mid-freefall, then rights himself.
Ain't even the half: Pitch-black night, he's threading thunderheads on the way down.
Batshit crazy!
Still, picturing that on the big screen? Audiences'll lose their minds right alongside him.
These two beats? Spy King's grand finale fireworks.
To nail 'em, Luke's logged dozens of jumps over months.
Started tame: 3,000 meters, ramping to 5K.
Climb the ladder, crank the peril.
High jumps? Triple threat: Low pressure, low O2, low temps.
Middle-school geo flashback: Up 1,000 meters, temps drop six degrees C, average.
Ground at 15? 13K's a balmy -50°F (not exact linear, but close enough).
That freeze? Locks you up in minutes—brain fogs out, no pulling the ripcord.
Low air, no air? Same deal, death sentence. Skipping the TED Talk.
Post-5K? Oxygen masks, pressure suits, the full kit.
Even geared, 10K+ is Russian roulette.
pros call it HALO: High Altitude, Low Opening.
Freefall the whole damn way to 1,500 meters before chute time.
Up top, eight-plus K of drop? Winds'll ragdoll you god-knows-where.
Land off-zone? Eat dirt, roll like a pro.
And Luke? Not blue-sky daylight—inky night, punching cumulonimbus like a human missile.
Cohen's sweating bullets just reading the call sheet.