After watching all 200 minutes of raw footage, Chris Paul leaned back in his creaky chair, rubbed his temples, and stayed quiet for a long moment.
The dizzying handheld camera work, low lighting, and raw audio made it clear—this was a shoestring production. He wasn't even sure he wanted his name to be attached to this film.
"This is… How do you want to cut this video?," he muttered, eyes still on the screen. "If I didn't know better, I'd assume this was meant to be dumped straight onto a videotape shelf in some dusty corner of a Blockbuster."
Ben, standing behind him, didn't flinch. "That's kind of the point," he said. "The content should be as concise as possible, and all unnecessary dialogue should be cut out, so that the film looks like a pure interview, rather than a specially shot film."
Chris glanced up. "You don't want this looking like a film. You want it looking like someone's camcorder got found in a forest."
Ben nodded. "Exactly. I want the audience to feel like they're watching found footage. Not a movie, not a performance. Something real. But we also can't make people throw up from too much camera shake."
Chris snorted. "You're asking for a miracle. You want it rough but still watchable. Horror but not horror. Just enough mystery and unease."
"That's right," Ben said. "The whole structure should feel like an interview documentary. Tighten the pacing, strip out redundant lines, build up tension slowly—like something's creeping in the background but never fully shows itself."
Chris leaned forward again, now more intrigued than annoyed. "You know what? That's kind of brilliant."
He stood and cracked his back. "Alright. But I'll need a proper editing room and an assistant. No way I'm slicing through this in a week with just this junk." He gestured at the battered equipment around him.
"You'll have the room," Ben said. "I'll be your assistant."
Chris raised an eyebrow, then nodded. "Deal."
—
That evening, Helen pulled strings and landed them a week's time in a Lucasfilm editing suite—specifically under Skywalker Sound, which doubled as a facility for tight-knit, low-profile projects. It was a major coup and spoke volumes about Helen's connections. Ben hadn't realized until now how far the Newhouse reach went.
From the first day, the work was relentless. The two of them barely emerged from the editing suite. Scenes were debated, sliced, spliced, reversed, and replayed. Music cues were held off intentionally, allowing silence and static to create their own dread.
On the second night, Amanda showed up at the editing room around 10 PM, holding a paper bag full of food.
"You two are turning into vampires," she said, placing the bag down next to a stack of tapes. "You haven't eaten in fourteen hours. I'm not letting you die before the movie's even done."
Ben grinned at her, eyes bleary. "You're an angel."
Chris didn't even look up. "If that has coffee, you're my new best friend."
Amanda raised a brow. "It does."
On the fifth day, Helen poked her head into the room to check on progress. She immediately recoiled. "God, it smells like a raccoon died in here."
"We've been working," Ben said, not looking away from the monitor.
"Working or decomposing?" she quipped, backing out. "I'll come back when you've rediscovered showers."
Chris chuckled but kept snipping away, hands dancing over the editing controls.
By the sixth night, the film was finally taking shape.
Chris leaned back, truly smiling for the first time. "You know, you made this easier."
Ben blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You had a vision. A clear one. Most directors don't. They ramble, change their mind, chase five genres at once. You? You knew what this needed to feel like from the beginning. That's rare."
Ben was quiet for a moment, then offered a tired smile. "Thanks. You brought it to life."
On the seventh day—December 23rd, 1993—they walked out of the Lucasfilm editing suite, bleary-eyed and reeking of too much coffee, but proud.
Amanda met them outside with two steaming cups of holiday cocoa. "Merry almost Christmas, gentlemen."
Ben took his with both hands, the warm cup suddenly heavier than anything he'd held all week. "It's done," he whispered.
Chris nodded. "Let's hope people believe it's real."
Ben looked down the street, snow just starting to fall in light flakes, and allowed himself the first deep breath in months.
The Blair Witch Project was complete. Just in time.
------
Later that evening, freshly showered and dressed in clean clothes for the first time in what felt like a decade, Ben met Helen and Amanda at a quiet little restaurant tucked away on the outskirts of Burbank. It wasn't fancy—just a cozy booth, dim lighting, and the gentle clink of glasses from the bar. The kind of place you went when you wanted to talk without being overheard.
Amanda was already at the booth, sipping a tea with steam curling under her nose. She lit up when she saw Ben walked in, a wide smile spreading across her face when she saw him.
"Look who escaped the editing dungeon," she teased. "I was starting to think we'd have to edit you out of the film for good."
Ben grinned as he slid into the seat beside her. "We made it out. Barely. I think Paul's chair is permanently molded to his spine."
"You smell like a real person again," she quipped, nudging him with her shoulder. "That's progress."
Ben chuckled and slid into the booth. "Turns out soap still works wonders."
Helen arrived moments later, her usual air of calm command softened just slightly by the scent of winter spice on her coat.
She pulled off her gloves, sat down across from them, and nodded with rare approval.
"You pulled it off. In less than 20 days." Helen started, "It's good. The cut is lean, tense, and ambiguous in all the right ways. Paul said he hasn't been this excited about a project since his early days."
Ben raised an eyebrow. "High praise from someone who thought we were insane a week ago."
Helen didn't smile, but her eyes showed a flicker of amusement. "And now he's asking if we need him on the press tour."
The waitress came, orders were placed—coffee for Helen, another tea for Amanda, and a whiskey for Ben—and then Helen leaned in, resting her elbows lightly on the table.
"There's something else," she said, glancing between them. "We've got a meeting. Fox. First week of January."
Helen nodded. "Yes. The real deal. Corporate headquarters. Not Fox Starlight or one of their indie shells. George insisted on it personally."
Ben leaned back in the booth, stunned. "So we're not talking about some fringe interest. This is...?"
Amanda sipped her tea and said, "They don't know if it's a mockumentary, a documentary, or a stunt—but they know George is vouching for it and are eager to meet and discuss."
Ben gave a slow nod. "And George is vouching?"
"Not openly," Helen said, "but his fingerprints are there. He wants to stay behind the curtain—he's not producing this, not officially. But if it lands, he wants to say he gave us the nudge."
Amanda added with a smirk, "Classic Lucas. Quiet kingmaker mode."
Ben looked down at the table, fingers tapping against his glass, the reality of it all beginning to settle in. The cut was done. The myth was taking form. And now the giants were knocking.
"This is it," he said quietly. "First week of '94."
Helen raised her cup. "We walk in controlled, confident. We pitch not just the film, but the world around it. The myth."
Amanda clinked her cup against his. "You're not selling a movie, Ben. You're selling a mystery."
Ben sat back, a slow grin pulling at the edge of his mouth. "Guess we better make sure they believe it."
"You did it Ben" added Amanda emotional for once thinking about what Ben had to go through to reach this stage.
"We did it," Ben corrected. "This doesn't happen without either of you."
Amanda reached under the table and nudged his leg. "Especially me, since I kept you both from starving."
------
Later that night, back at his apartment, Ben sat on the edge of his bed, a warm buzz in his chest—not from the whiskey, but from the momentum. The film was done. The meeting with Fox was real. And George Lucas— George Lucas —was not just behind it for the favor.
He was looking forward to the myth that would be created. He stared at the window for a long moment, then reached for the phone on his nightstand.
He dialed slowly. On the second ring, a familiar voice answered. "Hello?"
"Naomi? It's Ben."
There was a pause. Then: "Hey! Wow. It's been a while. How are you doing?"
Ben smiled, leaning back against the headboard. "Yeah, it has. Sorry about that. Things got... hectic."
Naomi's voice warmed. "So... what's up?"
"I wanted to thank you," he said. "Again. For helping me get back on my feet after the whole... Forrest Gump crash-and-burn last year. If it wasn't for you—well, I don't think I'd be where I am right now."
A pause. Then, gently, Naomi said, "You found your footing on your own, Ben. I just gave you a nudge."
He ran a hand through his hair, the words catching on his breath. "We finished a film. It's not an art film. It's different. It's cut. Lean, sharp. Mysterious as hell. And... there's a screening coming up. First week of January. With Fox."
Naomi's breath hitched. "Fox Fox?"
"Yeah," he said. "The one with the actual tower. George Lucas is behind it, quietly."
"Ben, that's—holy crap."
"I want you to be there," he said quickly. "Not just because of what you did for me, but because... it would mean a lot to have someone in that room who saw me at my worst. Who reminded me I could still do something worth watching."
There was a long silence on the other end. Then she said, "I'd be honored."
Ben closed his eyes, the relief and gratitude washing over him. "Thank you."
Naomi's voice was soft now. "You're going to change things, Ben. I can feel it."
He didn't reply right away. Just smiled, phone against his ear, thinking about what lay ahead.
After hanging up with Naomi, Ben sat quietly for a moment, the weight of everything sinking in. The film was real. The meeting was happening. And for the first time in months, maybe longer, the world didn't feel like it was closing in on him.
On impulse, he picked up the phone again and dialed another number—one he hadn't called in a while.
Michael.
The man who'd given him his second shot. Who'd pulled him out of limbo and nudged him toward Star Talent Brokerage. Ben owed him a hell of a lot.
It rang several times. Then a voice picked up—older, female.
"Hello?"
"Hi, this is Ben Gosling. Is Michael around?"
There was a pause. Then the woman said gently, "Oh! Ben, yes, I'm his mother."
Ben straightened in surprise. "Oh—hi, Mrs. Connery. I'm sorry to bother you. I was hoping to speak with Michael."
"He's enlisted now, sweetheart," she said, a soft touch of pride in her voice. "Army. He left a few weeks ago."
Ben blinked. "Really?"
"Yes. He wanted to do something different. Something solid. He's out at Fort Sill for basic. Limited contact right now."
"I didn't know," Ben said, running a hand over his face. "Wow. That's... that's huge. I know he wanted to enlist after Forrest Gump but not so soon."
"He'd be happy to know you called. Do you want me to tell him to get in touch when he has a chance?"
"Please," Ben said. "I've got some good news he might want to hear. Just... tell him thank you from me. Again."
"I will," she said warmly. "You take care, Ben."
"You too, Mrs. Connery." Ben hung up and leaned back, phone resting against his chest. He stared at the ceiling, thoughts running a little deeper now.
So many people had played a role in getting him here—Naomi, Michael, Helen, Amanda. And now, George Lucas. This whole journey felt stitched together by fate and timing, and he wasn't about to let any of it go to waste.
He let out a long breath. One more push. Then it's showtime.