The mid-afternoon sun of Los Angeles reflected off the sleek glass exterior of the Creative Artists Agency headquarters at 9830 Wilshire Boulevard, turning the building into a shimmering monolith of ambition.
John William stood at the entrance for the second time that day, smoothing the lapels of his suit. The fabric felt cheap under his fingers—a reminder of his current financial status—but his posture suggested a man who was already wearing Armani. He checked his watch. He was exactly two minutes early. In this town, punctuality was the first sign of professionalism, especially for a newcomer.
As he walked into the cool, air-conditioned lobby, the elevator doors at the far end pinged open. Morris, his agent, practically jogged out to meet him. The difference in Morris's demeanor compared to their first meeting was night and day. Gone was the slumped, defeated posture of a man waiting to be fired. In its place was a frantic, vibrating energy—the adrenaline of a gambler who had just pushed all his chips into the center of the table and was waiting for the river card.
"John, you're here. Good," Morris said, his breath coming in short bursts as he ushered John toward the elevators. He pressed the button for the upper floors rapidly, as if doing so would make the elevator arrive faster. "Listen to me closely. I sent the script to every mid-level studio in town this morning. I didn't bother with the giants like Warner Bros, Paramount, or Universal yet—they move too slow, their legal departments take weeks just to read a logline. We don't have weeks."
The elevator doors slid shut, enclosing them in a quiet steel box. Morris lowered his voice, though they were alone.
"We have three representatives waiting for us in Conference Room B," Morris whispered, his eyes wide. "They bit, John. They actually bit. We have executives from Cannon Group, Orion Pictures, and New Line Cinema."
John nodded slowly, his face betraying no surprise. But inside his mind, a whirlwind of future knowledge began to spin, analyzing the names Morris had just dropped.
'Cannon, Orion, and New Line...' John thought, dissecting the trio of studios with the cold precision of a historian.
'Cannon Group... they are famous for their quantity-over-quality approach. They flood the market with B-grade action movies and ninja films. In my memory, they are already teetering on the edge of financial collapse. They are desperate for a hit to keep the lights on, but their management is a mess. Dealing with them would be a risk; their checks might bounce before the film is even in theaters.'
His thoughts shifted to the second name. 'Orion Pictures. Now, that is a tragedy. They are currently the darlings of the critics. They just released "Dances with Wolves" and are about to release "The Silence of the Lambs." They win Oscars. They have prestige. But they don't know how to manage money. Despite all their awards, they are bleeding cash. They will be bankrupt within a few years, their library sold off for scraps.'
Then, John's mind settled on the third player. The only one that mattered.
'New Line Cinema.'
A faint smile touched the corner of John's lips. 'The House That Freddy Built. Right now, in 1991, they are the undisputed kings of the independent market. They turned a low-budget horror movie, "A Nightmare on Elm Street," into a global pop culture phenomenon. They understand horror. They understand franchises. They understand how to squeeze a dollar until it screams.'
But John's analysis went deeper than just 1991. He possessed the memories of 2025, and he knew the ultimate fate of New Line Cinema.
'In the future, New Line won't remain independent,' John mused, the corporate hierarchy of the future mapping itself out in his brain. 'They will eventually be swallowed whole by the giant that is Warner Bros. In the 90s, Turner Broadcasting will buy them, and then Time Warner will merge with Turner. New Line will become just another cog in the massive Warner Bros machine.'
John visualized the vast, complex empire of Warner Bros in the 21st century. It was a hydra with many heads.
'Warner Bros is unique among the Big Six,' John analyzed. 'They are the masters of segmentation. They don't just dump everything under one banner. They have specific sub-companies for specific demographics. They have HBO for premium, prestige television—the absolute gold standard. They have DC Films for their superhero properties, trying to compete with Marvel. They have Warner Bros. Animation for their legacy cartoons. And they kept New Line Cinema as a distinct label specifically for horror and mid-budget comedies even after the acquisition.'
He knew that eventually, New Line would lose its autonomy—especially after the disaster of The Golden Compass years later—and become fully integrated into the Warner corporate structure. But right now? In 1991? They were still agile. They were still hungry. And most importantly, because they would eventually be acquired by Warner Bros, establishing a relationship with New Line now was a backdoor into the Warner empire later.
'If I succeed with New Line now,' John calculated, 'when the merger happens, I will already be an established asset within the Warner ecosystem. I won't just be an outsider knocking on the door; I'll be part of the furniture. This is the strategic play.'
"John? Are you listening?" Morris waved a hand in front of his face.
"I'm listening," John said, snapping back to the present. "New Line is the priority. The other two are just leverage."
"Exactly," Morris exhaled, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Just remember, let me handle the money talk initially. You're the talent. I'm the suit. That's how this works."
John didn't answer. He adjusted his cuffs again as they reached the conference room door. He wasn't just the talent. He was the only person in the building who knew the future.
He pushed the door open.
The conference room was filled with the scent of stale coffee and expensive cologne. Three men sat around the polished mahogany table, each with a copy of the Saw script in front of them. As John entered, the conversation died instantly.
Three pairs of eyes locked onto him.
Usually, when a student walked into a room with executives, there was an air of dismissal. A "prove it to me, kid" attitude. But today, the atmosphere was different. There was a quiet, assessing respect in their gaze. They looked at him not as a student, but as the architect of the nightmare lying on the table before them.
John sat down at the head of the table opposite them, his face calm and unreadable.
'A good script shines,' John mused internally, looking at the dog-eared pages of his screenplay. 'It doesn't matter if it's 2025 or 1991. Quality is absolute. These executives spend their days reading trash—derivative slasher clones, boring dramas, vanity projects. Finding a script like "Saw"—with a tight plot, a single location, a twisted ending, and a villain with a philosophy—is like finding a diamond in a sewer. They know it. They can smell the money on the pages.'
The representative from New Line, a man named Robert with thick, black-rimmed glasses and a sharp suit, spoke first. He tapped the script with his index finger.
"Mr. William," Robert said, his voice serious. "It's a... disturbing read. Very efficient. Very cruel."
"Thank you," John replied simply.
"I have a question," interjected the representative from Cannon Group. He was an older man, looking slightly disheveled, perhaps reflecting the chaotic state of his company. He flipped to page 12 of the script. "I'm looking at the character of Amanda. The survivor."
John nodded. "Go on."
"In the script, you describe her explicitly as 'strikingly attractive.' You detail her wardrobe—or lack thereof—in the reverse bear trap scene. You emphasize the sweat, the panic, the visual appeal of her distress," the Cannon rep said, narrowing his eyes. "Given the gritty, industrial tone of the rest of the film, why is it necessary for the female character to be a... hotty? Isn't that a bit exploitative?"
Morris tensed in his chair. He gripped the armrest, his knuckles turning white. This was a trap. He was terrified John would launch into a pretentious defense about "female vulnerability" or "artistic contrast," which would make the executives roll their eyes and label him difficult.
John didn't blink. He didn't even hesitate. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, invading their space just slightly.
"Because young men go to the movies," John said, his voice flat and blunt.
The room went silent.
"The core demographic for horror is males aged 18 to 25," John continued, locking eyes with the Cannon rep. "That is the statistic. That is the market. When they buy a ticket on a Friday night, they want three things. They want adrenaline. They want fear. And they want to see beautiful women. It's primal. It's biology."
He gestured to the script. "I'm not making a documentary for PBS. I'm not making a morality play for Sunday school. I am making a product. I am making a commercial film designed to extract money from the pockets of teenagers. Attractive leads help do that. If Amanda looks like a librarian, we lose 15% of the audience."
John sat back, his expression unwavering. "I am a commercial director. My job is to put butts in seats. You worry about the distribution; I'll worry about the appeal."
For a second, the room was so quiet you could hear the air conditioning humming. Morris looked like he might faint.
Then, Robert from New Line cracked a wide grin. He looked at the other two reps, a look of triumph on his face. They loved it. They were sick and tired of dealing with "artistes" who refused to compromise their vision for the market. Here was a kid who understood the game better than most veterans.
"Straightforward," Robert nodded approvingly. "We like that. We like that a lot."
Robert leaned forward, effectively cutting the other two studios out of the conversation. He asserted his dominance as the biggest fish in the pond.
"Look, John. New Line is prepared to move fast on this. We see the potential for a cult classic here. It fits our brand perfectly."
Robert opened a leather folder and slid a piece of paper across the table.
"We are willing to greenlight this production immediately. We will put up a budget of $1.3 million. That gives you a real crew, a soundstage, union actors, and post-production at our facilities."
Morris gasped softly. $1.3 million? For a horror movie? The original Halloween was made for $300,000. This was a massive budget for a debut.
"And for you," Robert continued, looking at John, "as a first-time director with no feature credits, we are offering a guaranteed salary of $50,000, plus 2% of the net points."
Morris's eyes widened to the size of saucers. $50,000. In 1991, that was enough to buy a house in some parts of the country. For a college student living in a dorm, it was a fortune. It was a safe, standard, and incredibly generous offer.
Morris looked at John, silently begging him to say yes. 'Take the deal, kid! Take the deal and let's go celebrate!'
But John remained silent. He looked at the paper, his face impassive.
Inside his mind, the calculation was running cold and fast.
'$1.3 million... It sounds like a lot,' John thought. 'But I know how this works. If I take their money, I take their shackles. With a budget that high, they will install a Line Producer who reports to them, not me. They will demand casting approval. They will demand final cut. If I want to shoot a scene a certain way, and the producer says it's too expensive, I lose. I become an employee on my own set.'
And the money?
'$50,000 is nice pocket change. But the real wealth in Hollywood isn't in the salary. It's in the ownership. Net points are a joke—"Hollywood Accounting" ensures a movie never technically makes a net profit. I need gross points. I need control. And I need the sequel rights.'
If he sold the script now for a paycheck, New Line would own Jigsaw forever. When Saw II, III, and IV made hundreds of millions, John would get nothing but a "Based on Characters Created By" credit. He would be watching others get rich off his genius.
"That is a generous offer," John said slowly, his voice cutting through Morris's internal celebration like a knife.
The smile on Robert's face faltered slightly. "Excuse me?"
"It is a very standard, very fair offer for a first-time director," John acknowledged politely. "But I'm afraid I can't accept it."
The atmosphere in the room froze. The rep from Cannon Group looked shocked. Morris looked like he was having a heart attack.
"You're rejecting $1.3 million?" Robert asked, his voice hardening. "Mr. William, don't let your ego get ahead of your resume. That is DGA scale plus a significant bonus. You won't find a better deal in this town."
"I don't want $1.3 million," John said calmly, standing up.
He walked over to the whiteboard in the corner of the room. He picked up a black marker, the smell of the ink sharp in the tense air. He turned back to look at the confused investors.
"I don't want your money to control me. And I don't want a salary that caps my potential," John said. "I have a different proposal."
He uncapped the marker.
"A proposal that saves you over a million dollars right now," John said, his eyes locking onto Robert's, "but makes us both significantly richer later. Are you willing to listen?"
Robert frowned, intrigued despite himself. The audacity of the kid was either insanity or genius. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms.
"Go ahead," Robert said, gesturing to the board. "We're listening."