As the Sundance Film Festival came to a close, the independent film world buzzed with disbelief. News broke that Sex, Lies, and Videotape had been acquired for $1.2 million, an unprecedented sum for an indie title. Harvey Weinstein of Miramax had signed the deal, shocking rival distributors who had passed on the film or lowballed their offers.
For Adrian Knight, the young representative at Creative Artists Agency (CAA) who orchestrated the agreement, the headlines were life-changing. He had entered Sundance as an anonymous assistant, barely out of the agency's dreaded mailroom. He left with his name whispered in industry corridors.
Inside CAA's Los Angeles headquarters, the atmosphere around Adrian shifted overnight. He was no longer just another fresh face running errands. Even Paula Wagner, one of CAA's rising stars and Tom Cruise's agent, summoned him to her office.
"You're really something, kid," Paula said, leaning back in her chair with a mixture of amusement and admiration. "You've managed to set a record at Sundance. I didn't expect the rookie from the mailroom to be the one everyone's talking about."
Adrian scratched his jaw, smiling faintly. "Honestly, Paula, I'm a little regretful. I gave in too quickly. If I had pushed harder, Harvey would've gone up to $1.5 million easily. I was impulsive."
She raised her brows, lips curling into a knowing grin. "You're complaining about making history? Adrian, no one has ever sold a Sundance film for that kind of money. Not even close. You've outplayed half the independent distribution world. Outside these walls, people are whispering that Weinstein has lost his mind."
Adrian gave a short laugh. "Harvey's not crazy. He knows what he's doing. Sex, Lies, and Videotape is going to clean up. Mark my words, this film will break twenty million at the box office. Miramax will ride it to a new level of recognition."
"Twenty million?" Paula repeated, stunned. "You really dare to dream big."
But she didn't argue further. Instead, she waved him off. "In any case, Ovitz wants to see you. Go upstairs. The chairman doesn't call for many people personally."
Adrian thanked her and left.
The upper floors of CAA had no titles on the office doors, only names. The culture was deliberate; hierarchies mattered, but power spoke for itself.
Adrian knocked on the glass door that read Michael Ovitz.
"Come in," came the clipped reply.
Michael Ovitz, at forty-six, was at the height of his power, sharp-eyed, confident, his presence filling the spacious office. He looked Adrian over like a man appraising an unexpected diamond.
"You've barely finished your trial in the mailroom," Ovitz said with a grin, "and already you've pulled off something that seasoned agents couldn't. Impressive."
Adrian gave a modest shrug. "There were lucky breaks involved."
"Don't play humble," Ovitz countered. "What you did was skill, not luck." He reached into a drawer and handed Adrian a check. "The commission from Sex, Lies, and Videotape is $120,000. Normally, with Soderbergh not being an official client yet, we'd split differently. But you handled this under our name. So, $100,000 is yours. The rest stays with the agency."
Adrian accepted the check without hesitation. "Fair enough."
Ovitz studied him. "And Soderbergh? He's signing with us?"
"He's agreed," Adrian said. "He can come in any time to make it official."
"Good. And your plans for him?"
"For now, focus on maximizing the film's distribution push," Adrian explained. "Build his reputation fast. Once the buzz is there, we can look at studio offers."
Ovitz nodded approvingly. "That's the right thinking. You're no longer just an assistant, Adrian. As of today, you're an official CAA agent. You'll personally oversee Soderbergh's signing ceremony."
For a man like Ovitz, praise was rare. Adrian felt the weight of the recognition, but he also knew this was only a stepping stone.
"When the film goes to Cannes, it'll attract more international attention," Ovitz continued. "CAA will benefit from the overseas rights as well. If you keep this up, your bonuses will make partner salaries look small."
Adrian gave a half-smile. "Then I'll just have to keep it up."
Searching for the Next Project
After leaving Ovitz's office, Adrian went down to the agency's script library. His instincts told him that low-budget romantic comedies were on the cusp of a resurgence, and he wanted to scout early.
The mailroom clerk, a nervous kid with ink-stained fingers, gestured at a towering stack of papers. "Mr. Knight, these are all the drafts of romantic comedies we've collected recently."
Adrian raised a brow. "That many?"
"We get new ones every day," the clerk explained. "They pile up."
"Alright, thanks," Adrian said, thumbing through the pile.
The clerk lingered a moment longer. "Mr. Knight", he emphasized the title deliberately, "if you need help sorting, just let me know."
It struck Adrian then: a week ago, he was just Adrian from the mailroom. Now, people addressed him as Mr. Knight. The change wasn't lost on him.
That evening, Adrian met his friend Jack Wells at a bar in West Hollywood. On the overhead TV, the news reported George H. W. Bush's inauguration as the 41st President of the United States, marking the close of Ronald Reagan's two terms.
"This Hollywood President really did plenty for this town," Adrian remarked, sipping his drink. "Reagan's tax reforms cut personal and corporate rates so deep that half the studios would've collapsed without them."
Jack grinned. "He was an actor first. Probably hated the taxes himself."
Adrian smirked. "Bush might not be as friendly, but he's still Republican. Hollywood will keep its advantages for now."
Jack turned to him with a mixture of envy and admiration. "So, you're signing Soderbergh officially? That's your first real client as an agent. Looks like you're off and running."
Adrian clapped his shoulder. "Don't worry, Jack. I'll introduce you to Soderbergh. I don't have time to babysit all his minor needs. You can handle some of that and build your own connections. The guy has a future."
Jack's eyes lit up. "You'd really do that?"
"Why not?" Adrian said casually. "You've been solid these past months. Consider it a favor between friends."
But inside, Adrian's thoughts were different. Being an agent, even a successful one, wasn't his ultimate ambition. Playing middleman for artists was like waiting tables. Even if he climbed as high as Ovitz, it wouldn't be enough. He wanted more, much more.
Later that night, Adrian returned to his Koreatown apartment. The building was cheap, filled with struggling actors, musicians, and hustlers. He'd tolerated the noise before, but with his first real payday in hand, he already planned to move out.
As he was settling into bed, pounding bass erupted through the thin walls, followed by laughter and shouting. His jaw tightened. He ran a hand through his hair and stood, irritation boiling over.
"I warned them last time," he muttered.
Opening his drawer, he retrieved a pistol, slid it into his pocket, and stormed next door. His fists hammered on the door.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
The music lowered, and an annoyed voice barked, "Who the hell is it?"
The door cracked open, revealing a haze of cigarette smoke, flashing lights, and a crowd of young men and women drinking and laughing inside.
Adrian didn't waste words. He pulled the pistol from his pocket and leveled it at the man in the doorway. The laughter inside died instantly.
"Turn it off," Adrian said coldly. "Now. People live here. They work. They sleep. Do you scumbags have any decency at all?"
The man froze, Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Behind him, the roomful of partiers stared in stunned silence.
Adrian's voice rose to a roar. "Answer me, are you going to keep quiet tonight?"
"Yes! Yes, of course!" the man stammered, sweat trickling down his temple.
"That's good," Adrian said, lowering the pistol slightly and patting the man's cheek almost mockingly. He glanced around at the pale faces inside. His tone softened, though his eyes were hard.
"Don't make me come back. Next time, I'll send you to meet God. And if you're dumb enough to look for revenge, you know where to go. Fairfax, the Jewish gangs there would love new toys."
He holstered the pistol and walked back to his apartment, slamming the door shut.
Tomorrow, he would move. He wasn't a struggling assistant anymore. He was rich now, and he wouldn't waste another night surrounded by bottom-feeders.
For Adrian Knight, this was just the beginning.