The lobby of Rough Draft Studios was surprisingly unassuming—nothing like the glitzy showrooms of Disney or the pristine hallways of Warner Bros. That was just it though, Harry liked it that way. It had character, it had soul. The walls were lined with animation cels. And in the corner stood a grinning little alien statue from Futurama. A bubbling water cooler was the only thing that made any sounds.
Harry was sitting on the nice, squeaky couch with a pen in hand and a folder labeled SpongeBob Pilot – Revised Concept.
And then a woman with a pink streak in her short hair walked out.
"Mr. Jackson?" she asked.
Harry stood up and extended his hand, "Yes, you must be Melinda."
Melinda Kim, the producer liaison for Rough Draft, took his hand. "Come on back, Eric and the team are ready for you."
She led him through a hallway filled with colorful, conceptual art, and storyboards. And he felt it again, that boyhood feeling he'd get on Saturday mornings when he would watch cartoons. This was it, this was the place!
Inside the meeting room were Eric Ko, the founder of Rough Draft, and a couple of animators. A whiteboard was already covered with the hastily scrawled outline of a pineapple and one name: SpongeBob.
Eric stood and waved. "Mr. Jackson. I am a big fan of what you do with JTV. I've heard it is a bit ominous at your animation department. You have come to the right place."
Harry chuckled. "I certainly hope so. We want SpongeBob back the way he was meant to be - absurd, dumb, and over-the-top entertaining."
Eric smiled. "We can do that. You want it in 2D, limited animation style, biting humor, background gags, and vibrant colors?"
Harry nodded. "That's precisely it. Looney Tunes meets suburbia under the sea."
They spent the better part of the hour discussing character designs, pacing, joke structure, and storyboarding. Harry passed on the pilot script with the understanding that Eric would deliver the first episode in three weeks.
As Harry shook hands with the animators on his way out, he felt an odd sense of satisfaction - as if he had just rescued a cultural artifact from the grips of extinction.
____
Lisa burst into the office, holding a fax. "So, guess what?"
Harry raised an eyebrow, commenting, "You are pregnant?"
Lisa rolled her eyes, "No, the Nolans. They said yes."
Harry blinked at her, "You're kidding."
She handed him the fax. "Christopher and Jonathan Nolan have accepted your offer to produce their new film, MEMENTO. Meeting to review the next steps Friday at Chateau Marmont."
Harry leaned back in his chair and smiled big like a lunatic. "And just like that... we're in."
He stood up, pulled the top drawer of his desk open, and pulled out a blank folder. He had written on it with a marker: FunTime Pictures - Feature Film Division.
The atmosphere was perfect: low-key, isolated, surrounded by the elite of LA, in silence. Mason was present for this, in support of Harry.
Christopher Nolan was sharp and professional, a good look. His brother, Jonathan, was quieter; taking notes; drinking coffee - black. But the brothers were both sharp, concentrated, and, surprisingly, more down to earth than I imagined.
Christopher said, "We've had a number of meetings now with interested financiers. Everyone said the script was too different, and..."
Jonathan added, "It wouldn't sell."
Harry nodded. "It probably won't, but it will be remembered. And that's enough."
The brothers shared a glance.
Harry continued, "I mean, I don't want to own it. I want to make it. I'll fund it, modestly of course. I'll market it, I'll protect it, and - most importantly - I will not meddle with it. No creative meddling."
Christopher smiled, "You sound like a filmmaker, not a studio head."
Harry shrugged, "Maybe I'm just a producer that actually watches movies."
They shook hands. Memento had a producer.
____
Back at the hotel, Mason poured himself a nightcap.
Harry stared out at the city lights. "One film, Mason. Just one."
Mason laughed and said, "I believe in you. But you're going to need somebody here -- somebody who knows the inner workings of the film industry. It was nice. Hollywood is not as friendly as it appears."
Harry turned. "Do you have someone in mind?"
Mason nodded. "An old friend of your father. He used to work in distribution and then moved to consulting. He knows producers, agencies, distributors. Name is Gregory Fields. A bit eccentric, but reliable."
Harry asked, "Will he be loyal?"
Mason laughed, "He owes me. That's even better than loyalty."
The Next Morning -- Brentwood Café
Gregory Fields looked exactly how Harry imagined a former Hollywood studio exec would look -- slicked silver hair, tortoise shell glasses, and a made to order linen suit. He stirred his cappuccino as if he was conducting an orchestra.
Harry leaned in and said to Gregory, "I don't want an agent. I want a fixer. I want a connector."
Gregory's eyes twinkled. "You've got balls, and money to burn. I'll give you that."