739. Bottles in Berlin cinema.
March 13.
A faint shock of surprise lingered from the past of a man who had frozen everything solid. Since 1997, Miramax’s greatest competitor had simply been Lux Films, which had been buying up every moderately good film and securing its distribution rights on emerging internet platforms—something few truly understood at the time.
-—They won The Boxer, The Reincarnation, Wag the Dog, and Jackie Brown.- Harvey commented, his narrowed eyes revealing a painful awareness that they were now facing a negotiation unconcerned with money, one that seemed to act without a clear goal, leaving everyone stiff and without a traceable plan in the shadows. Their skills were solid. Jim Gianopulos had eighteen films on his slate—projects, directors, actors—everything he had wanted since the beginning of last year. He was the friend of all those men. It stung. But Harvey would not be intimidated; the next battle would arrive at Cannes, where the Palme d’Or would be fought for onstage. Still, none of that mattered just yet.
-—We play as we play. I only need to stir up a few wasp nests.- Harvey replied, knowing that his chances of victory were now tied to the wallets of several major studios that would evaluate prices and buy accordingly. But that was the problem: Jim Gianopulos negotiated with results and generous payouts; profits would never quite be reached.
Lost money. Lost money.
-—Just breathe. The kid is more interested in animation. Besides, it’s only logical they’re desperate to buy; word has spread that he’s going to create an adult channel.- Bob commented patiently, watching Harvey closely. He needed calm—though after calm would come Harvey’s real strength: logistics, deals, and schemes. Despite all his flaws, Harvey was an excellent producer.
-—So you’re suggesting I focus on a different benefit?- Harvey asked.
-—It’s time we made more films. We have the resources, and together we can turn this into a walk in the park against those upstarts. Remember, even if they buy, the real business is producing cheaply and harvesting well. Making a hundred million is simple when you have skill.- Bob said knowingly, aware that even when things sound simple, ability goes far beyond the ordinary.
…
Jim Gianopulos was cultivating talent only when a man made a good film, and then he should be encouraged to make the next, and the next.
-—Walter, you’re a good director. I simply want you to keep doing what you do now: make good films. Take jobs, find partners. If you have something you believe is worth it—something you’d put your name behind—Lux Animation will give you the opportunity, no conditions.- Jim Gianopulos said, finishing his offer for a film that had moved him. General Station. Now he wanted to sign the director behind it.
-—Everything, regardless of political cost, social cost, or money.- Walter replied.
-—In fact, we value art and good works above many other things that seem to overflow in this industry.- Jim Gianopulos answered, earning a nod—perhaps a new director, a new film, and success. More success.
A director makes one film every three years; one good film every three years. That’s ten works in thirty years. He was willing to do it, and that was what mattered. Money, then, was smoke—mere expectation.
-—Well, thank you.- Walter said, looking at the page: a solid contract. A promise. A promise already poised to inspire others.
Lux Films had become a blend—on one hand, a source of labor that gave opportunities to directors who lacked them; on the other, an entity that invested staggering amounts of money, as seen with the recent signing of Paul Thomas Anderson. The industry’s perception was divided, unsure whether these values were right or wrong, left hanging in the air.
When they allowed Terry Gilliam to release Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Jim, clear about the goals, was decisive and bought all of Terry’s film licenses to create a cinematic signing. More than a director, they gained a self-taught artist who would teach future generations, make films, and give life to the next virtual platform—created solely to cause panic among those at the top when it finally emerged.
Or perhaps with Peter Weir, another of their directors, whom Billy used as a guiding star for the next generation. He bought the entire box office of Weir’s films and folded them into his cinema, strengthening the house and preserving what remained so that, if the director wanted another film, he could plan it with Lux Animation—free of constraints, take the box office and give it power. They wanted only to make cinema, and that longing echoed a golden age that now seemed forgotten.
-—I can only be grateful.- Walter commented, bewildered, as everything appeared within reach. Now it was a simple step—a life restored. A life that would help him with new projects.
-—You know… I have two projects by good friends. They’re outstanding. Could they come along?- Walter Salles asked.
Jim smiled.
-—They can, and they will, as long as they meet what we discussed earlier.- Jim replied casually. The requirements were minimal, but cinema was in motion. From Germany alone, they already had three directors, three producers, and a contract with Berlin’s film institutions to promote cinema in schools and classrooms—an entry into Germany so that German cinema could gain strength. Bavaria needed it; it needed young poets to fill the screens with creations and bring to life what Lux Films sought so deeply.
They had a presence in Japan, Germany, Korea, Canada, and soon France, Italy, and the United Kingdom. Everything depended on a disproportionate expansion sustained solely by Billy’s talent for business and offers to continue co-producing with various companies. Although annual expenses were excessive—over sixty million euros in salaries alone, plus another ten million euros in derivatives—projects arrived in pairs, totaling five hundred million euros over the next three years. Part of that came from video games beginning to sell worldwide.
Comics, television series peripherals, and, of course, the great films that shattered everything once known.
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