A week has passed from Providence taking a leap from a whisper of limited release into a proper box office conversation. From twenty-eight screens, Providence has now arrived on over a thousand screens, and grosses continued to creep ever so slightly upward.
Not blockbuster money, but steady, respectable growth—nearly $18 million domestic through the second weekend, the kind of climb that had Fox executives cautiously smiling in their Monday meetings.
Harry read the numbers, every morning with a strange combination of relief and distance. He couldn't change them at this point, the film had went to audiences. Rather he poured most of his energy into the heavy stack of notes on his kitchen table, all covered in sketches for the new project.
Sparky snoring next to his chair, the sound of Harry's pen scratching paper get interrupted from time to time by the sounds of the dog's paws twitching in his dreams.
Lisa leaned against the counter, a cup of coffee in her hand, watching Harry circle another beat in the second act. "You know what you are avoiding?"
"What?" Harry said without looking up.
"Television," Lisa said. "You've been turning down invitations all week, and it's the same story. Fallon, Kimmel, even bloody Charlie Rose. Everybody wants the young director who pushed his own film into theatres in the middle of October. It's a story. You're ignoring it."
Harry sighed again and put the pen down. "I do not want to be the face of late-night television. The film is the story, not me."
"Harry," Lisa said flatly, "that's not the business we are in. You are twenty-five, you are handsome enough to be in one of your own films, and you somehow managed to put together a project that is managing to make money. That is television gold. People love that."
He rubbed his temples, avoiding eye contact with her. "And, when they ask about Providence, what do I say? That I was terrified half the time? That Bardem scared the ever-living crap out of me even when the camera was not rolling? That I shot fourteen takes of the library scene because I couldn't decide when to cut?"
"Yes," Lisa said, exasperated. "That's exactly what you say. They'll love you for it."
Harry muttered something under his breath and went back to the notes. Lisa shook her head but didn't press further. She knew better than anyone how stubborn he could be once his mind fixed on something.
_________
In that greater city, however, Harry was being pushed out of the spotlight whether he liked it or not.
Jackson Multimedia, the empire his father built and Mason was still trying to hold together, had unleashed the newest promotion campaign for their upcoming film American Edge. Billboards along Sunset Boulevard towered over the boulevard, buses sported the title in huge letters, and full-color, glossy spreads broke in Variety and The Hollywood Reporter.
Jackson Multimedia was running a campaign that dwarfed anything Fox had done for its film Providence.
They had great resources, they had commitment to an aggressive strategy; and in a matter of days, the entertainment press had turned from superlative pieces about "Harry Jackson's unnerving debut", and had pivoted to glossy profiles like "Jackson Productions Returns to Prestige Filmmaking."
Harry couldn't miss it. Every draft in and across LA meant seeing his father's company raked across some wall, and each magazine Lisa folded and threw down on his desk at work seemed to contain an advertisement for American Edge. It was beyond advertising; it was dominance.
Gregory was livid about it on the telephone. "They are muscling Providence out of the conversation. Fox has half the ad buys. We have good numbers, Harry, but rated against this? They'll bury us by November."
"Fox won't back down," Harry said, though he wasn't sure if he was reassuring Gregory or himself. "We've proven the film is profitable and it will make back it's marketing budget and give them their profit. They can't ignore that."
Gregory exhaled heavily. "Maybe not. But don't be surprised if the trades start comparing the two of you. Father's legacy, son's gamble. That kind of thing."
Harry looked at the half-finished script in front of him, the lie of his pianist story growing line by line. "Then I'll give them something else to compare."
By the middle of the week, Daniel Hayes and Javier Bardem had completed yet another round of press interviews. Daniel came into Harry's office, grinning from ear to ear and overall looking more relaxed than he had looked in many months.
"Harry, you would not believe the questions they ask me," he said, as he slumped down in the leather chair, on the other side of the large desk. "People keep asking if you are really that intense, based on the stories I tell. Like you screamed void until I cried."
Harry let out a laugh and shook his head. "Did you tell them the truth? That I mostly whispered and asked for one more take?"
Daniel smiled, "I told them you whispered and then asked for five more takes."
Javier came in a little later, with a cigarette behind his ear, and leaned on the door frame. "Harry they love you. For them, you are the mysterious young self made millionaire who has debuted with a bang. Let them think that."
Harry felt a smirk come over his face. "You are taking more pleasure in this than you will admit."
Bardem shrugged his shoulders. "I am taking pleasure in not being poor. And if this helps me get more work, good!"
"Speaking of work, Greg told me about a potential film he wants FunTime Productions to make, an adaptation of a book. He thinks you would play one of the characters perfectly." Harry said.
Bardem raised an eyebrow. "What book?"
Harry smirked smugly, "No Country For Old Men."
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