Chapter 3: Raising Film Funds
Truth be told, Jimmy regretted signing with Wayne not long after they sealed the deal. Maybe this so-called "genius" Professor Anderson raved about was only a genius in academics?
He'd seen some of Wayne's experimental short films—filled with blood, drenched in darkness. The themes made him deeply uncomfortable. He had basically written Wayne off—until he got that unexpected call today.
"It's not one of those experimental pieces. This time, I've written a complete script and production plan. It's a real feature-length film. I'm using it as my graduation project."
Wayne knew his past work hadn't left a great impression. That might explain why they hadn't spoken in months. Still, Jimmy had been a decent agent so far—he hadn't once turned him down when asked to help rent equipment or make calls.
"You're shooting a feature film?" Jimmy warned, brows raised. "Wayne, I've got to remind you—this isn't like those little projects you've done before. This is a whole different beast. You can't do it alone. Alright, what kind of help do you need?"
Wayne met his gaze firmly. Jimmy shrugged. Maybe this wasn't really his concern anyway—he was just the guy's agent.
"In a few days I'll reach out. I need a basic crew—lighting, makeup, props, set design. I'll handle the cinematography myself. And no need for anyone too famous—I can't afford their rates. I just need competent professionals."
"Alright, CAA's got everything you'll need. You're putting together your own crew? Going fully independent?"
"Exactly. I'm starting with fundraising first. I'd like to have a studio invest and just focus on directing, but let's be real—that's not happening."
Jimmy nearly rolled his eyes but held it in. He downed the last of his coffee and slapped some cash under his cup.
"Fine. Call me when you're ready. I've got other things to handle. Later."
Wayne watched Jimmy leave the café. He probably thought Wayne was out of his mind. He left his own tip under the cup and walked out to his car, sliding into the driver's seat and staring at the file folder on the passenger side.
Now that the script and the project plan were finalized, the most critical step remained: raising funds. As his professor had said, even seasoned directors struggle at this stage.
Were all those directors scrambling around town for money untalented? Not at all. It was a vicious cycle: without a finished film to prove yourself, no one invests. And without funding, you can't finish a film to prove yourself.
With nearly sixty years of combined life experience over two lifetimes, Wayne understood the cruel truth—money was everything. You could have every quality for success, but if you couldn't fund your vision, you'd still amount to nothing. And there were a lot of talented nobodies in Hollywood.
He drove to his apartment, picked up a box of documents and some clothes, then headed straight for Ventura County, part of Greater Los Angeles—his hometown.
Ventura County was mostly suburban, much like Orange County. While most of its development was linked to Los Angeles, the northern part remained largely untouched—dominated by the vast Los Padres National Forest. Wayne's family farm sat at its edge.
The southern and central parts of the county used to be small Pacific coast towns. But after the expansion of U.S. Route 101 into the San Fernando Valley, the whole area underwent rapid urbanization.
Ironically, this San Fernando Valley was North America's other film industry hub. But unlike Hollywood, its specialty was—you guessed it—adult films. Love scenes with action. And this industry? It raked in even more money than mainstream Hollywood. Every company was backed by serious North American capital. It was a moneymaking machine.
Wayne drove along the highway with country music playing in the background, mentally checking if he had prepared enough. Had he overlooked anything?
Soon, the familiar sight of the Los Padres National Forest came into view. He had grown up on a farm right beside it. The fields, the cows in the distance—it was all unchanged. Something about this place always calmed him down.
Driving into the property, he greeted a few ranch hands and parked in front of the wooden farmhouse.
His father sat on the porch in a reclining chair, puffing a pipe. Two golden retrievers lay lazily by his feet. The moment Wayne stepped out of the car, both dogs bounded over, tails wagging wildly.
"Dad, where's Mom? I came back because I've got something important to discuss."
Wayne patted the dogs affectionately and took a seat next to his father.
"Mm, she's inside making dinner. Said she's trying a new beef stew recipe. One of the bulls in the herd has been causing trouble—always picking fights. I had James put him down yesterday."
Old Mr. Garfield gave his son a long look. Wayne seemed thinner than the last time he came home. Hopefully, he hadn't gotten into anything illegal. He understood young people—after all, in his own youth, he'd tried his fair share of "leafy cigarettes." But that didn't mean he wanted his son going down the same path.
"While Mom's still making dinner, Dad, let's go to your study. There's something I need to talk to you about."
Carrying the box he'd brought from the car, Wayne called for his father and the two headed upstairs to the study—also his father's workroom. Along one wall stood a row of antique hunting rifles. A massive mounted deer head hung above them.
His father sat down behind the large oak desk, pulling out a hefty revolver and casually wiping it down. Ever since moving out here to start the farm, Old Garfield had taken a deep liking to hunting and guns. Whatever he did, it somehow always involved a firearm.
"Well then, out with it. And don't tell me you've gotten some poor girl pregnant—if you have, I might just use this big guy on you."
Wayne sighed, watching his father with a hint of helplessness. All these years later, he still hadn't fully adjusted to this American style of father-son banter. He could never forget when he was thirteen, and his father barged into his room one night with a Playboy magazine, claiming it was time to teach him the "basics of healthy relationships."
"Dad, take a look at this. I made it."
Wayne opened the file folder and handed over his script and production plan.
His father first took the plan, setting the thick screenplay aside for now. Just by seeing what Wayne had brought out, Old Garfield already had a sense of what this was about—it was tied to an old promise.
As a kid, Wayne never asked for toys or pocket money. Every weekend, he'd help his father clean guns, go hunting, and watch ballgames—until he left for college in Los Angeles. In return, his father had promised that after graduation, he'd invest in his son's first movie.
After reading the production plan, Old Garfield finally picked up the script, flipped through a few pages, then set it down.
"Listen to me, Wayne. My time is long gone. The last time I was a producer, you were barely five years old. I haven't touched this industry in decades. If you want that money, I'll talk to the accountant tomorrow. But understand—this is a one-time chance. If you screw this up, I'll help you get an internship at a real company. That's all I can do."
He looked at his son with a rare seriousness. This might be the last real support he could offer.
"What do you think, Dad?" Wayne asked. "If you were still running your production company, would this be something you'd invest in?"
It wasn't just about the money his father had promised—he genuinely wanted to know if the project itself was worth it, by the standards of someone who used to be in the business.
His father thought for a moment and replied:
"Honestly? No. If I were still a producer, I wouldn't invest. The proposal is solid, and the budget is tight, but no professional investor would ever risk it on a first-timer. Not even a maybe."
He paused, then added, "You can try a few smaller production companies, but don't get your hopes up. Listen—I'm funding your first film only because your last name is Garfield. That's the one and only reason."
Wayne wasn't disappointed. He had expected this answer. That was just how the industry worked. His father was being kind about it—if this were a real studio, he probably wouldn't even get past the receptionist. The fact they might let him leave a script and say, "We'll call you," would already be a blessing.
"Alright. I'll show this to Mom too—maybe she'll have some suggestions. You know how long I've been preparing for this. I don't want anything to go wrong."
"I know. Sometimes I think you're in too much of a rush. Maybe you should graduate first, work on a few sets, get some experience, and then shoot your own film."
How could he not be in a rush? 1991 was just around the corner. Every year that passed was another door closing.
"Okay. I'll go check on Mom's stew, and bring this stuff back to my room."
Wayne carried the box to the end of the upstairs hallway, back to his old bedroom. It looked just like it had when he left. His mother had clearly kept it clean. At the foot of the bed was the little nest he'd once made for the two golden retrievers—definitely too small for them now.
The room was warm and simple. By the window stood a desk and a wooden bookshelf, with only a few books but plenty of childhood toys, comic books, and a guitar.
He opened the box and pulled out the collection of experimental films he'd made in college—seven or eight tapes in all. Tearing off the packing tape, he neatly arranged them on the shelf and gave a satisfied nod before heading downstairs.
"Mom, I could smell the stew before I even got inside."
His mother looked significantly younger than his father. Tall and blonde, about 5'9", she was of English descent. Her golden hair was tied up neatly, and she stood at the stove stirring a pot with a wooden spoon.
"Oh, honey! How's everything at school? I learned this beef stew from a TV show. Looks like I didn't mess it up!"
She set the spoon aside and gave him a warm hug.
"Same as always. I've had enough credits for a while now. But I told my professor I'd be spending the rest of the year filming my graduation project."
"You're going to be a great director someday, sweetheart. You'll make your mom so proud. Now go grab your father and tell him dinner's ready. If he's still messing with those silly guns of his, I will throw out his toys."
"Hey darling, I'm already here! Looks like you'll have to find another excuse to toss my collection."
Just as she finished her sentence, Old Garfield walked into the dining room.