Chapter 5: Sex, Lies, and Videotape
With the Sundance Film Festival wrapped up, Steven Soderbergh's Sex, Lies, and Videotape—despite strong word of mouth—walked away empty-handed. No prizes, no recognition.
The blow was immediate. Distributors who had been circling the film—New Line, Savoy Pictures, Trimark—suddenly cooled. Their interest collapsed with the lack of a festival endorsement.
Steven was anxious, almost desperate.
"Damn it, Aaron, how can I not be worried?" He paced the hotel room.
"Rescher, Savoy, Trimark—none of them are willing to commit. They're spooked. Without Sundance's stamp of approval, they're afraid of sinking money into a flop."
Aaron leaned back in his chair, calm as ever.
"Relax, Steven. They're not unwilling to buy. They're just unwilling to pay what the film is actually worth."
He gave him a knowing look.
"And you don't want to sell cheap, do you?"
That was the truth. The issue wasn't that Sex, Lies, and Videotape couldn't sell—it was that the offers were insultingly low, nowhere near what Steven or Aaron believed it was worth.
By evening, another player entered the fray.
Miramax.
Its representative: Harvey Weinstein. Not yet the industry titan he would one day become—back then, just a brash indie distributor with a knack for buying low, marketing cheap "sex films" for shock value, and hustling his way into theaters.
Weinstein looked Aaron up and down, clearly surprised.
"I'd heard the film's negotiator was young. I didn't expect this young."
He smirked.
"With your looks and build, kid, it's a shame you're not in front of the camera."
Aaron smiled politely, keeping his composure. Out of respect for the profession, he shook Weinstein's hand.
"Good evening, Mr. Weinstein. I'm Aaron Anderson, representing director Steven Soderbergh."
Harvey nodded, all business now.
"Alright, let's not waste time. Straight to it: Miramax is prepared to offer $600,000 for the North American theatrical and home video rights to Sex, Lies, and Videotape. One price. Take it or leave it. And frankly, I don't think any other distributor's going higher."
Steven's eyes lit up—$600,000 was tempting. But before he could open his mouth, Aaron shot him a sharp look: don't say a word.
Aaron took his time, lighting a cigarette, drawing in the smoke before answering.
"Mr. Weinstein… we both know Sex, Lies, and Videotape is an exceptional film. You know it. I know it. Sundance's snub doesn't mean a damn thing."
Weinstein cut him off with a shake of his head.
"No. What it means is risk."
Aaron chuckled.
"Risk is opportunity. Right now, action blockbusters are thriving. But gangster dramas, family dramas—they're pulling weight too. Just look at Rain Man. It won Best Picture at the Golden Globes last month, and the box office keeps climbing. That proves there's a huge market for intimate, character-driven stories."
He leaned forward, voice steady, unwavering.
"Sex, Lies, and Videotape may not be Rain Man. But it's worth a hell of a lot more than you're offering. And let's be honest—the genius of Steven's film isn't just in 'sex' or 'lies.' It's that third element—the videotape. That innovation, that voyeuristic twist—that's the hook."
Weinstein narrowed his eyes.
"Distribution isn't about art. It's about ROI."
Aaron waved the point away.
"And we're not married to Sundance. This film is going to Cannes. CAA has producers backing it. If no distributor steps up here, we'll take it to France. Cannes will eat this film alive—and then every distributor will be in a bidding war."
That gave Weinstein pause. He'd already been drawn to the title, intrigued by the content. Seeing Soderbergh's cut only convinced him further. But Aaron's conviction—his refusal to blink—forced him to reconsider his strategy.
Weinstein leaned back, calculating.
"What price are you really thinking, kid?"
Aaron held up two fingers.
"Two million. North American rights."
Weinstein scoffed, nearly exploding from his chair.
"Impossible."
Aaron didn't flinch.
"Then at least commit to a proper release window. Minimum two hundred theaters. Nationwide."
"Out of the question," Weinstein snapped. "Soderbergh's a first-time director. His cast is nobodies. I can't make promises like that."
Aaron locked eyes with him.
"Harvey, you and I both know this film has legs. And Steven believes in it, too. Once it hits Cannes, it's going to explode. Then you won't be negotiating against me—you'll be fighting every distributor in Hollywood."
Weinstein hesitated. His tone hardened, but his face betrayed the crack.
"No Sundance indie has ever sold for a million dollars, let alone two."
Aaron smiled coolly, exhaling a stream of smoke.
"Then this will be the first."
Weinstein gritted his teeth.
"Two million is off the table. One million. Final. Theatrical and home video rights together."
Aaron shook his head.
"Impossible. For North American theatrical and home video rights, the minimum is $3.5 million."
Harvey Weinstein scoffed.
"Aaron, you're too greedy. At that rate, Sex, Lies, and Videotape will never make it into theaters."
"No, you're underestimating CAA," Aaron replied calmly. "I've already contacted Paula Wagner, and I even sent her a copy of the film. She loved it."
Now Aaron needed a big name to back him up. The CAA connection carried weight, and the endorsement of Tom Cruise's agent was enough to make a difference. Meanwhile, CAA chairman Michael Ovitz was shuttling between the U.S. and Japan, negotiating Sony's acquisition of Columbia-Samsung studios—a reminder of just how much clout the agency wielded.
"Don't forget," Aaron continued, "Cannes is the real battlefield. European filmmakers adore films like this. That's where its true value will be recognized."
Weinstein sighed.
"Eight hundred thousand for the theatrical rights—take it or leave it."
Aaron shook his head again.
"No. Let's wait until Cannes to negotiate."
He stood, poised, unshaken.
Weinstein exhaled, trying to maintain control.
"One million for North American rights."
Steven Soderbergh's face flushed red, his breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps.
Aaron crushed his cigarette in the ashtray.
"Final offer: $1.2 million. We'll fully cooperate with Miramax for the Cannes premiere. Since Steven financed the film through loans, Miramax must pay in cash within one week."
"Fine. I'll have the contract prepared immediately," Harvey said, rising from his chair.
Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned back and gave Aaron a long look.
"Aaron Anderson, you are… impressive."
Once Weinstein left, Soderbergh could no longer contain his excitement. He jumped to his feet.
"Aaron! Did I ever tell you—you're a genius?"
"$1.2 million for North American rights. Do you realize what this means?"
Soderbergh's own estimate had been around $800,000 to $900,000 for both the theatrical and home video rights. Even he hadn't had the kind of confidence in the film that Aaron displayed.
Aaron took a steadying breath.
"Miramax has just made headlines. This is now officially the most expensive independent film deal in the history of the Sundance Film Festival."
He smiled to himself. From Weinstein's reactions, Aaron realized he had still undershot the price. No wonder the man would one day become a legend in the industry—the guy had an uncanny eye for value.