Simon listened to Eisner without rushing to discuss the distribution terms for When Harry Met Sally. Instead, he said, "Michael, as far as I know, Disney doesn't prioritize its animation division—there were even rumors you planned to scrap animated film production altogether. If that's the case, why not produce The Lion King for Daenerys Films?"
"Rumors are just that, Simon," Michael Eisner shook his head. "Truth is, I did consider shutting it down. But if I'd gone through with it, you wouldn't be sitting here talking to me now. Our animation department is run by Roy Disney. So, you get it?"
Simon pondered briefly, then nodded reluctantly.
Roy Disney was the nephew of founder Walt Disney, and the Disney family still held a substantial stake in the company.
After Walt's death, the quality of Disney's animated films had plummeted, with recent years relying on frequent re-releases of classics to sustain the brand.
Yet animation was the foundation of Disney's empire; the executives couldn't shut it down purely for business reasons—they had to consider the family's sentiments.
Relocating the animation department to a rundown warehouse in Glendale to cut costs might already be the family's limit. If Michael Eisner pushed to turn it into a 'job shop,' it was hard to say if the Disneys wouldn't push back.
Figuring this out, Simon had to concede: "In that case, Michael, forget about The Lion King—I'll find another way. But I'm definitely not selling you the script."
Michael Eisner replied, "Simon, you need to understand: outside Disney, you don't have other options."
"I recall Universal just released An American Tail last year—over $50 million at the box office, double what The Great Mouse Detective made."
"That one," Michael Eisner chuckled. "Including director Don Bluth, the key animators were all ex-Disney staff. And Simon, if you're thinking of having their team do The Lion King for you, that's even less likely."
Simon didn't fully grasp the implications but shrugged it off. "There'll be other ways."
Michael Eisner tapped his memo pad indifferently. "Well, good luck then."
Though Simon's scripts were hot in Hollywood, Eisner didn't press when he stood firm. Unlike live-action, animation took two to three years and cost a fortune.
Who knew what things would look like in three years?
Seeing no give on The Lion King, Simon shifted back to When Harry Met Sally. "Michael, about those two directing deals you mentioned—sorry, I can't agree. One at most; this might be the last one I sign away. After this, I'll only direct for my own company."
Michael Eisner shook his head with a laugh. "Simon, Coppola probably thought the same after The Godfather. But after The Cotton Club's flop, he had to toe the line and do Peggy Sue Got Married for TriStar."
Francis Ford Coppola's The Cotton Club three years back had been a disaster.
Infighting between director and stars, endless script rewrites—the budget ballooned from $25 million to $58 million, only to gross $25.92 million domestically. Coppola's ambitious Zoetrope Studios, born of The Godfather's success, teetered on bankruptcy.
The Cotton Club's distributor happened to be Orion Pictures.
In fact, Simon hadn't approached the still-friendly Orion this time, seeking a major instead, because Orion was in an ambitious phase and couldn't offer When Harry Met Sally a prime slot.
Flush from last year's hits, Orion had greenlit nine in-house projects, plus indies—matching the Big Seven's slate for next year.
But Orion lacked their depth.
Eyeing those mostly doomed films, Simon understood how the studio, once a awards-and-box-office darling, would spiral in the coming years.
One hit couldn't offset multiple flops.
"Maybe I'll end up like Coppola," Simon mused inwardly, smiling back. "But Michael, everyone's got to have dreams—what if they come true? So, just one."
Michael Eisner savored the words but held firm: "Simon, if that's it, Disney can't give you Easter."
Simon considered. "Michael, I could concede more on the fee—18%. How's that?"
Michael Eisner shook his head again. "I looked into the writer's last film, The Bonfire of the Vanities—Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep starring, $25 million budget, $25 million gross. Simon, I don't see this one doing better, so 18% versus 15% doesn't change much."
"Michael, I think you're missing something. The Bonfire only hit $25 million because of Nicholson and Streep. I still can't fathom the genius who paired them in a romance—they had zero chemistry on screen. With When Harry Met Sally, I believe it'll outperform The Bonfire by miles."
"Simon, that confidence doesn't mean anything."
Simon paused. "Or, Michael—how about Daenerys just buys Disney's Easter slot next year outright?"
Michael Eisner frowned. "What do you mean?"
Simon glanced at Amy, who'd been quietly observing. "Got last week's box office report?"
Amy, puzzled, pulled a sheet from her bag and handed it over.
Simon skimmed the data and passed it across. "Disney's re-releasing The Aristocats from 1970 this Easter—April 10, over 1,400 screens, $13 million so far, and it'll hold for weeks. Say total gross $16 million, 50% split, $2 million P&A—Disney nets $6 million profit. Michael, Daenerys pays $6 million flat fee; you just give us 1,000 screens next Easter. What do you say?"
Michael Eisner took the report, glancing at the figures while mulling Simon's novel pitch.
A $6 million flat fee, at 15% commission, pegged When Harry Met Sally's domestic gross at $40 million.
If it hit that, plus ancillaries, it'd be a windfall.
But he countered quickly: "Simon, it's not that simple. Beyond box office, The Aristocats re-release boosts VHS and merch sales—Disney's take exceeds $6 million."
Simon nodded. "I know that, Michael. But beyond the $6 million, Disney gets first dibs on buying out When Harry Met Sally's ancillary rights. Orion's Run Lola Run VHS and TV deals will pay off handsomely for years. Plus, you get one directing deal from me."
Michael Eisner pressed: "Two."
Simon shook his head. "Just one, Michael—if you insist on two, I'll have to pass."
Michael Eisner think for a moment. "Simon: Under $40 million domestic, Daenerys pays $6 million flat. Over, we take 18%. Agree to that, and I'll take the rest."
Amy shot Simon a worried look, fearing he'd bite.
The flat fee already shouldered enough risk below $40 million—no reason for Disney to claim more as it climbed.
To her dismay, Simon stood, extending his hand. "Deal."
Michael Eisner hadn't expected such decisiveness. Facing the smiling youth, he rose and shook, but felt like something had slipped past him.
Right.
The two deals.
He'd prioritized locking in Simon's next two directs before this.
Compared to the iffy-looking When Harry Met Sally, those seemed more valuable—after all, Simon's craft in Run Lola Run rivaled veteran directors.
Now?
Just one.
Eisner had nailed Simon's ploy: unyielding on the count, he'd diverted attention with sleight of hand.
One more deal was Simon's max; he didn't want to be slave like Spielberg.
Actually, if Columbia's buyout sans strings had been higher and the slot negotiable, Simon might've preferred them. But $3 million was miles below his floor.
For Disney, his cap had been 20% commission. Now, $6 million flat below $40 million, 18% above—it stayed under.
Anyway, if When Harry Met Sally tanked like that, so be it—Simon could weather a flop. But if it matched the original, higher fees aside, Daenerys could still recoup the $15 million budget from domestic alone.
As a major's head, Eisner wouldn't renege on a kid. But post-shake, he added: "In that case, Simon, Daenerys pays the $6 million upfront after signing."
Cash was scarce for any studio.
Typically, fees settled post-run—but $6 million early could fund another film.
But Simon shook his head flat-out. "Sorry, Michael—Daenerys is broke."
Michael Eisner eyed the sharp kid turned that turn rogue. "Simon, if I recall, you just got the Run Lola Run buyout payout—a big one."
Simon shook again. "Michael, then you know about the split dispute—I'm prepping to sue my girlfriend; that money's frozen."
Though irked by his earlier call, Amy nearly laughed at the fib.
Michael Eisner looked even more exasperated. "Simon, you realize you just slipped? You said 'girlfriend.'"
Simon corrected calmly: "Oh, sorry—ex-girlfriend."
Michael Eisner finally laughed, shaking his head. "Fine, for that lame joke."
Framework set, they hashed details.
Though he'd heard the buzz, this first meet left Eisner struck by Simon's beyond-his-years savvy; he even kept them for lunch.
Deal done with Disney, Simon dropped MGM.
Unlike the aggressive Eisner-Katzenberg Disney, MGM—bought by Vegas mogul Kirk Kerkorian in the seventies—had devolved into real estate and hotels.
Selling lots, building resorts, auctioning Golden Age props—feeling squeezed dry, Kerkorian flipped it to CNN's Ted Turner in March for $1.5 billion.
Turner's still fundraising.
But in Simon's recall, Turner never paid; he coveted MGM's half-century film library.
Turner Broadcasting was launching a basic cable net, hungry for content.
He kept the cream of the catalog; after wrangling, MGM reverted to Kerkorian.
The Vegas tycoon then milked it via capital plays for years.
In short, Hollywood's once-mightiest studio now cared least about actual films.
ko-fi.com/GodOfReader