Chapter 87 – Vanity Fair
Under Jenna's expectant gaze, Wayne gave a calm smile and nodded.
"Yes, I was completely caught off guard by how well it did. When Jimmy first showed me the numbers, I honestly thought he was pulling my leg."
"Even now, it still feels a bit unreal. I had a hunch the film would resonate with audiences, but I never imagined the enthusiasm would be this intense."
"It's a masterpiece of the thriller genre! Congratulations." Jenna once again used her words to narrow the distance between them. "And that's not just my opinion. That was Roger Ebert's review of your work."
"Thank you—but it's not just my achievement." Wayne gave a modest shrug. "The reason this film connected with viewers is thanks to the entire cast and crew. Everyone gave it their all."
Switching gears, Jenna brought up another topic.
"We know the production had a rocky start. There was quite a stir when filming began. Did that incident impact the crew or shooting schedule?"
"No. Everyone believed in me—they knew I wasn't someone who saw people through a tinted lens. It didn't affect our progress at all. In fact, we ended up wrapping ahead of schedule."
After that response, Wayne's smile faded slightly—a subtle signal to Jenna that this was a topic he preferred to leave buried. The incident had already played out and served its purpose. There was no need to dig it up again.
Sensing the shift in mood, Jenna wisely redirected the conversation.
"I've heard that you were quite the academic standout in college. Is it true that Happy Death Day was originally your graduation project?"
"That's right—it was my first feature-length film." Wayne leaned back slightly, adjusting his posture to something more relaxed.
"I remember it was a tough process. There were a lot of bumps along the way, but somehow we pushed through and got it done."
Jenna's eyes glinted with understanding. Clearly, she had done her homework.
"That was a fantastic film. You brought it to the Sundance Film Festival, didn't you?"
Wayne caught her intent—she'd clearly reviewed his background in detail, or she wouldn't have steered the conversation this way. Still, this wasn't a sensitive topic. The film had turned out to be a success.
"Yes. I was hoping to find the right distributor at Sundance."
"But things didn't go smoothly, did they? I remember Happy Death Day was eventually picked up by 20th Century Fox." Jenna continued to guide the conversation, seeing that Wayne was open to discussing it.
The memory of that festival still stirred emotions. Wayne remembered those early days all too clearly—days when he'd come close to giving up.
"It was rough. The film was well-received at the festival, but not a single distributor was willing to pick it up. Most of them didn't even give us a chance to pitch."
He paused for a moment, taking a breath.
"I was seriously considering selling it at a loss. Honestly, I was willing to give it away for free, as long as someone would release it. To this day, I'm deeply grateful to 20th Century Fox. If it hadn't been for them, Happy Death Day might never have made it to theaters."
"Even though you're no longer working with them?"
"Yeah, we didn't partner for this project. But that's just business. It doesn't change the gratitude I feel toward them." His tone was steady—part truth, part diplomacy.
"Especially Mr. Thomson Rossman. I've never forgotten the way he helped me get started."
Jenna shook her head slightly, her tone tinged with a hint of schadenfreude.
"I bet those distributors who turned you down are kicking themselves now. I've heard Happy Death Day ended up earning you over $30 million. Is that true?"
"Absolutely. There's no reason to hide that." Wayne responded without hesitation, a hint of pride in his voice.
"I sold the international distribution rights and sequel rights as a package deal to 20th Century Fox. And just to be clear—I paid my taxes."
"Oh my god! Earning tens of millions from just one film... This is the American dream playing out right in front of us." Jenna covered her mouth in mock surprise, her expression filled with amazement.
Wayne couldn't help but think she should've gone into acting instead. Her performance was flawless—so natural it was almost convincing that she was hearing all this for the first time.
He was starting to understand how these reporters operated.
Their true skill lay not in their questions, but in the way they framed them—the words, the tone, the expressions. All designed to disarm you, draw you in, and make you say exactly what they wanted.
After asking a few more questions about his first film, Jenna suddenly shifted gears.
"Get Out made a stunning debut. It's already earned more than ten times its production cost. Beating a film starring Tom Cruise—doesn't that make you feel proud?"
There it was.
The real test. Wayne instantly recognized the trap.
Even though Warner Bros. had already coordinated with Vanity Fair, they still hoped for a few provocative sound bites. After all, if every question in the interview was safe and bland, how could a magazine like Vanity Fair attract attention?
Wayne could tell Jenna was waiting, smiling politely as she anticipated his response. After thinking for a moment, he finally replied:
"Of course. I feel incredibly honored that Get Out managed to surpass Far and Away at the box office in its opening weekend. After all, that film starred a mega-star like Tom Cruise and was directed by a veteran like Ron Howard. Knowing we beat them gives me tremendous encouragement."
Jenna blinked, briefly stunned. She hadn't expected the young director to sidestep the bait so skillfully—he didn't take the opportunity to put down Tom Cruise at all.
That morning, she'd already received word that several gossip tabloids had begun circulating unfavorable stories about Wayne—clear signs of a coordinated smear campaign. And the person most likely behind it? The superstar who'd just been publicly upstaged. Jenna had reliable sources confirming it was Cruise's own agent orchestrating the press manipulation.
She was certain Wayne, with Warner Bros. backing him, had also heard the rumors. Many of the tabloid pieces that morning subtly framed him as a "traitor" or used racially loaded slurs like "white on the outside, black on the inside."
None of this was a secret in the industry. Tom Cruise was notoriously proud, a man whose meteoric rise in Hollywood had come without any real setbacks. Ever since his breakout, he'd been a near-guaranteed box office success.
In 1983, Cruise's first major film, Risky Business, earned over $60 million and broke into the top ten of that year's box office.
By 1986, Top Gun wasn't just a hit—it crushed the charts, raking in $170 million and outgrossing Aliens and Star Trek IV to claim the number-one spot that year.
That same year, riding on the Top Gun hype, Cruise starred in The Color of Money alongside Martin Scorsese. The film was both a commercial and critical success, earning over $52 million and ranking twelfth for the year.
From then on, Cruise became a reliable box office draw and a national icon. Top Gun even became an unofficial military recruitment ad.
In early 1988, Cocktail pulled in over $80 million. Just a few months later, Rain Man, his second release that year, grossed $172 million and claimed the year's top box office slot.
It's safe to say Tom Cruise had spent his entire career side by side with success. Rarely had a film opened alongside his and managed to outshine it.
This smooth, nearly untouchable journey had also bred in him an overwhelming sense of pride and arrogance. People had long criticized his beliefs, his personal life, even his sexuality—but his enormous fan base made such critiques irrelevant. His pride had a fortress around it.
Lately, Jenna had heard more than a few murmurs about Cruise's rage after losing the weekend box office crown to a low-budget horror-thriller. He clearly wasn't happy about Get Out's success—or with its director-producer.
Her goal was simple: get the young Wayne Garfield to say something that could be spun as a jab at Cruise. That would give Vanity Fair the kind of headline they wanted.
But the young director was far more composed than she expected. Success hadn't gone to his head—he was calm, too calm for someone barely in his twenties.
Of course, Wayne fully understood what she was angling for. Had the two films' box office numbers been closer, he wouldn't have hesitated to say something sharp to grab attention.
But right now, Far and Away wasn't even putting up a fight. It was being steamrolled by Get Out. There was no reason for him to go picking fights or earning pointless enemies—not with a global icon like Cruise.
The most Cruise and his camp could do now was to plant gossip and whispers, using low-tier tabloids and petty reviewers to cast subtle shadows. Even then, they didn't dare be too explicit—only implying things through tone and framing.
That kind of mess? Wayne was more than happy to leave it to Warner Bros. to handle. After all, he was just the director.
Jenna, seeing that he wasn't going to take the bait, shifted back to safer ground.
"Do you think your film will hold onto the number one spot next weekend? There aren't any major new releases scheduled."
Wayne adjusted his posture, crossing one leg over the other with confidence.
"When it comes to the box office, I'm very optimistic. This film hasn't even come close to reaching its full potential. I believe it'll continue to dominate theaters across North America this week."
Before the release, Wayne had worried—would the story's themes feel outdated? Would his bold stylistic changes be too much for audiences? Would the increased intensity turn viewers away?
But none of that had happened.
From the moment it hit theaters, Get Out had become an unstoppable force—a runaway train barreling forward, impossible to halt. Now, all anyone could do was wait until it burned out on its own.