While the production of Sex, Lies, and Videotape continued in the sweltering heat of Louisiana, The Princess Bride entered its second weekend. The film dropped a mere 36 percent, grossing an additional $17.8 million. This momentum carried through the following days as the film pulled in another $12.9 million, bringing its total domestic collection to $76.9 million in just fourteen days.
The success was not confined to North America. In foreign territories, the film became an immediate sensation, grossing $52.7 million in its first two weeks. This brought the total worldwide box office to $129.6 million. It was another victory in Alex Hayes's career, extending his winning streak to seventeen films.
Meanwhile, Alex was away in Louisiana, filming a pivotal sequence between Graham and Ann in a local restaurant. Steven Soderbergh had originally envisioned this encounter as a slow, conversational scene with measured dialogue. He expected long, clinical pauses to emphasize the emotional distance between the characters. However, once the cameras rolled, Alex steered the performance in a different direction.
Instead of the slow burn Soderbergh anticipated, Alex slightly increased the pacing, delivering his lines with a conversational fluidity that made the character feel charming yet grounded. He knew exactly when to pull back, slowing down only for necessary awkward beats or a well-timed, disarming smile. By refusing to lean into the drama of the script, Alex brought a profound realism to Graham; he made the character inherently interesting without appearing as though he were "trying" to be interesting.
The conversation eventually turned to the revelation of Graham's impotence. Yet, as the two actors sat across from one another, they played the moment with a notable lack of melodrama. They spoke about it as if it were a simple, shared fact of life rather than a tragic secret. There was no heavy-handed acting; instead, the "easy charm" Alex brought to the role made the confession feel matter-of-fact. They did not make a "big deal" out of it, which made the underlying truth of the scene more resonant.
Soderbergh watched the monitor, fascinated by the natural rhythm of the dialogue. By making the interaction so understated, Alex made it impossible to look away from. It was a level of craft that showcased both his maturity and a veteran's understanding of how to command a screen through stillness rather than spectacle.
As the scene concluded, a heavy silence settled over the restaurant. Alex didn't move immediately; he stayed in the "Graham" headspace for a beat before finally turning his gaze toward Steven Soderbergh. Steven was hunched over the monitor, his face illuminated by the flickering glow of the playback, his expression unreadable.
After what felt like an eternity, Steven offered a slow, decisive nod. Alex stood up, the tension leaving his shoulders as he approached the director.
"How is it?" Alex asked quietly. "Was the delivery to your satisfaction?"
Steven looked up, pulling his eyes away from the screen to adjust his glasses. "It wasn't what I envisioned. I expected something much more measured—almost clinical. But what you did... it was better. It felt less like a script and more like a real conversation."
Alex let out a small, relieved breath. "Good. Because I was prepared to have a very serious talk if you hadn't agreed. I felt the rhythm in my gut."
Steven arched a brow, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Really? I thought you were supposed to be the quintessential 'director's actor.' That's the rumor in Tinsel Town, anyway—that you're a director's wet dream come true."
Alex laughed, a genuine sound at the director's description. "That's only because every one of those directors succeeded with me. If any of those seventeen films had flopped, I guarantee you a few of them would have blamed me for being a 'nightmare' instead of a 'wet dream.'"
He paused, his expression turning thoughtful. "The truth is, I am a director's actor, but I'm also an actor who knows my audience. I know what they want to see and how to keep them engaged." He looked at Steven with a steady gaze. "Because I am one of them."
Soderbergh studied him for a beat. He realized then that Alex's staggering success wasn't just a matter of luck; it was the result of a calculated intuition. Alex Hayes wasn't just a performer; he was a partner who understood exactly how to bridge the gap between a director's artistic vision and the audience's expectations.
"I'll keep that in mind," Steven said, his tone carrying a new layer of respect.
Alex nodded, satisfied. He understood the unspoken agreement: Soderbergh was comfortable with Alex's input as long as the results remained this compelling.
*********
The production of Sex, Lies, and Videotape was underway when Alex received a call from his agent, Paula Wagner, from the sleek, air-conditioned offices of Los Angeles.
"I have news on the project you've been tracking," Paula began,.
"What's the news?" Alex asked, leaning against a weathered brick wall on location.
"It fell through," she said flatly.
Alex was stunned. The project he was interested in was Oliver Stone's next film, Born on the Fourth of July, based on the life of Ron Kovic. Alex felt a sharp jolt of frustration. In his visions of a different timeline, he had seen Tom Cruise deliver a career-defining performance in this role. Having already worked with Stone on Platoon, and with Paula representing both of them, the casting had seemed like a certainty.
"Why?" Alex asked, his voice low.
Paula hesitated. "Oliver cast Ray Liotta for the role. Ovitz made sure he got it."
"I'm asking why Oliver Stone rejected me?" Alex pressed.
"He's concerned about the 'Platoon' effect," Paula explained. "He thinks if you star in this, it will look like a sequel. Same director, same lead, same war. He's afraid the audience won't give him credit for a new vision."
"Is that Oliver's idea?" Alex questioned sharply. "Or is it a story Mike Ovitz sold him?"
Paula remained silent; her lack of a denial confirmed his suspicion.
Alex knew the truth of the industry. Oliver Stone was talented, and talented people have their own pride. The suggestion that his film might be seen as "Alex Hayes's next Vietnam movie" instead of "An Oliver Stone Masterpiece" would have been a direct hit to his vanity.
But the real hand at work was Mike Ovitz. This was a calculated move to remind Alex that despite his winning streak, he was still a resident of a town ruled by CAA. It was a lesson in humility: a reminder that the agency could provide, and the agency could just as easily take away.
"I see," Alex said, his anger cooling into a hard, professional edge. "We'll talk about this once I'm back in LA. Paula, I understand what happened here. But next time a move like this happens, I expect you to be in front of the issue, not reporting on it after the fact."
"I understand, Alex," Paula sighed. The frustration of being caught between two titans—her top star and her boss—was evident in her voice.
As Alex handed the phone back to the production assistant, his face was a mask of calm, but his mind was seething. He knew that Stone's reasoning was flimsy, yet true enough to stick. If Alex played the role, the director wouldn't get the full credit he craved. More importantly, he realized that the career he had built in Hollywood was now being targeted by the very people who had helped build it.
Something had to be done.