Chapter 65: It's a Wrap
Ever since Wayne and Halle Berry began "dating," Warner Bros.' media machine had gone into full spin mode. Tabloids churned out wild stories from every angle, and the name Get Out kept popping up in headlines and conversations alike.
Combined with the lingering influence of Wayne's previous film Happy Death Day, which had made quite the splash among young audiences, Get Out triggered a kind of chain reaction—building palpable anticipation across the younger moviegoing demographic.
As part of Warner's calculated campaign, Halle Berry was scheduled to appear on a televised talk show. Being the sharp woman she was, she knew exactly why she was there. On camera, she gushed about her romance with Wayne, and just about every answer involving their "relationship" came with a name-drop of Warner's upcoming thriller.
Warner Bros., one of Hollywood's oldest and most skilled studios, had mastered the art of the slow-burn publicity push. They knew how to gently insert their projects into the public's consciousness—until the big premiere week, when the full marketing arsenal would explode, sending audiences straight into theaters.
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By November, temperatures in Los Angeles hovered around 12 to 16°C, with the suburbs noticeably cooler. Wayne found himself constantly switching between jackets in the morning and short sleeves by noon—feeling like the city and the suburbs belonged to two different climates entirely.
After over two months of grueling work, Get Out was finally in its final stretch.
In Ventura County, Greater L.A., Wayne stood in front of a rented country house, watching the crew work with swift, practiced coordination. Once Luke confirmed that the setup was ready, Wayne made his way behind the monitor.
"Luke, let's roll," he said.
Luke immediately shouted:
"Scene 147, Take 12—Action!"
Will Smith entered the frame. On screen, he saw a scrawny Black man animatedly chatting with a group of white guests. Will raised a portable camera to quietly snap a photo, but forgot to mute the shutter or disable the flash.
The moment the camera clicked, the atmosphere froze. The Black man's face stiffened. A slow trickle of blood ran from his nose. In a sudden, frantic outburst, he lunged at Will, grabbed him by the collar, and screamed wildly for him to get out. The surrounding guests rushed to pull him off.
"Cut! Beautiful. That's a wrap for this scene. Move on to the next setup. Jason—more fake blood. This is an R-rated movie, people."
Wayne exhaled deeply. That shot was the one he'd taken the most creative liberties with. He'd hoped it would land.
In the original film, the protagonist used a smartphone to secretly record the scene—but in the early '90s, phones didn't have cameras. So Wayne had reworked the entire concept to give the protagonist a habit of carrying around a compact camera. It was one of the largest alterations in the adaptation—and crucial for the final confrontation.
"Ready when you are, boss," Nina said, lightly tapping his shoulder as Wayne reviewed the footage one more time.
Snapping out of his thoughts, Wayne noticed the entire crew watching him expectantly.
"Luke, go ahead. Looks like everyone's eager to clock out."
Luke smiled, glanced at the staged car crash ahead, and called out:
"Scene 148, Take 1—Action!"
Wayne's eyes were glued to the monitor. This was it. The finish line was in sight.
On screen, Will Smith pushed open a car door and ran. The gardener—actually the girl's grandfather in a new body—tackled him hard, pinning him down. Struggling, desperate, Will remembered the flash.
He pulled his camera from his pocket and fired the flash straight into the gardener's eyes.
Blinded by the sudden burst, the gardener momentarily regained consciousness. He let go of Will, turned toward the girl, and demanded her gun. She handed it over, smiling—only for him to shoot her point-blank.
Thick tomato sauce—fake blood—splattered across the lens in close-up. Then, without hesitation, the gardener turned the gun on himself and pulled the trigger.
"Cut! Nailed it!"
Wayne pressed the playback button and carefully rewatched the entire take. Flawless.
Taking the megaphone from Luke, he climbed onto the director's chair and called out:
"Nearly three months of grueling work—through a mountain of obstacles! I honestly thought I'd get replaced at one point!"
The crew erupted in laughter. Everyone knew what he was referring to—those ridiculous controversies over racial politics early in the shoot.
"And then there's the blood. I know you all secretly call me 'The Tomato Sauce Butcher' behind my back."
More laughter.
Then his voice turned serious:
"Thank you all—for your dedication and hard work."
Compared to the chaotic mess that was his first independent film, this production had been infinitely smoother. With seasoned professionals across every department, the burden on Wayne had been significantly reduced—and it showed in the results.
What made this production truly rare—especially for the '90s—was the harmony among the cast. Whether Black or white, not a single public conflict broke out on set. That alone spoke volumes: everyone was genuinely working toward the same goal—success.
Standing tall on his director's chair, megaphone in hand, Wayne swept his gaze over the crew and broke into a grin.
"Each and every one of you helped bring this film to life."
Then he laughed and added:
"Most importantly—thanks to your hard work, we've come in under budget! Which means… we're heading back to L.A. tomorrow, and we've rented out a bar in Burbank for one hell of a wrap party!"
"YEAHHH!"
A roar of cheers erupted. The last few months may have gone smoothly, but Wayne's tight shooting schedule had exhausted everyone. Finally, it was over.
Even the extras were helping pack props. No one wanted to stay in the suburbs a second longer. Within minutes, the gear was loaded, and a convoy of vehicles was headed back to Los Angeles.
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Inside one of the cars, Wayne sat with Luke and John, giving last-minute instructions.
"Make sure the film reels are delivered straight to Warner's vault. No mistakes, not even minor ones."
Luke and John, both crammed into the backseat, nodded seriously. They understood just how critical that footage was.
"Wayne," John said, stretching his legs, "you should really consider getting a bigger car. Don't be so frugal. I know a guy at a dealership—I could get you his card?"
Now that filming was over, John finally seemed relaxed. Since Warner had wired the funds into their production account, he and Wayne had carried the heaviest burden. Wayne could lean on confidence and vision—but John had to juggle logistics, staffing, and every cent spent.
John had never vied for power on set. He was quiet, efficient, and always made sure the money flowed where it needed to go. The kind of producer who didn't draw attention—but held everything together.
"Hey, this car is new," Wayne said, slapping his forehead with a laugh. "I just didn't expect it to feel this cramped so soon. And I definitely didn't expect my security guy to be the size of a Russian bear."
From the front, Sergei casually reached back and flipped Wayne the middle finger. Nina burst into laughter.
"Wayne," Luke added, amused, "if you were this funny while directing a comedy, filming wouldn't be nearly as hard."
Wayne chuckled.
"That's what you're here for, Luke. You nailed the light-hearted scenes in this one. Honestly, some of your shots turned out fantastic."
Luke had grown quickly during the production, taking charge of many key scenes behind the camera. Though he'd temporarily set aside dreams of directing, his habit of soaking up everything he could made him invaluable. Wayne had no problem letting Luke experiment behind the lens—especially since he'd proven his talent.
"Alright then, John," Wayne said, stretching his legs, "give Nina that card. Looks like it's time for a bigger ride."
Now that they mentioned it, the cramped car really was slowing him down. As someone constantly working on the move, he needed space.
"Just a reminder, Mr.Garfield!" Luke said with mock indignation. "Your first movie pulled in nearly $30 million in profits. You're living in a literal mansion. That and you drive this tiny car? Come on!"
Then Luke froze, as if a horrible realization struck him.
"Wait—tell me you didn't buy the mansion outright. Don't tell me you blew all your money on that thing."
Wayne laughed and waved it off.
"Relax, Luke. I'm not that dumb. The place is on a mortgage—I just put down around $11 million. I've still got a good chunk of cash, and once I get a proper accountant—one I can trust—I'll invest most of it into the stock market. I've held onto it for way too long already."
Wayne knew full well that letting money sit in the bank was a rookie mistake. Inflation was always nibbling at cash. But he also understood the risks of rushing into things.
Back in his past life, he hadn't been rich, but he'd heard enough horror stories—celebrity accountants and agents scamming their clients blind. Nicolas Cage had made dozens of trash movies just to pay off debts. Even NBA legend Tim Duncan had been conned by his own accountant and agent—losing millions and a wife in the process.
Wayne wasn't in a hurry. He'd wait until he found someone truly trustworthy. Until then, he'd rather let his savings depreciate slowly than gamble on someone shady.