Chapter 4: Sundance
Utah. Park City.
Known as a world-class ski resort, it was the perfect place to spend the day on the slopes and the evening at the festival.
But Aaron Anderson had neither the money nor the mood for skiing or hot springs.
On Park City's frigid streets, he pulled his scarf tighter and adjusted his wool coat. Breath puffed white into the icy air as his eyes scanned theater posters, searching for a title that triggered his memory.
"Come on, Bob, let's head back to the hotel and rest a bit. We'll go out again later."
"Harvey, did you call up another girl at the hotel?"
"Ha! Of course. What's a festival trip without women?"
Two rotund men brushed past Aaron, laughing loudly as they disappeared into the crowd.
---
For three days straight, Aaron had combed through nearly every theater and outdoor screening in Park City. And still—nothing familiar, nothing worth chasing.
Until that afternoon.
Standing outside a newly opened cinema with a Starbucks in hand, Aaron froze in front of a simple poster.
Sex, Lies, and Videotape.
At last, a smile tugged at his lips. Finally—before the festival closed—something real.
The film had already won the Palme d'Or at Cannes. A defining work of indie cinema, and a clear signal of Hollywood's shifting tides.
He bought a ticket immediately.
Inside, Aaron sat among the packed audience. On screen unfolded a story that stood in stark contrast to Hollywood's glossy formulas:
A middle-class couple. A visiting old friend obsessed with recording. A camcorder pointed at the fragile corners of private lives.
Infidelity. Desire. Voyeurism. Secrets. Psychological scars.
The film's title might scream "sex," but it wasn't cheap bait. Sex was only the surface. The core was intimacy—and the fractures beneath it.
With only four main characters—the husband, the wife, the husband's old friend, and the wife's younger sister—the film unfolded through dialogue more than spectacle. Yet it spoke volumes about marriage, trust, and loneliness.
The director, Steven Soderbergh, was only twenty-six. His work was raw, stripped down, and quietly daring. No wonder the indie world was buzzing.
---
Later that afternoon, in a nearby café, Aaron finally spotted him.
"Hi, I'm Aaron Anderson, agent with CAA."
He extended a hand and slipped over a business card. "Terrific film."
"Thank you."
Steven Soderbergh smiled, taking the card and motioning to a chair. "You're awfully young for an agent. That's surprising."
Aaron smirked. "And you're even younger for a director. That's the real surprise."
Soderbergh chuckled. "So tell me, Aaron—are you here to sign me?"
"Of course I'd like to." Aaron was direct. "But let's be honest. With Sex, Lies, and Videotape making waves, you're not exactly short on offers."
He leaned back, calm but deliberate. "So instead of feeding you empty promises, I'd rather show results. That's the only way to be convincing."
Soderbergh's interest sharpened. "And what exactly do you mean by that?"
Aaron's tone lowered. "Your film's been well-received, but I'm guessing no distributor has put down a real offer yet, correct?"
Soderbergh shrugged casually. "The awards aren't announced until tomorrow's closing ceremony. That's when the buyers will really start circling."
Aaron nodded.
"You're right. If a film wins, it might just catch distributors' attention and make it into theaters. But… what are we talking here? Two hundred, maybe three hundred thousand dollars? Let's be honest—Sundance hasn't exactly produced a breakout hit yet. The pool of interested distributors is still small."
Steven Soderbergh understood that perfectly well. He was young, but not naïve.
"Aaron, just say what you're thinking. Sex, Lies, and Videotape—I wrote the script in two weeks, shot it in another two, and edited it in three. Cost me $1.2 million. I know it's hard to attract buyers with no car chases, no sex scenes, none of Hollywood's usual candy."
Aaron chuckled. Young guys really can't hold their patience.
Then, slowly, confidently, he said:
"I'm telling you—I can sell Sex, Lies, and Videotape for a price you can't even imagine."
Steven raised an eyebrow.
"And why should I believe you?"
"Because I'm an agent with CAA. And consider this a test—if I can't deliver, all you've lost is a couple of days. Meanwhile, I'll be the one running interference against those hard-nosed distributors. Isn't that better than you dealing with them directly?"
He leaned back, calm as ever.
"Even if I fail, you lose nothing. Right?"
That level of composure—almost casual arrogance—left Soderbergh momentarily off balance.
"So… you're offering to do this for free?"
Aaron shot him a look.
"Come on. Would you even trust me if I were working for free? Of course not."
He leaned forward.
"My fee is ten percent. That's the standard commission we charge artists at CAA—unless you're already a big star, in which case it can dip lower. You're not signed with CAA yet, so the commission goes directly to me."
"Ah, I see."
Soderbergh exhaled, a bit relieved—but still puzzled by Aaron's supreme confidence.
"Alright. I'll agree. But the final decision is mine."
"Of course," Aaron nodded. "I'm just your representative. The film is yours."
He stood, smoothing his coat.
"Tomorrow, if anyone comes to you about distribution, just send them to me. I'll handle it. You focus on the closing ceremony."
"Good. Negotiation's never been my strength anyway," Soderbergh admitted. Having someone else to manage the talks was a relief, though he couldn't shake the worry—Aaron looked impossibly young. But a CAA agent's title wasn't something you could fake.
Aaron clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"Trust me—you'll get a surprise. Now relax and enjoy the festival. Redford and the rest will be at the ceremony. That's your stage."
"Alright. Then I'll leave it in your hands."
Soderbergh smiled faintly. His hope was pinned on winning Sundance recognition; with that in place, distribution deals would be easier to push.
As for Aaron Anderson—he wasn't ready to trust him completely. But in the end, the decision—and the final price—would still be his to make.
After all, the last thing he wanted was to see his film sold off for pennies.