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Monday, May 3rd, 1999 — New York, New York
Leaving Gail Levin's office turned into an ordeal largely because Johnny "Smalls" Carver decided this was the moment to ingratiate himself with Cameron Crowe. He was of medium build and forgettable appearance, the sort of man who seemed designed to vanish into a crowd — save for an unkempt beard with a peculiar bare patch near his cheek that drew the eye against one's will.
"You give me a call, right? I'll manage all your contacts while you're in the US. Make sure not to get fleeced by these studios, you hear?" Johnny persisted, repeating himself with minor variations as though volume and repition alone might make the advice stick.
Eventually we peeled ourselves away and climbed into Cameron's car. He was generous enough to drive us to the hotel and waited while we collected our rucksacks and checked out. I had assumed this would be the end of the day's escalation, yet Cameron was already operating at a speed I hadn't known existed. Los Angeles, it turned out, was no longer a hypothetical.
He juggled a dozen calls with different departments, switching subjects mid-sentence without losing momentum. Biggest of his concerns were the costumes for the costume test we were going to. Cameron wanted a very particular coat for Penny Lane and he cursed, thanked, and declared undying love to Betsy Heimann depending on if she could get it or not. Between those he also informed the producers that I was going to be the Young Miller — a minor role but one that was important to Cameron.
After all, William Miller was Cameron Crowe. It was going to be my second semi-autobiographical film where I was to play the main character's young version. Was I starting to get typecast? It felt like every character I played was an orphan or a stand-in for director telling their own story.
Gail came along too, already drafting notes about something I didn't know, her legal pad filling with small, precise handwriting. She also had a lot of resumes about actors in LA — casting process seemed to have no end. It was surreal to be wedged between a director and a casting director while a producer hovered on the line, all of them discussing my and movie's future as though I weren't sitting there listening. When we finally reached the airport, the relief was immediate. At last, we could place a call to Adrian without the other party present.
"They're not offering much," Adrian said flatly. "I've spoken to contacts. The initial budget was sixty million. But that penny pinching Ian Bryce is offering you minimum SAG daily rates because that's the floor he can legally stand on. Four hundred and seventy-eight dollars a day. He's not enthusiastic about a British child actor, but Cameron pushed for you."
"I don't really mind the salary," I said. "I just want to be in the film."
"Yes, and you always say that," Adrian replied. "And I always tell you that this is exactly when you have to negotiate. Two weeks on set at that rate is nothing against a sixty-million-dollar picture. They're testing how easy you'll be, this is chump change to them, as Americans say."
"Is the producer really that against it?"
"He doesn't want the paperwork. Visa, union issues, foreign contracts. To him, you're an inconvenience and will cost him some small favours. Why bother that with child actors — they're a dime a dozen. That's what he thinks."
Adrian was trying to get me riled up so I push for more salary. But I didn't really care about the money, I was lucky enough to be cast so late in the process. A task which was entirely thanks to Patrick Fugit being found much too late. I would consider it lucky if no other issue rose up so I couldn't be in the film.
I paused, then said, "Johnny told me SAG membership costs one thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. Why don't we ask them to cover that instead of pushing the rate higher?"
"That's sensible," Adrian said, suddenly speaking with more decisiveness. "Flights, hotels, per diem, visa costs, union initiation, legal fees. The usual plus some more. If they won't cover those, you'd come out poorer than if you stayed home. We'll push for that and some extra payment. I'll ask for scale plus ten, even on those extra fees they have to cover. That way, you won't be cheated out of the pay and I get my share."
"That's enough for me. I want this role. Don't push it too much."
A brief silence followed. "Careful," Adrian said lightly. "That's you learning how this works already, bossing me about. But, as you say. Don't push it. Oh, on a happier note, I've hired Sally. She'll be with you for the week when you're back in town. You sure you don't want her any longer?"
"Thank you, but no. If there's a callback, I might ask her to stay longer. But audition ends in ten days and I might not be selected. Have you got the actor?"
"There's an acting teacher I found, she lives in Newcastle but born and bred in Durham. That work for you?"
"That's brilliant," I said happily.
"Right. One more thing. There's a union complication you need to understand. SAG's Global Rule One. You have any idea about that?"
I admitted I didn't know what that was.
"You'll need to join Equity here and SAG there. SAG members can't work non-union jobs. Most children's work is non-union. Commercials especially. You're not ten until June, which complicates Equity membership. They won't take anyone younger than that."
"What does that mean?"
That bad feeling that permeated New York. It seemed the shoe drop was right here and now. The bureaucratic nonsense would put an end to me being part of a film that was so dear to me.
"It means we need an exception. You'll get Taft-Hartley waived in and when you're done filming, we'll get you to join the guild. That's required anyway, you have to join or be barred from Union projects. There's a thirty-day grace period SAG allows for new members. We can stagger it just right so it doesn't interfere with Great Expectations or Tea with Mussolini."
Relief came a second late — it seemed the bad events weren't to do with my ability to work. But there were many more places it could go wrong. Would the producer overrule Cameron on me joining up?
"That means they won't take a percentage of your earnings too, which is great. But I want to talk to you and your mother about this, so you know that from this point on, you'll be limited to only certain projects. Union projects." Adrian warned.
"Aren't Great Expectations and Tea with Mussolini union projects? I know Dame Judi Dench is in the guild, the others must be too."
"They are. Most big budget films are always union, but for child actors most work is non-union. Commercials are mostly non-union too."
"So it won't affect me?"
Adrian sighed deeply. He wanted me to go do commercials because the money was better proportionally to the time invested.
"Yes… It won't affect you, because you never want to do small things nor commercials." Adrian muttered.
"If I still need non-union work after this three films, then I don't deserve to be in the acting industry." I said with finality.
"Fine, fine, have it your way. There's more red tape," Adrian continued. "And legal consequences down the line. But it's manageable if the producers cooperate. Otherwise you won't get a visa in time. Cameron flying you to LA helps — there's an embassy there that does expedited visas for actors. Surely why he's flying you to LA. Bring me a souvenir. Put your Mum on the line, please."
I handed the phone to my mum and stared out at the runway. There was no terminal in the usual sense, just a gate, a single security officer, and a cursory glance at our identification. No queues. No bags opened. The ease of it unsettled me. But if it was always like this, I never wanted to go back to normal avenues of flight that the normal folk had to go through.
"I'm done, dwtty," Mum said, tapping my shoulder.
The car was parked beside the aircraft. Calling it small felt charitable. Compared to the transatlantic plane that had brought us to New York, this looked like a toy model scaled up just enough to be airworthy. Eight windows. That was all. Private — in the most literal sense.
"Ah, you're all here. Come, come. Let's get in our seats and get out of this dreadful — I mean, a lovely city!" Cameron said, smiling awkwardly as he rubbed his shoulder.
"We must get on if we're to take off anytime soon," Gail reminded primly, as if she hadn't slapped the director of the production she was hired for.
The door folded down into two narrow steps. I barely noticed. The interior caught me entirely off guard. It was compact, yes, but immaculately designed — tan leather seats, white panels trimmed with polished wood, and more legroom than I'd ever had on a commercial flight. Not that I needed it, mind. Though, Cameron would be comfortable in his. The space felt curated rather than constrained. I found myself smiling without meaning to.
"Welcome to Executive Jet Aviation," the air hostess said, ushering us in.
"Let the kid enjoy the flight, give him your best service," Cameron called.
I chose a seat near the wing, thinking it less desirable, until Cameron waved me forward. "You'll want the view. Trust me."
From there, the runway stretched out beneath us unobstructed. The engines hummed, restrained and confident. I spent some time merely looking out the window at the hangars around us. We began to taxi almost immediately. No waiting. No announcements to half-empty cabins. Just motion.
"Great isn't it?" Cameron said casually. "Costs about 50K a flight. Thankfully, it's all on the studio or I'd be bankrupt by now."
"Golly, that much?" Mum said in surprise.
"Probably less, I suppose — this is smaller than the last one they gave me. Sony's got their own executive jets but I suppose they've got more important people to taxi around than little old me," Cameron said, smiling.
"I'll have to be alone at the back, do I?" Gail said in complaint.
"You've done your work now, we've got all our cast."
"We're not half done yet, I've got to take care of the extras," Gail reminded.
"LA is the best place for it, find me some good people, will you? We won't bother you with your busy work if you're at the back," Cameron laughed.
Gail only scoffed but took the seat at the back.
"Mr. Crowe," the hostess handed over a very thick phone with an absolutely massive antenna.
Cameron noticed my surprise and explained, "New satellite phones — it's better than the aerofones they have in most planes. Hope you won't mind me chattering on in the flight."
The last part was directed to my Mum, who shook her head kindly.
I tried to weigh the comfort and ease of a private jet to the sum attached to it. I was negotiating for less than ten grand for my part in the film, yet here Sony was losing fifty grand so that Cameron had a good experience flying. The ridiculousness of it didn't seem to cross the producers' mind.
As we lifted off, the city fell away with alarming speed. I pressed closer to the window, ocean and water shrunk away. Surprisingly, the bad juju that had tortured me ever since I came to New York disappeared entirely as we got farther away from New York.
It didn't relax me — instead I was even more perplexed by the whole thing. What did it all mean?
While the attendant distributed menus printed on heavy white paper with golden typography, Cameron resumed calls. This time, the tone shifted. Less persuasion, more calibration. He spoke about screen time, travel days required between sets, options for reshoots.
Because it was all done over a speakerphone, I caught all the details about how this type of negotiation happened. Adrian accepted the possibility of reshoots as long as it didn't interfere with my other projects. Cameron didn't like that one bit because he wanted to do the whole film sequentially. So the idea was essentially discarded — I had a hard wrap date set, so I'd be back to shoot in Italy.
Cameron flagged the union exception, the visa timeline, the necessity of flexibility during production. Need for my mother or father to be there for visa application submission and visiting the court for Coogan account. Process that was more and more complicated by the fact I couldn't open a Coogan account without a Social Security Number, which wouldn't be granted to me before I got my visa. Needing something but that thing being a requirement of the other thing was pure madness, but such was the reality of bureaucracy. When Adrian joined the line again, final numbers were repeated with precision, concessions traded carefully. No one raised their voice. Every sentence was polite. Quite different from Cameron and Ian discussing the issue of hiring me in heated fashion.
I listened, absorbing far more than I was expected to understand. Ian needled at the idea and Cameron stood like a rock in his choice — it seemed that I wasn't the only person Ian was against and they'd butted their heads over a few too many actors already. Being privy to how the negotiation worked on both sides of the table was a novel experience.
As the jet levelled out, meal service began. I'd ended up choosing the fillet mignon because Mum warned me off eating seafood and getting sick — an idea I completely agreed with as my schedule was wholly filled. If I got sick, productions would lose money and child actors didn't get much leeway. This additional flight to LA wouldn't have been possible if Nain hadn't pushed me to speak with Julian too. I'd be a ball of stress if I didn't have Monday off.
I gave my Mum a look of betrayal as she received a lobster from the hostess. She only smiled cheekily in return.
Cameron's conference call had gone into handheld mode a few minutes back and as he received his lobster and Gail her duck confit, he finally said his goodbyes and cut out the call.
"Ah, there's nothing to compare with lobster, is there?" Cameron said happily. "Wilfred. You might want to talk with your agent to confirm. Congratulations and welcome to the cast of Untitled — or I suppose you can learn the name that we've decided on. Almost Famous."
The title reveal sounded lovely to my ears now that there wasn't any knot in my stomach to sour the whole thing. I was Young William Miller.
"Thank you. May I?" I asked for the phone and got it.
Call was short and sweet but my Mum had to discuss the logistics for much longer with Adrian. Paperwork? I was a child actor, I couldn't care less about it. Let the adults take care of it. If anyone asked, it had nothing to do with my laziness.
"Here," Cameron said, opening a leather suitcase to bring out a script.
"Is this the script for Almost Famous?"
"Indeed, I've kept it under wraps because I don't want people to know it's about rock and roll or about my life. That's why I pretended it was about a political journalist. But I'm sure media will be parroting it soon — go on, read it. Tell me what you think."
I traced the title page of the script, ALMOST FAMOUS stamped in bold lettering. I'd be paid just under ten thousand for my role — yet I would be stepping into entertainment history. Into a film that belonged to anyone who had ever wanted to chase a dream through music. That wasn't its only concern either. It peeled back the veil on the era itself — the endless drugs, the alcohol, the women — stripping away the mythology to show how hollow it could be, while still admitting how intoxicating it all felt. It dismantled the fantasy without destroying the experience.
Words couldn't quite do it justice without sinking into the whole thing, but the balance was unmistakable. Magic, paired with warning. Like the old European fairy tales — told plainly, honestly, without softening the truth, yet never losing the spark that made them endure the passage of time.
I spent half the flight reading the script, pulling faces, scrunching my nose. Not that I noticed — Mum did, and she warned me off. It was easy to see why. Cameron Crowe was watching me closely. I ducked back into the pages to escape the awkwardness, only to realise I was already at the end. I had no choice but to admit I'd finished.
Cameron's eyes were twinkling — he'd written it, and despite all his success as a director and writer, he wanted to know what I thought. Only a truly passionate creator would care about the opinion of the smallest person involved in a project. Perhaps that was why his stories always resonated so deeply with the masses.
"What do you think?" Cameron asked, leaning forward on his comfortable seat.
I hesitated. The script was unlike anything I'd seen in my revelations. It was familiar, yet completely transformed — the beginning and the ending were both dramatically different. The opening included three additional scenes with my onscreen mother and sister, and a few smaller moments highlighting that Young William Miller was far younger than his classmates. There was a stronger sense of family, and the story concluded with a heartfelt reunion. The final film retained these threads, but now included Russell, one of the main characters, chasing after Penny Lane, a groupie who cunningly sends him to William's house so he can finally finish the interview he had never given.
In this version of the script, Russell ends up giving a call to Rolling Stones to let them publish the story, saving William's journalistic credibility. However, Russell and William never meet at the end. The iconic end to the film where an old microphone is thrust towards Russell, where he answers that burning question:
"What do you love about music?"
Billy Crudup, who played Russell, responds with the line:
"To begin with… everything."
That scene wasn't there — the callback to the album that the fictional Stillwater had produced. William starting and ending in the same place, much the same person just didn't evoke the same emotions. Cameron's eyes kept begging me for an answer that I couldn't give.
"It is amazing," I said finally.
"It is?" Cameron asked questioningly. "Come on, you can give me criticism. I'm a big boy."
"I shouldn't, I'm just a new actor. I can't, I mean you've written Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Jerry Maguire…"
"So? Those scripts always changed gazillion times before they became how you know them." I didn't respond, so Cameron changed tack. "How about you tell me your favourite scene?"
That was a question I could answer easily.
"The electrical storm scene, it's perfect," I said.
The band members arguing in the plane and confessing their deepest secrets to each other. It was all exactly as it was in the final film — not even a word was changed from the script. Cameron's imagination and masterful writing of dialogue was so apparent.
"What an odd choice when we are also in a private jet, thousands of feet in the air. Oh, I should've warned your Mum about you reading the script. I should've given you a censored script, a PG version." Cameron said sheepishly.
"Censored? About what?" Mum asked — I felt sudden looming danger.
"Nothing, Mum. It's just a scene," I tried.
"What do you mean it's just a scene, come on show me," Mum said, stripping the script away from my clutch.
As she went through it, unsure where the scene was, my stomach was twisting again. There were talk of people sleeping around with each other — many a scene that was considered too mature for me. Cameron decided that was the moment to strike, so he could get an honest review.
"Now tell me, what's your least favourite scene?"
"The ending," I let out, and shut up quickly.
I messed up. He'd be kicking me out and stranding me in LA — that was what all the bad vibes were about. It was finally apparent.
"What about the ending?" Cameron asked, looking suddenly older by ten years.
Not sure what came over me but I decided to tell it true. It was better than acting like this was the worst script I'd read. It was great — my hangup was that it wasn't the final version of the film, the one that I knew about. I wasn't sure if the revelation would let me.
"I liked William and Russell together. These two must meet together so that William can finally do the interview. Otherwise, you will have disappointed audience because you spent the whole film teasing them about doing the interview," I let out, perplexed that I could speak it without revelations sewing my mouth closed.
"Huh, that's actually a good point. There's about six, seven times he tries to do the interview and it all gets postponed or interrupted. Happens in the private jet too!" Cameron said, suddenly putting on his thinking cap.
Growing bolder with my ability to reveal the truth, I continued on.
"What if you let Russell call Penny as you did in the script. But instead of her accepting Russell back, she tricks him by sending him over to William's home. Russell finds William tired from his sleepless trip…" I was surprised that revelation allowed me to keep talking.
What was happening? Was I no longer bound by the limits of revelation?
"… William plugs in the microphone again, then they do their final interview. That's the ending," I finished.
Cameron's eyes were wide as saucers. He closed his eyes and let his imagination run wild. Moments later, he was all smiles.
"Huh… Kid, that is brilliant! It is the perfect ending. Wow, why did I never think of that? It was right there! I could even use the name of the album." Cameron turned mad with laughter.
He stood up, took steps back and forth in the cabin, then snatched the script away from my mother's hand.
"Pen, please. Hostess! Get me a pen. AH. I have it here," Cameron said, diving into his suitcase.
His hands sprawled over the final page of the script, writing down new details as quick as it was given to him. Mum shot him a glare but her eyes softened as she took in the passion pouring out from Cameron. I'd helped Cameron come up with the ending of the film before it was conceived originally on his own. I was able to break the foundation of the revelation and tell a future knowledge to someone else. Just as Cameron was excited about the script, I was excited about the shackles set on me being loosened.
Turning to my mother, I opened my mouth. Suddenly all my joints were locked, my muscles engaged — drop at its maximum power had stolen control of my body. My face suddenly ashen, mouth dry, veins popping. Mum noticed it in an instant. The familiar look of worry painted her face again, the one that was so common when I'd been but a toddler. I'd seized up frequently as I tried to tell my mother about everything I was learning. Revelation barred me from revealing information yet again despite allowing me a moment before. Why was that?
"Are you okay? Bach, talk to me!" Mum said with wild worry.
Immediately, I cleared my mind of the intention to tell anything to my mother. Almost as quickly, I was back in control again.
"Sorry, I think it's the beef," I said.
"Would you like to go to the bathroom? Here, come on, get up," Mum said, lifting me up.
I went to the back, to the massive bathroom which seemed so out of place on the tiny aeroplane. Commercial jets had third the size of this bathroom, and a fraction of the luxury. I washed my face and thought over the details again. My revelation had given me details about the film — and I was allowed to tell Cameron about it. That was plain and simple breaking of the rule that I'd been living with all my life. For some reason, revelation let me tell it to Cameron Crowe.
Perhaps, I could tell stories so long as it was a suggestion? No, that wasn't it. I'd done that earlier with almost no shade of what the real final product was. I couldn't make sense of what was so different this time around.
Mum fussed over me but I waved it all away, promising her that I was completely fine.
"Mum," I said once she'd settled down.
"Yes, bach?"
"Have I told you about how in Harry Potter…" I seized up yet again.
I couldn't reveal the secret about Voldemort.
"Sorry, never mind. I guess it's not important," I finished awkwardly and looked out the window of the private jet.
Sky was blue and clouds were below us covering the world in a fluffy white shade. I could even see the ground in some places where the cloud wasn't. Flying in daylight was a much more beautiful sight. America was all squares and circles, farms were everywhere the eye could see.
I couldn't tell my Mum any details about revelation, nor could I tell her parts of future knowledge. But somehow, I was able to tell Cameron about his film.
Reason jumped out to me at once and it became suddenly obvious. I could tell the creator about their own story and their final product. For some reason, revelation would allow me to tell details so long as the original creator got to benefit from it. I just knew deep down, that was exactly the case. Revelation didn't give me any buzz or confirmed it in anyway. It just felt right to me — as I knew that fire was hot and that water was wet.
That knowledge brought me more questions than answers. It was as if my revelation knew about copyright law and wanted to provide the earnings to the real writer, the real creator. That made no sense to me — revelations providing me millions of information about the future through some mystical force, yet being powerless in front of copyright law.
I wanted to test it out, right now.
What if I could never use my knowledge or present other peoples' ideas as my own. Revelation that I'd received just four hours past was in my mind.
I hummed out the tune. Revelations didn't bar me — there was no seizing. I wasn't one for rapping, so I kept the tune going quietly. When the time came, I started to sing out the chorus.
♪ In New York
Concrete jungle where dreams are made of
There's nothin' you can't do
Now you're in New York.
These streets will make you feel brand-new
Big lights will inspire you
Let's hear it for New York, New York, New York.♪
My voice was low and quiet as was my hum. Each line I was able to sing lifted my spirit, and the next line became easier as I got more confidence.
"That's pretty," Mum said beside me. "Did you come up with it yourself?"
This time I got a completely new feeling. It was the opposite of the drop. My body wasn't being seized or locked up from being able to tell something. In fact, it was telling me that I had to speak, and I had to answer it only one way.
"Yes," I let out woodenly.
"It's good, write it down so you don't forget it," Mum suggested.
I ended up writing it down a sheet, even as Cameron was writing like he was being possessed by the devil. The implication of this finally could be understood. Revelations would allow me to plagiarise other people's work as long as I took credit — in other ways it would allow me to reveal information so that their original creators can take the credit. In both ways, I could reveal new tech, script, movies, songs, music so that they could be conceived much earlier than it was done in the revelations' timeline.
In stories, the protagonist would always be at a crossroad, having to choose between good and evil. I was being given the choice to choose my own path. To steal the work of others or to keep to the good side. If I wanted, I would take credit as the creator of best work that humanity have made in thirty years. Or I could work with the real artists, let them take credit that was their due.
Except I knew my choice the moment I absorbed these new rules — the ones I would have to live by for the rest of my life.
I wasn't standing at a crossroad.
Even if I always credited the original creators, even if I worked alongside them, I could still reap the rewards. I would always have the option.
The future stretched out before me — wide, bright, uncharted.
Thoughts of what I could do sparked in my mind, a dozen new ideas blooming all at once.
I could almost taste it, feel it.
The thrill of stepping into a future of my own making.