As expected, the next morning, newspapers were filled with headlines like "Simon Westeros's New Romance Exposed."
In the apartment at Century Tower.
Simon woke to the ringing of the phone, then spent nearly the entire time until breakfast with the receiver in hand.
Jonathan Friedman and Pat Kingsley called first thing, asking what was really going on between Simon and Sandra, and how to handle the media next. Simon's response was simply to have them be vague about it. Last night, Sandra had kissed him on her own initiative; if he immediately declared the next day that there was nothing between them, it would surely embarrass the girl terribly.
Janet called too, her tone laced with resentment as she accused him of being a playboy and a little bastard, only to veer off into the profound topic of kissing techniques. Simon patiently humored the woman's rambling, and at the end, he tentatively suggested that since they'd "broken up" two weeks ago, maybe they could start dating again—only to be rejected once more over some serious matter of pride.
Amid the barrage of calls, Dennis O'Brien, head of Orion Pictures, phoned as well.
Orion had agreed to join the production of When Harry Met Sally, and Dennis O'Brien wanted to discuss the contract details formally with Simon. This sort of thing would normally be better handled by Amy. But with Amy rushing off to New York and Simon having no particularly pressing work over the weekend, he took it on himself.
After two days of intensive negotiations, Daenerys Films and Orion Pictures signed a formal cooperation agreement on Monday. Once Amy Pascal returned from New York, she began discussing distribution deals with the major studios.
Soon after, the major studios' iron grip on Hollywood's distribution channels—and Daenerys Films' shallow roots—became glaringly apparent once more.
At Daenerys Films headquarters.
Simon and Amy sat together on the sofa in his office lounge area, quietly discussing her recent talks with the majors. The atmosphere inevitably grew heavy.
Thanks to the back-to-back successes of Run Lola Run and The Butterfly Effect, the studios had initially shown interest in investing in When Harry Met Sally.
But once Daenerys Films decided to produce it independently and only sought cooperation for North American theatrical distribution, everyone's attitude shifted dramatically.
Among the Big Seven, Paramount and Universal outright rejected Daenerys's invitation, citing full release schedules.
The remaining five.
Since Daenerys only wanted to license North American theatrical rights separately, Columbia demanded a buyout, offering just $3 million.
For a revenue-sharing deal, independent producers in Hollywood typically got about 20% of the box office from distributors. By that metric, Columbia's $3 million bid equated to estimating When Harry Met Sally's North American gross at $15 million.
A $15 million gross wasn't terrible in this era. A film with a similar $15 million budget could break even through ancillary markets.
But that figure fell far short of the box office Simon remembered for When Harry Met Sally, so he naturally couldn't agree.
The other four were open to revenue-sharing.
However, MGM and Disney both demanded 15% distribution fees—marketing costs separate, of course. And both imposed impossible conditions like requiring Simon to sign directing and writing contracts, while offering unsatisfactory screen counts and release dates.
Then there were Fox and Warner.
Fox offered an Easter slot at the end of March next year, guaranteeing at least 1,000 opening screens, with a 12% fee. But they insisted on taking the agency rights for all other North American channels.
Warner gave the best slot among the seven: November next year, Thanksgiving, with at least 1,000 opening screens and a 10% fee. Their condition was agency rights for all North American channels beyond theaters.
The biggest difference between agency distribution and a buyout was the payment timeline.
If Daenerys retained rights to other channels, once When Harry Met Sally hit theaters and if the market response was strong, they could quickly recoup funds by selling off ancillary rights, just like with Lola Rennt.
But with agency distribution, they'd have to wait for the studio to complete each channel's rollout before settling accounts piecemeal.
Take videotape distribution, the closest to theatrical release: After a film left theaters, there was a three-month window before tapes could hit shelves. Then, even quarterly settlements meant waiting another three months at least.
So, while agency might yield more profit in the end, the years-long recoupment cycle was something a small company like Daenerys couldn't afford.
In short, the terms from the five willing to cooperate weren't what Simon had hoped for.
Yet five out of the Big Seven agreeing to work with Daenerys was already a testament to the buzz from Simon's two consecutive hits. For an independent film where Simon wanted to hold onto more rights, the majors clearly wouldn't offer prime terms—like a summer slot, which was out of the question.
In truth, the situation facing When Harry Met Sally was a stark portrait of what independent producers in Hollywood routinely endured.
Though Hollywood never lacked second- and third-tier companies capable of independent distribution, the Big Seven's monopoly on channels was no empty phrase—only those in the thick of it understood how terrifying that dominance truly was.
Take New Line Cinema: Founder Robert Shaye started the company in 1967. But when they released their first fully independent production, A Nightmare on Elm Street, in 1984, they could only secure 165 opening screens—and in a dead slot like November 9.
Even the recent A Nightmare on Elm Street 3 finally expanded to over 1,000 screens, but its February 27 slot was even deader. For the majors, dates like that were basically film graveyards, where unloved projects or indies were dumped to fend for themselves.
So why didn't New Line aim for summer or Christmas?
They couldn't get in.
Even after the Paramount Decree forced the separation of theaters from studios years ago, the tangled web of interests between majors and North American exhibitors remained unbroken.
What's more, in recent years, as the Reagan administration steadily loosened media regulations, the Decree had become a dead letter.
Right now, North America had around 22,000 screens total, with the 7,500 in prime urban locations accounting for 80% of annual box office.
With the Decree defunct, companies like Warner, Universal, and Columbia had reentered exhibition in recent years, now controlling nearly half of those core 7,500 screens.
Holding direct sway over 40% of North America's box office, plus tight ties to other chains, left little room for second-tier companies to challenge the Big Seven's monopoly—fine for small skirmishes, but nothing more.
Thanks to his keen attention to Hollywood's inner workings, Simon knew all this inside out, but it still stirred a fierce reluctance in him.
Glancing again at the memo listing the majors' terms, Simon looked up at Amy Pascal. "Amy, what do you think our chances are if we handle distribution ourselves?"
Amy Pascal shook her head. "Simon, it's too risky. This is $15 million, not A Nightmare on Elm Street's $1.8 million. Domestic box office is the key benchmark for ancillary bids. We could do it ourselves, but the gross might be half what the majors could deliver—and that would gut revenues across all channels. It's not worth it."
Simon fell silent after hearing her out; he knew the logic all too well.
His gaze dropped back to the memo as he mentally weighed the options.
Columbia's $3 million buyout was out.
With Fox and Warner, even if When Harry Met Sally still hit $90 million domestically, Daenerys's theatrical share might not top $20 million.
Like Run Lola Run, Simon prized ancillary revenues most.
Exclude those two as well.
That left only MGM and Disney.
But their slots—one in early October, the other late February—were both graveyard territory.
And Simon really didn't want to sign another directing deal.
It was Thursday already.
On Monday, Simon had handed the The Lion King story outline to Jonathan. Though he hoped to work with Disney, he had to clear it with Fox first—per their old contract, after The Butterfly Effect and Final Destination, he still owed them a script.
Fox didn't do animation now, but the lawyers wrangled all day anyway, signing a formal waiver before Jonathan could pitch to Disney.
Thinking it over, Simon sighed inwardly, knowing he had to face reality.
Right now, Daenerys's only ace to lure the majors was Simon himself; to seal a deal, he'd have to sign another contract with MGM or Disney.
He circled MGM and Disney on the memo and passed it to Amy. "Keep talking to these two. March Easter slot, 1,000-screen minimum—that's our line. Everything else is negotiable."
Amy nodded; she leaned toward them too.
As for Simon signing another deal, it didn't strike her as a big deal.
Spielberg had been stuck directing for just Universal, Warner, and Paramount these years due to contracts.
After Jaws' success, Universal turned his seven-year indenture into a four-picture deal. Even now, he owed two.
So, despite publicly disliking Universal president Frank Price and writing a no-collaboration clause into contracts, Spielberg still had to work for them.
With that settled, they chatted a bit more before a knock came at the office door.
Simon called out, and Susan opened it. "Mr. Westeros, Miss Kidman's hair is dyed."
As she spoke, a tall, fair-skinned woman with newly dyed black hair stepped in—it was Nicole Kidman, just twenty at the time.
Black-haired Nicole Kidman.
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