**January 1989 – The Silence of the Lambs Project**
The morning sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Ethan Carter's corner office, casting geometric patterns across the Persian rug. A thin layer of dust particles floated in the air, illuminated by the golden light. The scent of freshly brewed Ethiopian coffee mixed with the faint citrus tang of cleaning solution—the janitors had come through just an hour earlier.
Ethan stood motionless at the window, his hands clasped behind his back, watching as the studio lot below slowly came to life. A production assistant hurried across the courtyard, balancing three script boxes in her arms. Two grips shared a cigarette near the commissary, their laughter silent through the thick glass. The entire scene looked like something out of a movie itself—carefully composed, perfectly lit.
His intercom buzzed. "Sarah and Marty are here, Mr. Carter."
"Send them in."
The door opened to reveal Sarah Gunderson, his VP of Production, looking as put-together as ever in a tailored navy blazer, her auburn hair pulled back in a severe ponytail that somehow softened rather than hardened her features. Marty Rosen followed, his ever-present cigar clamped between his teeth, the smoke curling up toward the ceiling in lazy spirals.
Ethan didn't turn from the window. On his desk, centered with exacting precision, sat three items: a leather-bound director prospectus, a stack of cinematographer demo reels, and—most importantly—a bound manuscript of Thomas Harris's unpublished novel, *The Silence of the Lambs*.
"We're making this," Ethan said simply, finally turning to face them. He crossed the room in five measured strides and slid two copies of the manuscript across the polished mahogany surface.
Sarah caught hers mid-slide, her fingers tracing the embossed title on the cover. "Thomas Harris? The *Red Dragon* author?"
"The same." Ethan's voice carried no inflection. He moved to the coffee cart in the corner, pouring himself a fresh cup. The ceramic clinked softly against the glass carafe.
Marty flipped through the pages with one hand while the other kept his cigar steady. "FBI agents and cannibals?" He let out a wheezing laugh. "This isn't exactly *Friday the 13th*, boss."
"That's precisely why we're making it." Ethan took a slow sip of coffee, the bitterness perfectly balanced by the single sugar cube he'd added. "While every other studio chases slasher sequels and buddy cop movies, we'll give audiences something they don't even know they want yet."
Sarah was already deep into the manuscript, her eyes scanning the pages with rapid precision. "The psychological depth here... it's extraordinary. But it's also incredibly dark. The studios will never go for it."
"Which is why we're not asking them." Ethan set his cup down with deliberate care. "By Friday, I want three things from you, Sarah. First, confirm Demme's availability—he's finishing *Married to the Mob*. Second, set up a discreet meeting with Jodie Foster's people. Third," he tapped the manuscript, "lock down these rights before the book even hits shelves."
Marty exhaled a cloud of smoke. "And how exactly do we do that?"
Ethan allowed himself the smallest of smiles. "Harris's agent plays golf every Thursday at Riviera. Be there with an offer he can't refuse."
---
Three days later, the Dragon Pictures conference room hummed with quiet energy. The space had been transformed overnight—storyboards lined the walls, each panel a silent promise of what could be. A carafe of coffee sat half-empty on the sideboard, next to a platter of untouched pastries.
Sarah's voice cut through the murmurs of the assembled creative team. "Update on Demme—he wraps *Married to the Mob* next week. His agent says he's actively looking for something darker, but the studios keep offering him comedies."
David Koepp, their newly minted Head of Development, leaned forward, his elbows resting on the conference table. At twenty-six, he was the youngest person in the room by nearly a decade, but his eyes burned with a quiet intensity. "I worked with Ted Tally at Yale. If we're serious about a faithful adaptation, he's our writer. His play *Terra Nova* has exactly the kind of tense, psychological dialogue this needs."
Ethan's Montblanc pen moved across his notepad in precise strokes. "Offer him the job today. But Demme comes first." His gaze shifted. "Marty?"
The ledger opened with a creak of well-worn leather. Marty's fingers, stained yellow from decades of cigar smoke, traced down the columns of numbers. "Twelve to fifteen million if we shoot in Pittsburgh. The old Western State Penitentiary is standing empty—perfect for Lecter's cage. We can use the actual Pittsburgh FBI field office for interiors. Local crews are cheaper too."
Sarah's pen scratched across her notepad. "I'll have a scout team on a plane Monday."
---
The screening room lights dimmed the following Thursday, the projector whirring to life. Jonathan Demme sat alone in the center of the room, watching a carefully curated reel of his own work—the intimate close-ups from *Melvin and Howard*, the escalating tension of *Something Wild*, the character-driven humor of *Swing Shift*.
When the lights rose, Demme's fingers tapped a restless rhythm against the armrest. "You're asking me to pivot pretty hard into thriller territory here."
Ethan's voice came from the darkness behind him. "I'm asking you to make the first horror film that wins Best Picture."
A script appeared in Demme's hands as if by magic—Sarah materializing at his side with the bound pages. "Tally's adaptation," she said softly. "We want your input before we approach Foster."
Demme flipped through the pages, his breathing changing when he reached the first interview scene. When he looked up, his eyes held new understanding. "This could be... special."
"Then let's make it," Ethan said from the shadows.
---
The casting office felt smaller with each passing hour. Tape after tape played on the monitor—another blonde actress, another failed attempt to capture Clarice Starling's unique combination of vulnerability and steel.
Rachel Klein, Dragon's Head of Talent, sighed and made another note on her legal pad. "Too polished. Too actressy."
Sarah rubbed her temples. "What about Foster? She's been off the radar since *The Accused*."
From his position in the back row, Ethan's voice cut through the fatigue. "Get her here. Today."
By 3 PM, Jodie Foster sat in Ethan's office, sunlight painting stripes across the script in her hands. No pleasantries were exchanged—just a single page number spoken into the silence between them.
Foster read the scene cold, her voice stripping away all pretense until only Clarice Starling remained in the room. When she finished, the silence was absolute.
Ethan's nod was barely perceptible. "Welcome to Dragon."
---
The final meeting of January carried an electric charge. Sarah's presentation flowed seamlessly across the newly installed projector—director attached, lead cast secured, budget locked at nine-point-five million. The Pittsburgh locations had been scouted and approved. The FBI had granted limited cooperation.
The room held its collective breath when she finished.
Marty broke the silence with a gruff chuckle. "This'll either make us legends or get us all fired."
Ethan stood, his suit jacket falling into perfect alignment as he buttoned it. "Then we'd better not fail."
As the others filed out, Sarah lingered. The unspoken question hung between them until Ethan handed her the production schedule. His voice, for the first time all month, carried the faintest hint of something beyond calculation.
"Make it unforgettable."
Outside, the first signs of February's approach stirred the air. Somewhere in Pittsburgh, an empty prison waited. And in Hollywood, whispers had already begun to spread about the quiet storm brewing at Dragon Pictures.
But Ethan was already moving forward, his next play taking shape behind those impossible blue eyes.