Chapter 78: Rallying the Marginalized
Throughout the entire screening, Wayne had been carefully observing the audience's reactions. What he saw reassured him—this film clearly resonated with viewers, without any signs of cultural disconnect.
As long as there weren't any major setbacks, he was confident: success was already waving at him from just around the corner.
"You're not attending the press conference?" John suddenly asked, remembering that as the director, Wayne also bore the responsibility of promoting the film.
"Not today," Wayne replied. "The press stage today is for Will Smith and the other actors. But starting tomorrow, I'll be joining the team for the promotional tour. If anything urgent comes up, just call me."
Now that the film was officially released, he would immediately begin traveling with the cast for a series of promotional events scheduled by Warner Bros.
As the film's director, co-producer, and someone with a tiered profit-sharing agreement, Wayne had every incentive to push for high box office returns. The better the film did in North America, the more he stood to earn.
After spending a short while in the lounge with John, Wayne stepped out to find Halle Berry. He was eager to get some rest—his next task, aside from waiting for the box office stats, was to dive headfirst into the film's marketing campaign.
"Director Garfield, don't you think the bloody scenes at the end were a bit much?"
Just as he and Halle were about to get in the car, a couple of reporters rushed over, shouting, "Won't such intense gore affect younger viewers and students negatively?"
Wayne didn't acknowledge them at first. He opened the car door for Halle, letting the Black Pearl get in before turning around to respond.
"This is a thriller, and yes, it contains graphic scenes. That's why the MPAA rated it R."
With that, he slid into the car and signaled for Sergei to drive off. These reporters were clearly from some gossip tabloid sent to stir up trouble. Mainstream media outlets wouldn't have pressed him like that—they'd at least give Warner Bros. some face.
"Are we heading back now?" Halle looked back toward the theater, her eyes filled with a mix of reluctance and envy. The press was focused on the cast interviews, and clearly, she wanted more attention.
"Yes," Wayne said. "Get a good night's sleep. You'll be joining me for the promo events starting tomorrow."
He leaned back in the plush seat and closed his eyes.
Elsewhere, another man was resting with his eyes shut—Tom Cruise. After a grand premiere the night before, Far and Away had been playing in theaters all day.
But his agent Pat had given him less-than-encouraging news: Friday's daytime attendance was low, possibly because it was a workday. Worse, even the evening showings hadn't seen much improvement.
Tom opened his eyes and checked the time. It was just past ten. He still had to wait a bit.
"Pat, how are things going?" he asked into the phone.
"All two million dollars have been spent," came Pat Kingsley's voice. "But Tom, according to Universal's in-theater survey teams, it's not making much of a difference. I suggest we hold off on further spending."
"Let's wait for the opening day box office first," Tom replied.
He hung up and sank into thought. Was it even worth pumping more money into this? What if even buying his own film's ticket sales couldn't stir genuine audience interest?
Yes, he'd started intervening the moment he sensed something was off with attendance. Buying out seats wasn't a new trick—it was pricey, but often effective.
He banked on herd mentality. If Far and Away could snag the box office crown, maybe it could still be saved.
As time ticked by, Tom was nearly asleep when Nicole Kidman came rushing in with a fax in hand.
"Tom! The preliminary box office numbers are out!" She nudged him awake and laid the paper on the coffee table.
"How is it? Read it to me—you know I hate squinting at these," Tom mumbled as he rubbed his face, pointing to the Universal fax.
"Far and Away opened in 2,538 theaters today," she began reading, "with an average showtime per screen of—"
"Just the box office, Nicole!"
"Okay!" She skipped to the bottom. "Preliminary estimates say Far and Away grossed $9.98 million on opening day."
The number was… mediocre. Lower than both Tom and Universal had hoped, especially considering Tom had pumped $2 million of his own money into inflating those numbers.
In early '90s Hollywood, theatrical runs were long, and box office growth was more gradual—not the explosive, front-loaded earnings you see thirty years later. So this number was acceptable. If Saturday and Sunday performed well, it could still meet Universal's $30 million weekend target.
"Alright, let's get some sleep," Tom said with a half-hearted sigh. Knowing the film hadn't totally bombed helped him relax a bit.
"Wait, Tom." Nicole waved the printout with a troubled expression. "There's more. Bad news."
She hesitated, then read aloud: "According to Universal, the R-rated thriller Get Out had the second-highest gross of the day—$9.75 million!"
"…What?" Tom snapped fully awake and snatched the fax from her, scanning it carefully. "How is that possible? That can't be right. I'm calling Pat again. She needs to look into this immediately!"
Nicole understood his frustration. If he hadn't bought out tickets for Far and Away, it would've lost to a low-budget horror flick.
Sure, the numbers weren't final, but box office discrepancies didn't usually exceed $100,000. The trend was clear.
She was stunned too—and more than a little bitter. The idea that her fellow Aussie, Naomi Watts, might catapult to stardom off this film made her visibly sour.
"Nicole, I found out what happened," Tom said after hanging up, massaging his temples with fatigue.
"What? How did that film pull it off?" Nicole asked, still baffled. In theory, a star-studded epic like Far and Away should have been the clear audience favorite.
"Minorities. Black and brown audiences," he muttered, tossing the phone aside and leaning back in defeat.
Warner Bros.' grassroots marketing had paid off—big time. In just one Friday, they'd managed to flip the script.
They had coordinated with theater chains in advance. On opening day, Get Out had been given extra screenings at cinemas in neighborhoods with large minority populations. Warner even supplied additional film prints to meet demand.
And the result?
Unity. They had successfully rallied the marginalized, and in doing so, turned the box office into a battlefield where the underdog was now winning.
In cities across North America, African American communities were often concentrated in inner-city districts—very different from white suburban neighborhoods. These neighborhoods, mostly impoverished and underserved, weren't known for strong participation in mainstream entertainment.
For many people of color living there, going to the movies wasn't exactly at the top of their priority list.
But this film was different.
Thanks to relentless media coverage from Warner Bros.' affiliated outlets—and an endless stream of tabloid stories spinning every angle imaginable—most Black audiences had heard about Get Out well before its release.
The film's lead actor was Black, and not just any actor—Will Smith. Though still an emerging face in Hollywood, he was already a superstar in the rap scene, having just recently won a Grammy.
For African American audiences, rap wasn't just entertainment—it was the dominant cultural force. And Will Smith had serious pull in that space. His involvement alone was enough to rally fans from across the community.
In an unusual turn, large numbers of Black viewers started heading into theaters—many for the first time in ages—to support one of their own.
But it wasn't just Will Smith.
There was also the film's director—Wayne Garfield—who happened to be dating a Black woman. That in itself was rare. Even rarer? He had chosen Black actors not just for background roles, but to lead the story. And not just one—multiple Black leads.
This bold casting decision earned Wayne considerable respect and popularity among Black audiences. To them, he wasn't just a director—he was their director.
Warner's marketing machine made sure to capitalize on that. Across minority neighborhoods, particularly those with younger demographics, screenings were increased. Young people—students, aspiring artists, fans—flooded into cinemas to see what kind of movie this was.
And that… was just the beginning.
Because once they watched it, these audiences didn't go home quietly. They returned to their communities—schools, barbershops, block parties—and began spreading the word.
Why? Because in this film, the Black protagonist didn't just survive—he fought back. He won. He killed all the white villains.
Simple, raw, and powerful. The message was cathartic for a demographic that had grown used to seeing themselves die first in horror movies. It struck an emotional chord, especially among those with deep-seated frustrations.
It wasn't just a movie anymore. It was a celebration. A rallying cry.
And in hindsight, neither Warner Bros. nor Wayne had anticipated how deeply the film's message would resonate with this audience. That reality only hit them the next day—when Wayne and the crew flew to New York to continue the film's promotional tour.
Warner held a standard fan meet-and-greet event in Times Square. Same setup as before.
But this time? The New York Police Department went into crisis mode.
Within just two hours, they had to triple the number of on-site officers. And even that wasn't enough.
Eventually, in response to desperate calls for backup, the city sent in a full riot-control SWAT unit.
Wayne stared out at the sea of people, stunned. Times Square was packed, fans screaming out names of the cast. What caught his attention most was the sheer number of Black fans.
They made up at least a third of the crowd—an overwhelming, surging wave of passion and energy. In a tightly packed area like Times Square, that much intensity was like sitting on a powder keg.
The event host, visibly nervous, rushed over to Wayne with the mic. She wanted to keep things moving and wrap up the session before things got out of hand. The NYPD officers at the barricades were already visibly struggling under the pressure.
"Director Garfield," she began, "the fans really want to know—when are you and Miss Halle Berry getting engaged?"
She discreetly motioned toward the restless crowd, urging him to give a smooth answer and defuse the tension.
Wayne took the mic with a calm smile.
"Halle and I are doing great, and we truly appreciate all the love from our fans. But for now, we've agreed to focus on our careers. We're still young—there's plenty of time ahead of us."
A safe, measured response—one they had rehearsed beforehand.
For now, it was enough.