Newmarket Films was founded in 1994 and somehow managed to stay independent while every other cool indie company got swallowed up by the big six studios. They'd had real hits: Monster did solid numbers, and Memento basically discovered Christopher Nolan. Respect.
Joey never expected Jack Hans to drag her to Newmarket first.
She also never expected Jack apparently forgot to mention who the director actually was.
The distribution manager, Neeson, popped the Juno DVD out of the player, looked at the credits, and his face did that slow-motion "oh, it's you" thing.
"Joey Grant," he said, dragging her name like it tasted bad. "Well, well. The infamous Miss Grant."
Joey smiled like she hadn't heard the shade. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Neeson."
Neeson turned to Jack, eyebrows raised. "Really, Jack? You're bringing her to me?"
Jack just leaned back, cool as ever. "A good movie's a good movie. Who cares who's behind the camera?"
Joey had never negotiated a sale before (Hughes used to handle that stuff), so she stayed quiet and let Jack cook.
Neeson squinted like the old fox he was. "Look, the movie's… interesting. Probably the freshest take I've seen on losers finding grace in a long time. The lead's voice is sharp as hell. But that's just me. I have no idea if regular people will buy tickets to a quirky indie comedy about failure."
Jack grinned. "Cut the crap, Neeson. You like it. Name your number."
Neeson's eyes slid over to Joey, sizing her up like damaged goods. "Honestly? Joey Grant is the biggest problem this movie has."
Joey interlaced her fingers under her chin and gave him a polite little smile. "I'm listening."
The fake smiles stayed plastered on both their faces.
"Your name doesn't help sell tickets," Neeson said flatly. "It hurts them. Badly. That alone means we can't pay top dollar."
Jack tapped the glass table. "Fine, but it doesn't mean you lowball us into the ground."
Neeson kept going. "Joey Grant means one-hit wonder who burned out fast. Means washed-up. If I'm Joe Public, am I dropping ten bucks to see the girl who crashed and burned? Be real. The fact you're even still in town—and somehow made something decent—is shocking. But audiences have long memories."
Joey flicked a curl off her shoulder, still smiling like she was at brunch. "Sounds like you're disappointed I didn't slink out of Hollywood with my tail between my legs. If the movie's good and word-of-mouth spreads, people will show up. Simple."
Neeson gave a thin, icy smile. "Curious, though—why haven't you quit?"
Joey's eyes went a shade colder than his. "So the whole town's betting on me disappearing? Sorry to disappoint. I'm not leaving looking like a loser."
He smirked. "So you actually think you've got a comeback in you."
Joey's gaze sharpened. "We're here to talk about the movie, Neeson. Not my five-year plan."
Neeson wasn't personally attacking her—he was just using the oldest trick in the book: beat the seller down emotionally, make them desperate, pay peanuts.
But Joey wasn't biting. She looked… weirdly unbothered. Like a 23-year-old who'd already lived a hundred years.
Neeson realized the mind games weren't landing, so he went straight to numbers. "Three-fifty. Take it or leave it."
He figured the budget was around three mil, maybe three-two. Toss her an extra fifty for her troubles and call it a day. A has-been like her should be grateful anyone was even talking to her.
Jack jumped in before Joey could open her mouth. "Jesus, Neeson, you serious? Three-fifty? Our budget was five million."
Joey almost choked. Five million? The real cost was closer to two-eight, maybe three on a bad day. Jack was straight-up bluffing.
Neeson laughed. "Come on, Jack, you think I'm new? Tell you what—I'll go to four. But taxes come out of that four. Deal?"
Jack snorted. "Yeah, no. We're done here. My number's seven. Meet it and we sign today. Otherwise we walk."
Neeson looked like he was about to flip the table. "Seven million for a tiny indie directed by the most radioactive name in town? Are you high?"
Jack's temper flared—Joey was his client now. "Radioactive? Watch your mouth. You think you're Hollywood royalty or something? Just because you share a last name with Liam Neeson doesn't make you him."
Neeson fired back. "She was literally front-page tabloid trash after Sumner Redstone's grandson dumped her ass."
"That's because the press never gave a single Asian woman a fair shake," Jack snapped. "Racism in this town isn't exactly breaking news."
"It's not racism," Neeson said. "It's the baggage. She brings negative heat."
Jack leaned forward. "Or… fallen party girl, dumped by her rich fiancé, refuses to quit, comes back with the best thing she's ever made. That's the American Dream, baby. Package it right and it's pure inspiration porn."
Neeson rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out. "Let's leave the PC crap aside for two seconds. Tell me honestly, Jack—do you think middle America gives a damn about an Asian girl's comeback story? White American Dream sells. Black American Dream is having a moment. Asian? There's what, twelve of you? No audience."
The room went dead quiet.
Then Joey spoke, calm and cutting, like a scalpel sliding between ribs.
"I didn't realize the American Dream came with a skin-color membership card. America's supposed to be the place where anybody—anybody—can make it if they work hard enough. That's why millions risk everything to get here. You're telling me regular Americans won't root for someone who looks like me? That actually goes against everything the American Dream stands for."
Neeson shrugged, unbothered. "You're right. Beautiful ideals. But real people? They don't say the quiet part out loud. They just don't buy the ticket."
Joey didn't flinch. "Then that just makes you and people who think like you the narrow-minded ones. For two hundred years the American Dream has pulled dreamers from every corner of the planet—immigrants, students, people who crossed oceans in shipping containers—because they believed that here, background and skin color don't decide your future. Effort does. That belief made America the place that produces the most success stories on Earth."
Neeson let out a loud, mocking laugh. "You really think hard work alone gets you there? That's the fairy tale they feed kids like you. In a few years you'll see—the real American Dream belongs to people born into the right zip code and the right skin. Your little comeback fantasy? Most people won't care."
Joey looked straight through him. "One day, Neeson, you're going to look back and realize how small, scared, and ignorant that sounded."
Jack had heard enough. "We're done. Let's go, Joey."
He wasn't in the mood for philosophy debates; he was here to sell a movie and make money.
He grabbed Joey's arm and headed for the door.
Before she could even ask what was next, Jack was already checking his watch. "Don't waste brain cells on that idiot. Next time someone pulls that racist crap, record it and sue his ass for discrimination. Come on—we've got another meeting."
Joey blinked, still processing. "There's another one?"
Jack flashed a wolfish grin. "You think Jack Hans rolls with just one iron in the fire? Let's go, kid."
Chapter 15
Newmarket Films was founded in 1994 and somehow managed to stay independent while every other cool indie company got swallowed up by the big six studios. They'd had real hits: Monster did solid numbers, and Memento basically discovered Christopher Nolan. Respect.
Joey never expected Jack Hans to drag her to Newmarket first.
She also never expected Jack apparently forgot to mention who the director actually was.
The distribution manager, Neeson, popped the Juno DVD out of the player, looked at the credits, and his face did that slow-motion "oh, it's you" thing.
"Joey Grant," he said, dragging her name like it tasted bad. "Well, well. The infamous Miss Grant."
Joey smiled like she hadn't heard the shade. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Neeson."
Neeson turned to Jack, eyebrows raised. "Really, Jack? You're bringing her to me?"
Jack just leaned back, cool as ever. "A good movie's a good movie. Who cares who's behind the camera?"
Joey had never negotiated a sale before (Hughes used to handle that stuff), so she stayed quiet and let Jack cook.
Neeson squinted like the old fox he was. "Look, the movie's… interesting. Probably the freshest take I've seen on losers finding grace in a long time. The lead's voice is sharp as hell. But that's just me. I have no idea if regular people will buy tickets to a quirky indie comedy about failure."
Jack grinned. "Cut the crap, Neeson. You like it. Name your number."
Neeson's eyes slid over to Joey, sizing her up like damaged goods. "Honestly? Joey Grant is the biggest problem this movie has."
Joey interlaced her fingers under her chin and gave him a polite little smile. "I'm listening."
The fake smiles stayed plastered on both their faces.
"Your name doesn't help sell tickets," Neeson said flatly. "It hurts them. Badly. That alone means we can't pay top dollar."
Jack tapped the glass table. "Fine, but it doesn't mean you lowball us into the ground."
Neeson kept going. "Joey Grant means one-hit wonder who burned out fast. Means washed-up. If I'm Joe Public, am I dropping ten bucks to see the girl who crashed and burned? Be real. The fact you're even still in town—and somehow made something decent—is shocking. But audiences have long memories."
Joey flicked a curl off her shoulder, still smiling like she was at brunch. "Sounds like you're disappointed I didn't slink out of Hollywood with my tail between my legs. If the movie's good and word-of-mouth spreads, people will show up. Simple."
Neeson gave a thin, icy smile. "Curious, though—why haven't you quit?"
Joey's eyes went a shade colder than his. "So the whole town's betting on me disappearing? Sorry to disappoint. I'm not leaving looking like a loser."
He smirked. "So you actually think you've got a comeback in you."
Joey's gaze sharpened. "We're here to talk about the movie, Neeson. Not my five-year plan."
Neeson wasn't personally attacking her—he was just using the oldest trick in the book: beat the seller down emotionally, make them desperate, pay peanuts.
But Joey wasn't biting. She looked… weirdly unbothered. Like a 23-year-old who'd already lived a hundred years.
Neeson realized the mind games weren't landing, so he went straight to numbers. "Three-fifty. Take it or leave it."
He figured the budget was around three mil, maybe three-two. Toss her an extra fifty for her troubles and call it a day. A has-been like her should be grateful anyone was even talking to her.
Jack jumped in before Joey could open her mouth. "Jesus, Neeson, you serious? Three-fifty? Our budget was five million."
Joey almost choked. Five million? The real cost was closer to two-eight, maybe three on a bad day. Jack was straight-up bluffing.
Neeson laughed. "Come on, Jack, you think I'm new? Tell you what—I'll go to four. But taxes come out of that four. Deal?"
Jack snorted. "Yeah, no. We're done here. My number's seven. Meet it and we sign today. Otherwise we walk."
Neeson looked like he was about to flip the table. "Seven million for a tiny indie directed by the most radioactive name in town? Are you high?"
Jack's temper flared—Joey was his client now. "Radioactive? Watch your mouth. You think you're Hollywood royalty or something? Just because you share a last name with Liam Neeson doesn't make you him."
Neeson fired back. "She was literally front-page tabloid trash after Sumner Redstone's grandson dumped her ass."
"That's because the press never gave a single Asian woman a fair shake," Jack snapped. "Racism in this town isn't exactly breaking news."
"It's not racism," Neeson said. "It's the baggage. She brings negative heat."
Jack leaned forward. "Or… fallen party girl, dumped by her rich fiancé, refuses to quit, comes back with the best thing she's ever made. That's the American Dream, baby. Package it right and it's pure inspiration porn."
Neeson rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out. "Let's leave the PC crap aside for two seconds. Tell me honestly, Jack—do you think middle America gives a damn about an Asian girl's comeback story? White American Dream sells. Black American Dream is having a moment. Asian? There's what, twelve of you? No audience."
The room went dead quiet.
Then Joey spoke, calm and cutting, like a scalpel sliding between ribs.
"I didn't realize the American Dream came with a skin-color membership card. America's supposed to be the place where anybody—anybody—can make it if they work hard enough. That's why millions risk everything to get here. You're telling me regular Americans won't root for someone who looks like me? That actually goes against everything the American Dream stands for."
Neeson shrugged, unbothered. "You're right. Beautiful ideals. But real people? They don't say the quiet part out loud. They just don't buy the ticket."
Joey didn't flinch. "Then that just makes you and people who think like you the narrow-minded ones. For two hundred years the American Dream has pulled dreamers from every corner of the planet—immigrants, students, people who crossed oceans in shipping containers—because they believed that here, background and skin color don't decide your future. Effort does. That belief made America the place that produces the most success stories on Earth."
Neeson let out a loud, mocking laugh. "You really think hard work alone gets you there? That's the fairy tale they feed kids like you. In a few years you'll see—the real American Dream belongs to people born into the right zip code and the right skin. Your little comeback fantasy? Most people won't care."
Joey looked straight through him. "One day, Neeson, you're going to look back and realize how small, scared, and ignorant that sounded."
Jack had heard enough. "We're done. Let's go, Joey."
He wasn't in the mood for philosophy debates; he was here to sell a movie and make money.
He grabbed Joey's arm and headed for the door.
Before she could even ask what was next, Jack was already checking his watch. "Don't waste brain cells on that idiot. Next time someone pulls that racist crap, record it and sue his ass for discrimination. Come on—we've got another meeting."
Joey blinked, still processing. "There's another one?"
Jack flashed a wolfish grin. "You think Jack Hans rolls with just one iron in the fire? Let's go, kid."
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