Chapter 69: Post-Production
The hulking Sergei sat at the dining table like a living compactor, shoveling food into his mouth as though he hadn't eaten in days. Anna Garfield, for her part, looked utterly delighted—like she'd finally found someone who truly appreciated her cooking. Every time Sergei's plate emptied, she enthusiastically heaped on another generous slab of beef.
The Russian bear's ferocious appetite could stir hunger in anyone who watched him eat. But both Ruben and Wayne had never consumed Anna's meals with such visible enthusiasm.
Watching the mountain of a man devour her food with gusto, Anna couldn't help but flash a doting, aunt-like smile. The farm had never lacked beef; what it lacked was someone who genuinely enjoyed her cooking.
While Sergei tore through his fifth helping of meat, Wayne's mind was elsewhere, turning over the company profiles Colin had brought him. According to Ruben, the safer bet was to invest in tried-and-true giants like General Electric or ExxonMobil—solid, established, and predictable.
But Wayne knew better. The future wasn't with the old guard. The future was digital. The internet would reshape the way people lived, worked, and thought. It wasn't just an industry—it was a revolution.
"You could always consult Howard," Ruben offered again, ever the voice of pragmatism. "Internet companies have shaky business models. Howard might be able to offer a more stable strategy."
"Dad," Wayne said as he swallowed his bite, lifting his juice and downing the last of it. "I'm not investing to make a killing. I just want to preserve my assets. I don't care how much it returns—as long as it's not rotting in some account losing value by the day."
Wiping his hands on a napkin, he stood up from the table. "You guys keep eating. I'm going to check the backyard."
"Oh, and Mom—get a guest room ready for Sergei."
Leaving the main house, Wayne circled around the wooden farmhouse and stepped into the backyard. The quarter horse spotted him instantly and started pawing at the ground with its hooves.
Originally, Wayne had planned to take the horse back to Los Angeles. But transporting it meant hiring handlers, finding stables… more hassle than it was worth. Better to leave it here, where the ranch hands could look after it properly.
Dogs were a different story. They were easier to care for, and these two goldens were like family. He'd raised them from puppies, shared his room with them, even cuddled them to sleep as a child.
Wayne reached out and gently stroked the horse's face. Its thick tongue flicked out and licked his palm affectionately—until it realized he hadn't brought any carrots. With a huff, it turned its head away in disdain.
"You little bastard…"
Wayne chuckled, abandoning the idea of going for a ride. Instead, he turned back to the house to get some rest.
Life on the farm was monotonous—every day was the same. For anyone used to the bustling rhythm of city life, it would be unbearable. No nightlife, no distractions, no entertainment.
But Wayne had always appreciated this peace. He thought to himself: Of all the things Ruben Garfield had done right in his life, buying this ranch was the best decision he ever made.
The two days he'd spent here had been the most relaxing he'd had in weeks. Now, reclined on a chair with his two dogs at his feet, he looked out over the endless pastures on his left and rows of farmland on his right.
Under the brilliant blue sky dotted with white clouds, he occasionally saw cowboys on horseback galloping by in the distance.
In that moment, Wayne finally understood what made Ruben so happy here.
"Check this out!" a voice called—cutting into his thoughts.
Just as Wayne was enjoying a moment of peace, old Garfield walked out onto the porch and tossed a stack of newspapers into his lap, glaring at him like he was a wanted criminal.
"I'm warning you," he said coldly. "If you dare make me the grandfather of a Black child, I'll grab the biggest caliber in my collection and put a hole in you."
Wayne flipped through the newspapers. Almost every entertainment section carried stories about him—clearly, Warner Bros.' PR team had done a stellar job.
> "Just yesterday, African-American beauty Halle Berry moved into director Garfield's Beverly Hills mansion. Hollywood's golden boy and rising starlet may be on the verge of tying the knot…"
"Wayne Garfield, the wunderkind director who pulled in over $100 million worldwide with his debut film, is reportedly dating a Black actress. This closely mirrors the themes of his new movie, Get Out…"
Tossing the tabloids aside, Wayne turned to his father.
"I've already explained this to Mom. It's a publicity stunt orchestrated by Warner. None of it's real."
Old Garfield pointed at a photo in the paper. "I've seen pictures of that girl. Even if the relationship is fake, one thing's not—she's gorgeous.
I was young once too, Wayne. Just remember everything I taught you. Be careful. Take precautions. Don't let anything… unexpected happen."
"If she ends up pregnant, you're in for a world of trouble. And don't trust Hollywood actresses too easily. For some, having a baby can be the easiest route to becoming a millionaire's wife."
Was what he said possible? Absolutely—and Wayne knew it. That's why he always took precautions. He had no intention of letting a scandal like that derail his life.
"Relax, Dad. I know what I'm doing. Once the movie finishes its run, this whole charade will be over."
Old Garfield just grunted and turned back toward the house.
The short, leisurely farm stay was over in a flash. With the break behind them, Sergei packed the two golden retrievers into the car and drove Wayne back to Los Angeles.
The very next day, Wayne, Luke, and John dove into the heart of Warner Bros.' post-production facility.
Compared to Happy Death Day, the support Warner provided this time was much more professional. Their assigned editor, Dawn Scott, was a seasoned veteran in the industry.
Wayne had initially hoped to poach Julia—the editing wizard from Castle Rock—but she'd refused to leave her studio. And Warner, of course, wouldn't allow post-production to be done outside their own house.
In filmmaking, an editor is essentially a second director. Different editors, using different techniques, can turn the exact same footage into wildly different films.
This time, Wayne's footage was relatively minimal. He had shot only what was strictly necessary, based on a meticulously pre-drawn storyboard that reflected the film he envisioned in his mind. It was a strategy designed to save both time and budget.
Before starting, the team held a quick alignment meeting in the editing suite. Wayne laid out his vision for the story, the tone, and the final structure in as much detail as possible so Dawn could shape the first rough cut accordingly.
"Alright, guys," Wayne said, standing by the console. "This is going to test our patience. We shot over 800 minutes of footage, and most of it will need to be cut. Let's get to work."
With that, Dawn stepped up to the screen and began the first rough assembly. John silently observed from behind, offering no input but paying close attention.
Editing a film requires multiple stages: rough cut, re-edit, fine cut, and final assembly. Every frame must be reviewed, selected, trimmed, color-corrected, and scored—until a tightly woven 90-minute narrative emerges from over 13 hours of raw footage.
From the first clip onward, Wayne never took his eyes off the screen. He and Luke stood behind Dawn, occasionally discussing how to utilize or reorder a specific sequence.
Each arrangement could drastically alter the tone or meaning of a scene. One wrong cut could turn the film's narrative upside down. That's why Wayne insisted on maintaining control—he knew exactly how he wanted it all to come together.
He'd seen enough horror stories in his past life. Take Kingdom of Heaven, for instance. The theatrical release and the director's cut were practically two different movies.
Ridley Scott wasn't entirely to blame for the theatrical version's flop. Though he was also the producer, Fox executives had meddled extensively in the edit, leading to a shallow story, missing exposition, and a jarring pace that confused audiences.
By contrast, the director's cut—running over 190 minutes—told a coherent and satisfying story. Would it have made more money if released in theaters? Wayne wasn't sure. But at least it made sense.
Hollywood studios are businesses. Their goal is profit. Long runtimes reduce showings per day, so most producers limit director's cuts for that reason.
Wayne understood: if he didn't want to go down the same road as Ridley Scott, he'd have to tame his artistic ego and put marketability first.
Get Out was a low-budget film, which made things a bit easier—there were no elaborate VFX sequences to handle. Still, post-production was far from easy.
"Stop, Dawn," Wayne said, interrupting. "Move Shot 16 to this position. Fade in between Shots 7 and 8. Yep, that works better."
He continued to fine-tune alongside Luke, who at one point suggested, "Wayne, what if we use some slow-motion here?"—pointing at a scene where the protagonist kills someone inside the house.
"Let's keep it as is for now," Wayne replied. "Once we see the full cut, we can decide if we need it."
Luke nodded and jotted it down. This was just the first pass—there would be at least two or three more rounds. No rush.