Chapter 70: A Director's Signature Style
Once post-production began, even John, the production manager, barely left the editing suite. Meals were reduced to delivery pizza and burgers. Everyone was laser-focused.
Progress on editing wasn't exactly fast. Splicing and re-splicing scenes meant they often spent an entire day just locking down a few minutes of usable footage.
This is where Wayne's value became especially clear. He had a rare instinct for spotting the best cut points hidden among chaotic footage. Bit by bit, he helped Dawn—the editor—shape raw film into the version he had imagined from the start.
By mid-December, the four of them finally let out a collective sigh of relief. After three rounds of edits, what now lay before them was a 130-minute rough cut—almost a final version. Only the final trimming and polish remained.
Though it had taken time, it was worth every minute.
After watching the latest version together, Wayne spoke first.
"We're down to the last stage—final assembly. Thoughts? I want to hear everyone's honest take."
Truth be told, even though the film was nearly complete, without a soundtrack, the viewing experience still felt flat.
"I saw your last film," Dawn said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin while staring at the screen. "Compared to Happy Death Day, this shows huge improvement. The framing's more confident. Your control over the narrative is tighter. But…"
He paused. "The comedic bits still feel a little unpolished. The dramatic scenes are fine, but next to the later action and gore, the humor doesn't land quite as well. I'd recommend cutting some of the jokes to tighten the runtime."
Being called out like that wasn't pleasant—but Wayne knew he was right. He was still like a student with uneven grades—strong in some areas, clearly weaker in others.
"You're doing great," John offered support. "Honestly, no director your age could possibly master every cinematic technique. What matters is knowing your strengths and playing to them."
"Thanks, John."
"No need to thank me—just speaking the truth. Your strengths are clear: tight plotting, fast shooting, and intense, graphic violence.
And the best part? You write your own scripts. That alone puts you ahead of most. You understand your own material better than anyone. That synergy gives your films a natural edge."
He leaned forward. "Nobody expects a director to be perfect. Even George Lucas got slammed for weak storytelling—and that's Star Wars we're talking about."
Wayne nodded. It was true. Lucas might be the father of Star Wars, but fans still criticize him for clunky dialogue and shaky narratives. Yet none of that diminished his legacy.
Every director has their strengths. Even Hollywood legends like Spielberg, whose films span multiple genres, aren't flawless.
In fact, most successful Hollywood directors develop a distinct style. A veteran moviegoer can often guess the director just from how a film feels.
Wayne, too, was shaping his own style—each film adding a layer of experience, each project refining his vision.
Like the melting pot that is Hollywood itself, Wayne's habit of constant learning and experimentation ensured he never stopped growing as a filmmaker.
"Alright, guys," he said, clapping his hands. "Let's trim down the comedy and lock this in. Warner's waiting on the final cut for the press screening."
"Hold up, Wayne," John interjected. "Before we finish, we'll need a teaser trailer for marketing."
"Fifteen seconds? Easy."
John, who had mostly remained quiet behind them, continued to stare at the screen. It was the scene where the housemaid, played by Mace, smiles while crying in front of the male lead, Chris.
Even now, after watching it dozens of times, it still made John's scalp tingle. That uncanny mix of joy and horror left a disturbing aftertaste.
He turned to Wayne, who was deep in conversation with the editor. From the first day on set, John had sensed that this young director had something different—something powerful.
Most American horror films relied on gore—ketchup-style blood splatter—to deliver scares. But Wayne didn't follow that formula.
His more intense scenes weren't there just for shock—they served as a cathartic release for the buildup of the story, which made them land with far more impact.
John was sure: once the final cut was complete, this film would blow audiences away.
Another long day ended. Wayne stepped out of the Warner building, exhausted, and collapsed into the back seat of his car.
As the vehicle pulled away, Sergei glanced into the rearview mirror.
"Boss, the dealership called. Your new car's arrived. They wanted to know when we'll come pick it up."
Wayne didn't even open his eyes.
"Go get it tomorrow. Tell Nina to wire the final payment."
After Luke complained about the car situation that day, Wayne immediately asked Sergei to order a new one. Prioritizing rear seat space, he originally considered the Rolls-Royce Phantom series.
But after seeing pictures of the current models, he gave up on the idea. The latest Phantom didn't match the image in his mind—it looked too much like a vintage relic. In the end, based on the car dealer's recommendation, he ordered a Rolls-Royce Silver Spur Extended Edition.
Now this matched his vision—roomy, luxurious back seats, perfect for resting or doing some light work while on the road.
Back at the estate, Wayne showered first before settling onto the third-floor balcony, overlooking the garden to clear his mind.
He had a clear plan: Get Out needed to succeed beyond Warner Bros.' expectations. Only then would the studio begin to see his true value.
In Hollywood, profit is king. Continuous, growing profit is the only thing that can make a corporate giant like Warner want to keep someone close—and bind themselves to him.
His brief collaboration with 20th Century Fox had already taught him the rules of the game. One disagreement over profit margins could break an entire deal.
The solution? Ensure that every project creates substantial revenue for both parties. Let mutual benefit tie them together. That was his plan.
"Woof! Woof!"
The two golden retrievers had just returned from a walk—apparently with Hela. They smartly nosed the door open, barked twice, and dashed in excitedly.
As per his usual habit from the farm, Wayne had already prepared two cushions at the foot of his bed for them.
"I knew it was you who came back!" said Halle Berry, stepping in after them with a leash in hand. Apparently, she had taken them for the walk, not Hela.
"I took them to Beverly Park for a walk. Guess who I saw?" she asked, practically glowing with excitement.
Seeing the leash in her hand, Wayne's mind involuntarily drifted to certain little games he used to play with Naomi and didn't really catch her words.
"Hey!" Halle frowned, annoyed at being ignored.
"Huh? Who did you see?"
"Tom Cruise! I saw Tom Cruise. Turns out he lives just down the street." She looked dreamy just saying his name.
Wayne kept petting the dogs, glancing out the window, unimpressed. "You'll have your chance someday too."
Halle Berry stared at his tall frame and felt an almost irresistible urge to loop the leash around his neck. He'd completely misunderstood her excitement—she wasn't envious of Tom Cruise himself.
What she really envied was the woman beside him—his wife. That Australian actress had skyrocketed in Hollywood solely because of her relationship with Cruise. Shared agents, shared spotlight, endless resources—it was a shortcut, and Halle wanted it badly.
Ever since moving into the Garfield estate, she'd imagined herself as the lady of the house countless times. Most importantly, Wayne Garfield was a director. If this film of his turned out as well as the last, his status in the industry would rise exponentially.
One hit could be luck. Two in a row? That was something else entirely. So she wasn't in a rush. She just had to wait—wait for the movie to be released and see if he really had what it took.
Every time she saw a promotional article about Get Out, she thought of that woman, Naomi Watts. That bitch. Just a few nights in bed, and she got two starring roles in a row.
What did Naomi have that I didn't?
"How's post-production going?" Halle asked, kneeling down beside him to stroke the dogs as well.
Wayne, still gazing at the Los Angeles skyline, let out a long breath. "Very smooth. We're almost done—just need to finalize the score."
"Really? That means I'll be seeing your finished film soon!"
"Yeah. Warner's scheduling a press and critic screening in mid-January. You'll come with me."
Wayne could already see through her intentions. He felt no deep emotion toward this woman. Their relationship was a transaction, plain and simple.
Still, he considered himself a man of his word. As long as Halle didn't pull anything crazy, he had no problem keeping his earlier promise.
His next project did, in fact, have a small role that might suit her. Call it luck if you want.
Noticing the leash still in her hand, he suddenly asked:
"Halle, want to play a little game?"
"What kind of game?"
Wayne took her hand and led her into the enormous walk-in closet. Over the years, besides his own clothes, there were still a few 'props' Naomi had left behind.
He opened her old cabinet, skipped over the silk nightgowns, and pointed to a tight black leather bodysuit at the bottom.
"Put that on. Oh, and the collar too."
"Like this?"
"Don't rush. We've got time. Bring the leash."
(... Just go wild with your imagination 😅)