737. 3D of trouble.
For months now, and from many places, the idea that Billy would accept just any project had not been a widely accepted truth. For months—indeed, for thousands of days—he had understood that out of the hundred business proposals he received in a single day, most of them were trash: trash, trash piled with ideas and management plans that left much to be desired. None of them even passed the most basic tests; they focused on purposeless companies. Some had nothing more than an idea and expected others to do all the work for them. For ambiguous reasons or sheer ignorance, they always believed they had at least a minimal concept.
-So you want me to handle the entire creation of a new idea, invest one hundred percent of my money, manage the company, and speak with the right people, while you keep fifty percent of the company and I keep the other fifty percent.- Billy commented, looking at James Cameron, who had the audacity not to meet his eyes. That alone was an affront. For anyone claiming to offer a reasonable solution, agreement would have been the only sensible response; anything else was pure foolishness.
-Well.-
-Invest the money, and I’ll manage the company.- Billy said. -By your calculations, that’s about twelve million dollars, which you can take from your own position. I’ll make sure the company grows whatever it needs to grow. I have ideas to modify the cameras, to push the timeline of 3D cinema; it might be better.-
-But how will you do it if you don’t have the directors?- Cameron asked.
-I pay them; any action director wants to make a movie.- Billy replied. He knew that in production, risking money was not something people did lightly. Still, they needed new models, and each of them carried one, shaped by careful thought.
-Pay them?- Cameron asked.
-You want to make your movie; it’s simple. Make it with these cameras, and I’ll sponsor it. They’ll run for me; the world moves on money, and money is what moves people.- Billy said.
-I have eight million.- Cameron replied.
-Now that’s a negotiation.- Billy said, taking a sphere. He wrote with simple words meant for real life; nothing was complicated. He positioned the remaining money as the main offer.
-You’ll make three films: two of yours and one of mine—one I’ll choose for you.- Billy commented. From that point on, Cameron would be at Billy’s disposal. That is, one film that would be etched into Billy’s eyes, a production for which he needed Cameron fully committed, without interest in earning thousands and thousands of dollars.
-So what I understand, now as before, is that you want me to work.- Cameron whispered.
-Without trouble, I’ll make the project worth doing. Think about it, Cameron, my interest has always been art. If you want to buy an island, I’ll do everything I can to make it happen; if you want to put Michael Jackson in it, I’ll give everything I have to make it happen. I don’t care if it’s expensive. I care that it’s good, that it’s art, that it’s captivating. If it’s Titanic, I’ll pay, and none of that is a cost to me.- Billy said.
He stepped closer to Cameron with a particular offer: nine million from Cameron, four million from Billy, and Billy would handle the management of the small camera company during the first year. In the second year, they would hire an administrator on Billy’s side, since he liked to understand those values that seemed to dance in the air.
Money was the value. Value was profit for Billy; that public offer, which seemed to live among people, was beginning to reshape itself.
-Well, I accept.- Cameron said, signing, not refusing what lay before him. He wanted it badly, with that intrinsic faith that sometimes only appears in the most dreamlike moments of expectation. Even success itself did not yet seem possible.
He signed with the pen he had known for some time, with his name, his identification number, and a fingerprint pressed onto a blank sheet of paper—what Billy liked to call the first signature. Where did his businesses come from? He did not refuse to take the time to explain a truth Billy knew and Cameron did not, for three reasons: first, he did not have the idea in mind; second, he was not a time traveler; and third, it was a market that was simply born after the rise of media. A glance into the past.
-The thing is, when you offer an extra service—something people don’t usually see—it has a definitive impact on films.- Billy said. -If you sell tickets one by one for three dollars, but now you sell tickets at five dollars, box office revenue rises with fewer people. Everyone earns more, but especially the theaters. They now receive an extra dollar for every ticket sold.-
-I see.- Cameron whispered, understanding the implications. It could compete with advertising costs, since theater chains would adapt and seek to promote those franchises. Even if he didn’t yet see the profit, if the young man in front of him saw money and knew he would earn from it, that mattered less. So Cameron could only remain silent.
...
-You usually do this every day.- Natalie asked, calmly observing how Billy had closed at least two deals—one about a film left unresolved, and another about a camera company—whispering intensely with Cameron, laying out a minimal project, almost invisible amid everything else happening.
-I’m afraid that, most of the time, this is how it goes for me. It always makes me uncomfortable to have to take these meetings.- he replied, without being captivated by what he was doing.
-But you like it.-
Her eyes were hopeful.
-In fact, I do like it; it just makes people in my position uncomfortable.- he replied simply, unsure of what else to say. Monica waited to the side; she wanted something. It wasn’t obvious, but she approached after they finished speaking.
...