Simon couldn't help feeling a little exasperated. Jonathan's question had practically become his catchphrase these days.
Heading toward the buffet table laden with food, Simon said, "Joe, you know me, if the terms are right, I'll always prioritize WMA clients."
"WMA has over three thousand clients, Simon. I'm confident we can meet any need you have."
Simon teased, "What if I want Robert Redford?"
"I've been trying to poach some talent back from CAA, so you really need to help me out this time, Simon."
Simon knew about that.
Compared to the septuagenarians and octogenarians who'd run WMA before, Jonathan was in his prime. He'd smoothly taken the presidency and even secured a board seat, and now he was ambitiously determined to revive the venerable agency.
"Joe, I don't think you need to fight over clients. The real key is making the most of the ones WMA already has. You just said it yourself, over three thousand clients. That's more than enough for any kind of film. And you know I'm not the type to insist on A-list stars."
Jonathan nodded, but pressed on. "Still, we have to bring some back."
Everyone had their own convictions. Simon didn't push further and changed tack. "Actually, the project Ira's prepping, Short Cuts would be perfect for WMA. You've read the script, right? It's a big ensemble piece with dozens of roles. With Robert Altman directing, it's guaranteed festival attention. An arthouse film with an Oscar-caliber director at the helm gives actors huge room to shine. It's the ideal training ground. You could slot in the actors WMA wants to groom over the next few years. Keep feeding them projects like this, chase some nominations, then land them one or two solid commercial hits, and most of them will be securely A- or B-list."
In his memory, the original Short Cuts had boasted a dazzling cast: Robert Downey Jr., Julianne Moore, Chris Penn, Tim Robbins, Andie MacDowell, Frances McDormand, Jennifer Jason Leigh an entire roster of future Hollywood heavyweights.
At this point in time, though, almost all of them were still second- or third-tier.
For Simon, who knew the future, tracing the path backward revealed a remarkably standard route to stardom.
Before the 1990s, the old guard had mostly exploded onto the scene by lucking into blockbuster commercial hits and riding that wave for decades: Robert Redford in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, Harrison Ford in Star Wars, Al Pacino in The Godfather. Even Robert De Niro, famed for his craft, only earned industry respect after the commercially massive Godfather Part II, which opened the door to his Oscar conquests.
After the 1990s, however, a new generation figured out a different ladder: build credibility in arthouse and indie films, then graduate to commercial stardom. The resurgence of serious drama in that decade was the main driver.
A certain chubby producer had undeniably played a huge role in that shift.
Hollywood was only just emerging from the doldrums of the '60s and '70s. Simon could clearly see this somewhat formulaic path to fame; others might have tried it, but without the finely segmented genres of the coming decade and certainly without Simon's precedent, there simply weren't many visible success stories for people to emulate.
Jonathan fell into thoughtful silence at Simon's words.
Simon's own rise had already produced examples. Sandra Bullock's breakout in Run Lola Run was the most striking.
But Jonathan thought of Pulp Fiction. Though it featured big names like De Niro and Redford, it had also catapulted relative unknowns like Samuel L. Jackson and Nicole Kidman to fame.
Simon lacked the long-established pedigree of a Robert Altman, yet his reputation rivaled the veteran's.
If Simon's films could launch careers through box-office success, then Altman's could do the same through awards and critical acclaim. Either way, the goal was increased visibility and résumé depth, more opportunities would naturally follow.
"I'll go back and study the Short Cuts script carefully. Simon, what if WMA took every role in the project? I guarantee you the best actors and the cheapest." [TL/N: Are you fucking retard?]
High salaries weren't in the cards for a film like this. Jonathan was confident most actors had the foresight to see that. If money was all they cared about, they weren't worth developing anyway.
Simon shook his head. "Joe, that's asking too much. I can't promise that."
"Fine. Then lean toward WMA as much as possible, no problem there, right?"
"Definitely."
They reached the buffet. Jonathan followed Simon's lead, filling a plate, then asked, "By the way, Simon, what about the new film Brian's prepping? You really don't like it?"
He meant Brian De Palma.
De Palma was also Jonathan's client and had helped Simon enormously in the past. Simon had stayed close to him.
After their collaboration on Basic Instinct last year, De Palma had tried branching out, partnering with Columbia on a Vietnam War drama that had become trendy lately, Casualties of War, starring Sean Penn and Michael J. Fox, budgeted at $22 million and set for release later this month on August 18.
Simon had no strong memory of Casualties of War and felt war films weren't De Palma's strength, so he wasn't optimistic.
But the project Jonathan was asking about now was something else De Palma had in prep: The Bonfire of the Vanities, adapted from the novel, a satirical urban comedy about a Wall Street master of the universe whose life unravels after a traffic incident draws tabloid scrutiny.
In Simon's memory, the film starred Tom Hanks, carried a massive budget, and bombed spectacularly.
Afterward, Hanks never again played a villain on the big screen, and De Palma, burned by the failure, grew conservative, rarely producing distinctly personal work again, reduced to supporting roles behind Tom Cruise in blockbusters like Mission: Impossible.
"I think the story lacks a real hook. And if Brian insists on doing it, he has to be extremely careful with casting. Keep the budget reasonable too, ideally under twenty million."
Jonathan suggested, "Why don't you two sit down and talk it through?"
Simon nodded. "We can. But to be honest, Daenerys can't take it on."
With De Palma's name, reasonable budget, and no catastrophic casting missteps like the original, a new version might still lose money but not disastrously, perhaps even break even or turn a small profit downstream.
If Daenerys took it, though, they'd have to give it a prime release slot and serious marketing push.
Prime windows were limited each year. Same summer slot, same twenty-million budget, same marketing spend, The Bodyguard could do a hundred million; The Bonfire of the Vanities might scrape ten. That potential opportunity cost was enormous.
"That's not an issue, Simon. After Butterfly Effect and Basic Instinct, Brian has no shortage of backers. He just wants to try different genres. You're a director, you get that impulse."
Simon nodded in understanding.
As they chatted and finished selecting food, someone finally lost patience waiting for their conversation to end and cut in.
Jonathan noticed Don Johnson and Melanie Griffith approaching and realized he'd monopolized Simon long enough to draw glares from much of the room.
He and Simon had plenty of chances to talk; no need to be greedy tonight. After a quick greeting to the couple, also WMA clients he graciously stepped aside.
Simon had met Melanie Griffith last year at Cannes. Seeing her again, the Hollywood royalty was now married to Don Johnson and very pregnant at the party.
After politely chatting with the couple, Simon casually asked about the baby's gender.
A girl.
He grew warmer, asking what name they'd chosen.
Melanie stroked her belly, radiant. "We haven't decided yet. Simon, any suggestions?"
"I'm hardly an expert," he laughed. "But for a girl… how about Dakota?"
"Dakota?" Melanie repeated.
"Yeah."
Don Johnson asked curiously, "Does it have a special meaning, Simon?"
Simon rummaged through his memory. "I think it's from a Native American language, means 'eternal smile.'"
"'Eternal smile', that's beautiful," Melanie said, turning to her husband. "What do you think, Don?"
Don nodded. "I like it."
"Then she'll be Dakota," Melanie said happily. "Dakota Johnson." She looked back at Simon. "Since you came up with it, how about you be her godfather?"
Simon shook his head. "I'll pass. I'm not prepared for that kind of responsibility. And I'm not religious."
"That's a shame," Melanie said, she hadn't really expected him to accept. She pulled her husband closer. "Miami Vice is probably wrapping next year. Don wants to transition to film. Any roles in your ten-picture slate that might suit him?"
Don Johnson was around forty, prime leading-man age with the rugged good looks and tall frame perfect for the big screen. Until now he'd built his career on television; the hit Miami Vice was the pinnacle.
Simon neither committed nor refused. "If something fits, I'll reach out."
Melanie wasn't shy. "Then let's exchange numbers."
She nudged her husband.
Don quickly produced a card and handed it over.
Simon took it, balanced his food tray in one hand, fished out his wallet with the other, pulled a small stack of his own cards, set them on the tray, and gave one to Don.
Don's card listed every public and private contact; Simon's had only his office line.
Still, the couple looked thrilled to have it.
Many guests watching saw the exchange and grew visibly eager. The moment the Johnsons turned away, others swooped in.
Simon had only tucked five or six cards in his wallet as a courtesy, they were gone in moments. His own hands now held a thick stack of others'.
After several rounds of small talk, he finally claimed an empty round table.
A blonde followed right behind Jessica Lange and Sam Shepard, sitting down across from him.
Simon recognized the sultry Rebecca De Mornay. He stayed seated, gestured to his nearly empty tray, and joked, "Only crab cakes left. Want one?"
Rebecca smiled, completely at ease. "Sure."
She leaned across the table, plucked one with her fingers, and settled opposite him, nibbling delicately and occasionally running her tongue over lips Western culture found particularly sexy. Her low-cut black gown had flashed a complete vacuum beneath when she bent forward.
Simon felt nothing. Great view, but not his type.
Rebecca chatted casually, finished the cake, set the skewer neatly on his plate, pulled a card from her clutch, and slid it over. "My card, Simon. Come find me."
Before he could react, she rose with swaying grace and drifted away.
Simon picked up the stiff plastic card with its magnetic strip, a hotel key card, complete with room number.
"Interesting choice of 'business card,' isn't it?"
A new voice, slightly husky Simon guessed smoker spoke from across the table. He looked up at a mature, rounded face that blended innocence with allure. What drew his eye most, though, was the deep V neckline straining against impressive support.
Linda Carter.
The star of the 1970s Wonder Woman series, an iconic sex symbol for a generation.
Simon kept idly rubbing the key card, smiling. "Good evening, Ms. Carter."
Linda leaned forward, arms on the table. "Mr. Westeros, aren't you going to offer me one of those… whatever they are?"
Simon nudged the tray toward her. "If you'd like."
"Very reluctant," she teased, nodding at the card instead of reaching. "Planning to pay that young lady a visit?"
Simon shook his head, smiling. "No."
"Oh?"
"I have a thing about hotels. Unless I have no choice, I don't stay in hotel rooms."
"Interesting quirk. Why?"
"Blame Hitchcock's The Shining, I guess."
Linda laughed. "Mr. Westeros, you think I don't know The Shining is Kubrick's?"
"Whoops, mixed them up." He shrugged. "What about you, Linda? What have you been up to? I loved Wonder Woman, by the way."
"You can just call me Linda," she said, then grew wistful. "I'm in town auditioning for a TV movie. Not sure it'll pan out. I'm pretty much yesterday's news."
"Which company? If you don't mind, I can put in a word."
Her eyes flickered. "How could I mind? But I won't trouble a big shot like you."
Simon smiled and let it drop.
He waved over a waiter, got fresh champagne for himself, and thoughtfully fetched one for her too.
Linda expected continued flirtation; instead he grew quiet. Unwilling to walk away just yet, she picked up the thread. "We were talking about The Shining. Do you like Stephen King?"
Simon nodded. "I've got a decent memory of most of his stuff."
"No wonder you write such great horror scripts. I saw The Sixth Sense last month, honestly, it's better than any King adaptation."
"Thanks."
Linda paused again. When Simon finished the last sandwich, she said with playful reproach, "Simon, do you always make women carry the conversation?"
He pushed the empty plate aside and smiled. "Of course not. I just tend to go a little slow around beautiful women."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Yes."
"Too bad, I'm not one of the young girls anymore."
Simon studied her openly, his gaze turning more predatory. "Actually, young girls don't really do it for me."
Linda instinctively avoided his eyes, suddenly feeling she was playing with fire. A voice inside urged her to leave, but she stayed seated.
Rumors about Simon Westeros flickered through her mind.
They seemed to be true.
But still…
She was definitely playing with fire.
Across the table, Simon stood and offered his hand like a perfect gentleman. "Linda, may I have this dance?"
Seeing him rein in whatever had flared a moment ago, Linda told herself it was only a dance. She smiled, nodded, and let him lead her to the floor.
And then…
Well into the night, past eleven Linda found herself leaving the hotel through a discreet exit to the parking garage, sliding into a car, and arriving at a hillside mansion in the Palisades.
At one point she half-believed the young man must have had one of his ghosts cast a spell on her.