Professor Anderson picked up the file bag from the coffee table and unfastened it under Wayne's expectant gaze. Inside were two documents—one thick, one thin. He pulled them out and glanced at the title page.
"Happy Death Day?" he murmured, eyebrows raised with curiosity.
He opened the thicker document—the script—and began skimming through it. After a few minutes, he nodded with quiet approval. The formatting was clean, precise, and unmistakably professional.
Wayne watched silently, knowing how much weight Anderson placed on structure. In Hollywood, a properly formatted script wasn't just a technicality—it was a signal. It told producers the writer understood the process. It told directors the scenes were shootable. It told actors their cues were clear. A good script made the entire machine run smoother.
Anderson flipped through the pages, mentally checking off the essentials. The script followed the six foundational elements of standard Hollywood formatting:
Scene Descriptions & Character Actions — concise, visual, and placed directly beneath the scene heading.
Character Names — clearly labeled, even for minor roles like "Kidnapper A" or "Robber B."
Dialogue — crisp and readable, including voice-overs, monologues, and narration.
Auxiliary Descriptions — emotional cues and physical actions like "cough," "excited," or "with a cry," placed appropriately.
Transitions — fade-ins, fade-outs, and dissolves marked only when necessary, never overused.
Scene Titles — formatted as INT./EXT. followed by location and time, without numbered scenes, since shooting order is determined later by the director.
Anderson appreciated the discipline. In big-budget productions, this format was the baseline. More refined scripts might follow a three-act structure or include thematic breakdowns, but Wayne's draft was already ahead of most student work.
He read through the script a second time, this time more slowly. When he reached the part where the protagonist was murdered—again and again—he chuckled softly.
The premise was absurd, yes. But absurdity wasn't a flaw—it was a tool. And in the hands of someone who understood tone, it could be brilliant.
The story leaned into classic Hollywood tropes, but twisted them just enough to feel fresh. Anderson could already see the "cult" potential: a dark horror comedy with a surreal edge, grounded by structure and elevated by style.
He looked up at Wayne, who hadn't moved.
"This is good," Anderson said finally. "It's twisted, but it works. You've built something that's familiar enough to sell, but strange enough to stand out."
Wayne nodded, his expression calm but focused. He wasn't chasing praise—he was chasing precision.
"This script is... interesting," Anderson said, setting the pages down with a thoughtful look. "If you shoot it exactly as written, it'll resonate with a lot of people—especially teenagers."
His tone carried genuine surprise. The work in front of him wasn't just a graduation short—it was a professional-grade screenplay. Anderson had seen dozens of student scripts over the years, but Wayne's stood apart. The structure, the tone, the clarity—it all pointed to someone with a deep reservoir of cinematic knowledge.
Wayne leaned forward slightly. "You know I've been studying noir since freshman year. I've made a few experimental shorts, but they didn't land. Most professors—except you—don't buy into my style. They think it's too niche. Too dark. Too absurd. So I wrote this one with a softer edge. Less overtly noir."
It wasn't that Wayne only wanted to make noir films. In his previous life, he'd been a projectionist—he'd seen everything. Rom-coms, war dramas, sci-fi epics. But most of it blurred together. It was only in the final years of that life that he became obsessed with noir. He devoured it—good, bad, and everything in between.
His greatest asset now was the archive of imagery burned into his mind. And that archive was steeped in shadow, ambiguity, and moral decay. Film noir wasn't just a preference—it was a lens through which he saw the world.
"There's nothing wrong with having a strong personal style," Anderson said. "But film is still mass entertainment. You have to find the balance. This script—this project—it's ambitious. It's beyond the scope of a typical graduation film. And that means it comes with real challenges."
He picked up the thinner document—the project proposal—and began flipping through it.
"Well," he said after a moment, "I have to admit, you've exceeded my expectations. This is detailed. If you add a few more elements, it could pass as a full commercial package. You've identified the selling points, the production needs, the risks. That's rare."
Wayne nodded. "I know it's unlikely anyone would invest in a rookie like me. But I didn't want to underestimate the process. I want to be ready for everything."
Anderson smiled faintly. "That's smart. Too many dreamers come to Hollywood thinking a good script is enough. It's not. Studios don't read scripts—they read plans. If you don't have a proposal, and you're a nobody asking to direct your own film, you might as well be invisible."
He paused, tapping the folder. "Thousands of scripts flood studios every year. Maybe one in ten thousand gets bought. And even then, it might sit in a vault for decades. Why would anyone throw hundreds of thousands of dollars at a script with no roadmap?"
Wayne had thought about that. Even after years of study, he sometimes fantasized about someone reading his script, loving it, and writing a check on the spot. But he knew better. That kind of miracle was fiction.
If he wanted to make a film, he needed more than vision—he needed a business plan. A casting strategy. A shooting schedule. A post-production timeline. A pitch that made investors believe.
Anderson flipped through the final pages, nodding slowly. The proposal addressed every major challenge: location logistics, casting constraints, lighting setups, contingency plans. It wasn't perfect, but it was thorough.
"The budget's modest," Anderson said, "but for a newcomer, it's still a mountain. Studios won't touch it. Private investors won't even glance. But... I might be able to help."
Wayne looked up, surprised.
"I know a few people who support first-time filmmakers," Anderson continued. "They won't fund blockbusters, but they respect preparation. And this—this is prepared."
"Professor, I've got a way to raise funds," Wayne said, his voice steady. "The plan I drafted is based on what I can realistically pull together. I won't be taking many classes this year—time's tight. I want to make sure I finish shooting before graduation."
Anderson nodded. "Your credits are already enough to graduate. What you need now is to execute. If you can bring this script to life, it'll give you a serious edge in Hollywood."
He studied Wayne for a moment. The boy had always been described by classmates as distant, even cold. But Anderson knew better. Wayne wasn't antisocial—he was focused. Every hour went into study, planning, and preparation. He was a young man who knew exactly what he wanted and was willing to work for it.
Wayne finished his coffee, packed up the script, and stood to leave.
"I've got a meeting with an agent," he said. "I'll be heading out."
"If you need anything," Anderson replied, tapping him on the shoulder, "you know where to find me."