Chapter 62: The Game Begins
Wayne couldn't care less about Warner's media maneuvering. This performance wasn't his to play—at least not yet. Right now, his focus remained exactly where it needed to be: on directing.
As for using his "relationship" to promote the film? He saw it for what it was—just another tool in the Hollywood marketing machine.
Ever since George Lucas launched Star Wars, the American film industry had become increasingly commercialized. Lucas paved the way, and Steven Spielberg perfected the formula, turning movies into profit-generating machines. Now, in the early '90s, directors like "the truck driver" were pushing commercial cinema even further.
In that landscape, movies were no longer just art—they were products. And if Wayne Garfield, the director, had to step into the spotlight to promote this product, then so be it.
From the very beginning of development, he had carefully positioned the film for the market. He identified its target audience—especially minorities—as the film's core consumers. This was the rare kind of project that wouldn't alienate most white viewers, yet would attract a significant number of people of color to the theaters.
His first two films weren't made for awards or critical acclaim—they were designed purely for box office returns.
Once Warner's planned media coverage about Halle Berry rolled out, the gossip tabloids piled on. Armed with creative storytelling and no moral compass, they quickly stirred the public into a frenzy.
By September 1991, Warner Bros. Studios was running like a well-oiled machine, and the director's other "film" outside the studio—his personal storyline with Halle—was unfolding just as smoothly.
That day, Halle Berry returned to the studio, her expression mixed and uncertain as she entered Get Out's soundstage with cameras trailing her every move.
Security let her in after verifying her identity, and Nina personally greeted her.
"Ms. Berry, please keep your voice down. We're mid-shoot."
"I understand," she whispered in response.
Pushing open the small studio door, Halle stood at the threshold, watching the flurry of activity. The crew was shooting a scene with Will Smith.
In the scene, the male lead visits his white girlfriend's home for the first time. Naomi Watts, playing the girlfriend, sits with Will on the couch while her parents warmly welcome the Black boyfriend—perhaps a little too warmly. The camera follows as the white father gives Will a house tour, eventually arriving in the kitchen, where a Black housekeeper offers an eerie smile.
"Cut! That's a wrap on this one. Mace, that was great!"
The moment Wayne called it, the crew jumped into action preparing the next scene.
Wayne watched the playback out of habit. Once satisfied, he turned and noticed Halle Berry.
He wasn't the only one. Nearly the whole crew glanced in her direction. With all the scandalous stories floating around the tabloids, many were still stunned she had the nerve to show up.
"Hey, Halle. You'll have to wait a little while—we've got one more scene to shoot," Wayne said with a friendly smile.
According to the marketing script, he and the "Black Pearl" were supposed to have dinner that evening.
"No rush. Take your time," Halle said quickly, stepping aside. "I'll just watch for now. Honestly, I've only ever played extras before—this is the first time I've seen a full film production."
Nina brought her a chair, and Wayne turned his attention back to work.
Luke, who was bold and closest to Wayne, wasted no time walking up beside him.
"My God. The tabloids were right? Don't tell me you're actually hooking up with her?"
"Why? Surprised?" Wayne didn't even look up from the monitor. "This is Hollywood—people click, they have fun, they burn out, they split. That's how it works."
"You do realize she almost tanked your career, right?" Luke said, concerned his friend had gone insane.
"It's not what you think. You'll understand later. Alright, let's reset and roll the next take."
Luke sighed and walked over to help the actors with blocking.
By 5 p.m., shooting wrapped. But instead of heading home, everyone watched as their director and the Black Pearl got into the same car.
"Halle, I'm curious—what did Warner offer you?" Wayne asked casually as they rode.
"Two hundred thousand dollars," she answered without flinching. "And once it's all over, a role in a major Warner production."
She watched the crowds exiting the studio and made no effort to hide the deal. Though the NDA covered everything, she knew there was no need to lie to Wayne.
"A very profitable arrangement."
Beyond the cash and the role, Warner was offering her something even more valuable: a future in Hollywood. By all accounts, this was a bargain.
"Are you mocking me?"
Halle suddenly looked back at him, eyes sharp.
"You're too sensitive, Halle." Wayne studied her face—it was beautiful, but he could see the inner turmoil.
As they exited the car, two reporters immediately pounced—one with a camera, the other with a recorder.
"Director Garfield, is this a date with Miss Halle Berry?"
"No, not a date," Wayne answered evenly. "Just a casual dinner between friends."
"Miss Berry, do you really admire Director Garfield?" The reporter shifted focus without missing a beat.
Halle flashed a dazzling smile. Her expression flipped faster than a page in a book.
"Absolutely. I admire him deeply," she said, turning toward Wayne with admiring eyes. "Tonight, I invited him to dinner to thank him for his forgiveness. And, if he doesn't mind... I'd really love to have a romantic date with him."
"Alright, that's enough. We're done here." Wayne cut the interview short.
Sergei had already pulled the car out of the garage and was waiting.
The message was delivered. That was all that mattered.
As Halle Berry waved goodbye to the reporters and slid into the Cadillac, she exhaled softly, her public smile fading into something unreadable.
"Boss, heading home?" Sergei glanced through the rearview mirror, waiting for Wayne's instructions.
"No—West Hollywood. Rose French Restaurant." Wayne gave the directions, then turned to Halle. "You did great out there. Absolutely perfect."
"Thanks," Halle replied with a dry chuckle. "I practiced that line more times than I can count."
Wayne couldn't help but think: If you had acting chops like that from the start, we wouldn't be in this mess. From a director's standpoint, the way she had looked at him in front of the cameras—emotive, vulnerable, yet warm—was the kind of performance only born actors could pull off.
That, he mused, was the difference between a television actor and a movie star. In film, multiple cameras demanded that actors communicate emotion with subtle glances, with eyes that told stories. TV productions, especially low-budget ones, rarely called for that kind of nuance.
When they arrived at the restaurant, Sergei opened the door for them, then parked the car and stayed behind to wait.
The Rose was a French restaurant, and the table had been booked in advance. But the food wasn't the point—the reporters at the next table were. This entire evening was still part of the performance.
Dinner was smooth and pleasant. When it was over, Halle wrapped her arm around Wayne's as they strolled out together, flashes flickering around them.
Once in the car, Wayne turned to her.
"Where to? I'll give you a ride."
"My apartment's not far—just two blocks ahead." She hesitated. "Well, alright, it's just up that way."
Under her guidance, Sergei drove them a short distance, stopping in front of a modest apartment building.
"Would you like to come up for coffee?"
Wayne had been ready to leave as soon as she got out—but the sudden invitation caught him off guard. They weren't exactly on cozy terms.
"I mean, it's still early." Halle licked her lips and lightly traced a fingernail across the back of his hand. "Come up. Just for coffee."
Wayne hesitated for half a beat, then gave a small nod to Sergei and stepped out of the car.
"Well… this scene's a little ahead of schedule," he murmured. "But I don't mind improvising."
Her apartment reminded him of his own early digs—small, around 600 square feet, but tidy. She opened the door and stepped inside.
"Make yourself comfortable. I'll put the coffee on."
He sat on the couch in front of the TV and watched as she moved through the kitchen, grinding and brewing the beans like a practiced barista.
The silence stretched until she returned with two steaming mugs.
"Thanks," Wayne said, taking one.
"I wanted to talk about the tape."
Wayne raised his hand to cut her off.
"Halle, I've told you before—it's locked away in my vault. It won't ever see the light of day."
She stared into his eyes.
"Promise me."
"I promise."
She let out a breath—half relief, half disbelief—and took a sip of her drink.
"You know," she said softly, "these past few weeks have felt like a dream. If I hadn't gotten greedy, if I hadn't tried to take a shortcut, none of this would have happened."
"It's behind us now," Wayne replied, not quite sure how to handle her shifting moods. One moment cool and poised, the next filled with regret—it was hard to keep up. "And this is your second chance. You know what I mean."
"Yeah. I know exactly what you mean." She set down her cup, stood up, and slowly dropped to her knees. "But… I've been thinking about what we didn't get to finish that night in your office."
Her hands reached for his belt with deliberate intent. Wayne raised a brow and grinned, the edge of amusement lighting his face.
"Well then… let's finish what we started."
"Oh my God, Wayne!" she gasped moments later. "Are you a beast or something?"