The lights dimmed in the private screening room at Hayes Productions. For ninety-five minutes, the only sound was the low hum of the projector and the hypnotic, voyeuristic dialogue of the characters on screen. As the final frame faded to black and the house lights rose, an intense silence hung in the room.
"It's good, Steven," Alex said, breaking the silence. "Actually, it's better than good. It's exactly what I hoped it would be."
Steven Soderbergh, sitting a few rows back, let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for weeks. Nancy, acting as the sharp-eyed Head of Hayes Productions, leaned forward.
"It's intimate and raw, and sometimes uncomfortable," Nancy remarked. "And most of all, it looks fascinating."
Alex laughed. "You are right, Aunt Nancy." He turned to the young director. "I've seen a lot of productions, but forty-five days for a full post-production cycle is unheard of. How did you get it done so quickly?"
"I had the entire film edited in my head before we even arrived in Baton Rouge," Soderbergh explained. "There were no deviations from that vision. The simplicity of the script—few locations and a small cast—allowed us to focus. And frankly, Alex, your support in getting me the technical help I needed without studio interference made all the difference."
Alex nodded. "So, what's next?"
"I want to send it to the major film festivals," Steven said immediately, as if it were a long-planned move.
"Steven," Nancy said with a knowing sigh, "the major prestigious festivals for 1988 are over. We'd have to wait for next year. But do you really want to wait that long? And more importantly, why do you even need a festival?"
Steven looked confused. "To get a distributor... to get a release..." He stopped mid-sentence, looking as though he realized he was saying something foolish.
"Yes, it is a stupid thing to say. If you want exposure, you have Alex Hayes as your producer and lead," Nancy reminded him. "There will always be a studio willing to release a Hayes film. If we do a small, targeted release in December, we make it eligible for the Academy Awards this year."
Soderbergh's eyes widened. "Really? You think it could be nominated for an Oscar?"
"Maybe," Alex intervened. "But we have to play it smart. We can't go too wide in December; the prestigious holiday releases will run us over. We do a 'platform release' to build momentum and meet the Oscar eligibility requirements. Then, we expand in February. It's typically a 'dump month' for studios, but that's when serious movie enthusiasts and adults go to the cinema. And that is our audience."
*******
The reaction from the major studios was a mixed bag. When Nancy and Paula shopped the film, the pushback was immediate. The title—sex, lies, and videotape—made executives nervous. They feared the "taboo" nature of the story would alienate Middle America. Others balked at the timeline; Alex wanted a December release, and there were only three months left to market it, while major studios already had their holiday schedules locked.
Then there was the price. Alex was asking for an $8 million acquisition fee and 25 percent of the box-office gross. For a dialogue-heavy indie drama, it was an astronomical demand. However, the "Hayes Factor" eventually won out. MGM stepped up.
They had worked with Alex on The Breakfast Club, Platoon, and Moonstruck, and they had enough confidence in his judgment. Furthermore, the film My Left Foot, which Alex had financed, was generating excellent internal buzz, giving them further confidence. Though they drove a hard bargain, countering with $6 million upfront and a 30 percent share of the gross, Nancy and Alex agreed to the deal, knowing the importance of the Oscar window. It was a solid deal for everyone involved.
**************
While the indie deal was being inked, the gears of the studio machine were grinding at full speed for Ghost. Pre-production in Hollywood is a logistical war involving location scouting, set construction, and technical assembly. Alex spent his days finalizing shooting locations in New York and overseeing the construction of Molly's iconic loft.
For his Cinematographer, Alex hand-picked Adam Greenberg. By 1988, the Israeli-born Greenberg was one of the most respected "street-style" shooters in the business. He had gained international attention with the Oscar-nominated The Entebbe Operation (1977), but it was his gritty, high-contrast work on James Cameron's The Terminator (1984) that proved he could handle the visual language of high-concept genre films. Recently, he had showcased his versatility on comedies like Three Men and a Baby (1987). Alex wanted Greenberg's ability to blend realistic urban grit with the soft, ethereal glow required for the "spirit world."
During this period, Alex sat down with Bruce Joel Rubin, the screenwriter, to discuss the visual identity of Sam Wheat.
"What did you decide on the Sam Wheat 'Ghost' look?" Bruce asked. "Since he wears the same clothes for the rest of the movie."
"It has to be timeless," Alex said. "If he's in a suit, he looks too stiff. If he's in a sweatshirt, he looks too casual."
They eventually settled on a crisp white button-down shirt and dark indigo-black jeans. The white shirt would capture the light—essential for Adam Greenberg's plan to make the "ghost" appear slightly more luminous than the living world—while the black jeans kept him anchored in the gritty reality of the city.
Alex knew that the heart of Ghost was the romance, but the soul was the spectacle. He reached out to Richard Edlund at Boss Film Studios to handle the special effects. Edlund was a legend, an original member of Industrial Light & Magic (ILM) who had won Oscars for his work on Star Wars, The Empire Strikes Back, and Raiders of the Lost Ark. By 1988, Edlund had branched out, proving he could handle the terrifyingly real spirits of Poltergeist and the massive scale of Ghostbusters.
"I'm looking for about 100 special effects shots, Richard," Alex told him during a meeting at the studio. "But I don't want them to look like 'effects.' I want the transparency of Sam to feel organic. I want the shadows that make the villains feel like a nightmare come to life, not a cartoon."
Edlund, impressed by Alex's technical knowledge, nodded. "To make it better than what's out there, we need to push the limits of optical printing. We'll need to shoot in 65mm for the plates to keep the grain fine when we composite the ghost over the living actors. It's expensive, but it's the only way to get that 'glow' without looking cheap."
"Whatever you need to make it happen," Alex replied.
The next step of pre-production was the selection of the primary location: the loft. As the central anchor for the plot, the space had to serve two purposes: it needed to reflect Molly's identity as a serious artist while providing a hauntingly expansive environment for Sam's spirit. After an extensive search through the city's industrial corridors, the team secured a location at 102 Prince Street in Soho, Lower Manhattan.
The interior was a masterclass in industrial bohemian design. It featured massive structural columns with wrap-around radiators and soaring ceilings. A skeletal, open staircase provided the vertical levels necessary for Sam to watch over Molly from above, while a dedicated wing served as a gritty, functional studio complete with a kiln and clay-covered floors.
************
The readings for Ghost began in earnest, with Demi Moore and Whoopi Goldberg joining Alex. Demi had just debuted her new "boy cut" by stylist John Sahag, a look so striking that it differed completely from her previous roles—exactly what Alex wanted.
Whoopi Goldberg was brilliant in the readings, proving that Ghost would be the perfect project to showcase her unique range. Up to this point, her career had been split between her irreverent stand-up comedy roots and her powerhouse dramatic debut in The Color Purple. This role allowed her to serve as the film's essential comedic relief while remaining a grounded, genuine emotional anchor.
Despite the excitement of seeing the cast come together, the sheer scale of the project began to weigh heavily on Alex's shoulders. As the calendar flipped toward October, the transition from "Alex Hayes, the star" to "Alex Hayes, the Director" proved to be a grueling trial by fire.
The pre-production phase was a relentless tide of decision-making that far exceeded anything he had experienced as an actor. Every hour brought a barrage of technical queries regarding lighting, special effects, and costume palettes. Alex found himself retreating to his office late at night, surrounded by storyboards and budget spreadsheets. For the first time in his career, he felt genuinely overwhelmed.
Nancy found him there one evening, staring at a wall of production schedules. She watched him for a moment before asking the question that had been on her mind: "Why are you doing this to yourself, Alex? You could just be the actor. You could walk onto the set, do your lines, and go home to a much simpler life."
Alex looked up, his eyes tired but reflecting a deep-seated intensity. "What I've found after working this long is that I just love films," he admitted. "I love acting by far, but I love the medium itself even more. I'd be willing to play a small character in a great film just because I love the stories they tell."
He leaned back in his chair, gesturing to the chaos of papers on his desk. "I wanted to be the one to actually tell the story this time—to see if I really have it in me to build the world, not just live in it."
Nancy just nodded, remaining silent as she tried to truly understand the depth of his ambition.
**********
As the pre-production of Ghost drew to a close, Alex turned his attention toward the development of Goodfellas. To expedite the time-consuming casting process, Alex—relying on his "visions"—sent a specific list of actors to the casting directors, suggesting names he recalled with vivid clarity from his dreams. His memory of the original cast allowed him to bypass weeks of grueling auditions.
As the calendar flipped toward October, the pressure reached a boiling point as Alex officially began the production of Ghost in New York.