Chapter 87: CAA's Golden Era
"Good evening, Mr. Ovitz."
Aaron greeted Michael Ovitz warmly as they crossed paths at the lavish Panasonic-MCA gala.
Ovitz, the legendary co-founder of Creative Artists Agency (CAA), smiled and clinked glasses with him.
"Aaron, I have to say—you've had one hell of a year. Your rise has been fast."
Aaron shook his head modestly. "Fast? Compared to you, Mr. Ovitz, I'm just getting started. You've personally overseen back-to-back corporate takeovers—Sony buying Columbia, Panasonic buying MCA. You've taken CAA to a level no one else in Hollywood can touch. That's true power."
Indeed, both Ovitz and CAA were at their absolute peak. Every major studio, every A-list actor, every director worth mentioning had some tie to the agency.
Ovitz chuckled softly. "Still, it's a shame someone like you left CAA. You were one of the sharp ones."
Aaron smiled faintly. "I had no choice. Agents can't legally participate in film production—it's a hard wall I couldn't get around."
"True," Ovitz admitted, the smile fading for just a moment. He knew the frustration well.
CAA could influence everything in Hollywood—budgets, castings, even greenlights—but legally, it was still just an agency.
"We can buy stock in studios through shell companies," Ovitz said, "but antitrust laws keep us from holding more than ten percent. It's a leash—even for the biggest player in town."
Aaron nodded knowingly. They were both men who had outgrown the cages they'd built their empires in.
---
Later that night, in the lounge area, Aaron and Nicole Kidman ran into Sidney Ganis, the president of Columbia Pictures.
They chatted casually about Ghost—the studio's upcoming romantic thriller starring Kevin Costner and Demi Moore.
Costner's Dances with Wolves had just entered its third week in theaters, and as its glowing reviews spread, the box office numbers kept climbing.
That kind of word-of-mouth success was giving Columbia a serious confidence boost for Ghost.
After some small talk, Aaron smiled and leaned forward. "Sidney, ever think about going bigger next year?"
Ganis raised an eyebrow. "Bigger? You mean—forty million–plus?"
Aaron grinned. "Try sixty million. Production and marketing combined."
Ganis almost choked on his champagne. "Sixty million? Aaron, your company's only been around a year. You've produced one movie—Phone Booth. Isn't that… a little ambitious?"
Aaron shrugged casually. "After next year's releases, Dawnlight Films will have more than enough capital. We'll finance it ourselves—Columbia can handle distribution. Like what Castle Rock does."
Ganis blinked, then laughed. "Ah, so you'd take the risk, not us. In that case—sure, we'd be happy to distribute."
Aaron nodded. "On one condition—distribution fee stays below ten percent."
"That's fair," Ganis replied. "If Dawnlight keeps up its track record, that's standard."
Still, Ganis couldn't help wondering—did this young upstart really have the resources to mount a $40 million production?
---
When Ganis left, Nicole turned to Aaron with wide eyes. "A sixty-million-dollar film? Do you even have that kind of money?"
Aaron chuckled, slipping an arm around her waist as they sat on the sofa. "Not yet. But next year, we've got three films coming out. After that, we'll have plenty."
He wasn't worried in the slightest. Whether Ganis believed him or not didn't matter—once his movies hit big next year, studios would be begging to work with him.
Besides, Aaron already had his eye on Heritage Entertainment's Landmark theater chain—one of the most valuable independent exhibition networks in America.
He was just waiting for the right moment to strike.
---
Across the ballroom, another conversation was unfolding.
Robert Shaye, CEO of New Line Cinema, clinked glasses with his president, Michael Lynne.
"With Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II: The Secret of the Ooze hitting theaters next spring," Shaye said confidently, "I don't think we'll face any serious competition."
And why would they?
The first Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles film had grossed $135 million domestically and over $200 million worldwide, turning New Line into an overnight powerhouse.
Their partnership with Hong Kong's Golden Harvest had proven wildly profitable, and the sequel was set to cash in again.
"Competition?" Lynne smirked. "At this rate, we are the competition."
Across the ballroom, Michael Lynne caught sight of a familiar figure lounging casually in the corner—Aaron Anderson.
"Dawnlight Films has two films lined up for spring," he said, swirling his drink. "One's that crime drama about the Black community… the other's the thriller they bought from Orion, The Silence of the Lambs. Hard to say what to make of Anderson's choices."
"Dawnlight, huh?" replied Robert Shaye, the CEO of New Line Cinema, glancing over. "I've actually been keeping an eye on his fantasy romance—Ghost. After all that buzz around Pretty Woman, his name keeps popping up in connection with it. I'd bet he had something to do with that deal too."
He smiled knowingly. "If he backed Pretty Woman, and now he's producing Ghost, then clearly he knows what he's doing."
Lynne chuckled. "Still, summer releases are brutal. The competition's a bloodbath."
"Maybe," said Shaye, "but you can't deny the guy's talent. He's got instincts."
Lynne leaned in, lowering his voice. "You think we could bring him in somehow? Maybe partner up?"
Shaye shook his head immediately. "Not a chance. He already turned down an offer from Disney. You think he'd take ours?"
He was right—independent producers like Aaron hated being corporate puppets.
Especially someone young and successful like him—confident, ambitious, hungry. You couldn't control someone like that unless they crashed and burned first.
"Yeah," Lynne sighed. "Guys like him only learn the hard way."
"Come on," said Shaye, setting down his glass. "He's right over there. Let's at least go say hello. I'd like to see what makes this kid tick."
He adjusted his tie and started toward Aaron's table.
---
Meanwhile, the aftershocks of MGM and Universal's acquisitions were still rippling across Hollywood.
If it weren't for Rupert Murdoch's decision to take U.S. citizenship, more than half of the so-called "Big Seven" studios would already be under foreign control.
Japanese corporations—Sony, Panasonic, and a handful of conglomerates—were buying up American entertainment at a breakneck pace.
Their economic confidence seemed limitless… yet beneath it all, Japan's overinflated real-estate bubble was already trembling, seconds from collapse.
The Golden Age of Japanese Money was about to pop.
And beyond Hollywood's glitter, the world itself was inching toward chaos.
As 1991 approached, the U.S.-led coalition—composed of American, British, and French forces—was mobilizing in the Persian Gulf.
War with Iraq was only days away.
---
The next morning, in West Hollywood, Aaron Anderson was jolted awake by a distant roar of chanting.
He stirred, rubbing his eyes, and slipped out of bed where Nicole Kidman still slept peacefully under the sheets.
Pulling the curtain aside, he peered down at the street—hundreds of protestors were marching, waving anti-war placards, their voices echoing through the crisp winter air.
"Protests already?" he murmured.
Nicole padded over, draping her arms around him from behind, pressing her cheek to his back. "Another war?" she asked softly.
"Almost," Aaron said, his gaze still on the crowd below. "All that oil sitting under the sand—someone was bound to get greedy."
He turned and brushed his hand against hers, smiling faintly as her warmth melted into him.
"Anti-war movements, huh…" he mused. "You know, that might make a hell of a film."
Before Nicole could respond, Aaron turned and kissed her deeply. She laughed into the kiss, tightening her arms around him.
The morning sun spilled through the glass, the sound of distant chants fading beneath their breaths.
Outside, the world was bracing for war.
Inside, another kind of fire was quietly burning.