Chapter 26: Found You
In the blink of an eye, only one day remained before the film festival would officially close. There wasn't much Wayne could do anymore—he and Luke simply focused on screening their film with utmost dedication.
By now, their screening hall had become something of a mini-spectacle at the festival. Every showing drew more than 50% attendance—a rare feat for this street, practically a spotlight in itself.
And yet, despite this success, not a single distribution company had expressed interest.
After the final screening, Luke packed up the film reels and handed the keys back to the staff. The next day, the three of them would be leaving Utah and heading back to Los Angeles.
"I just got off the phone with a screener from Harbor Entertainment," Jimmy said, standing beside Wayne with a helpless expression. "They said they're not interested in our film."
Jimmy had been running around non-stop these past few days, contacting as many companies as he could. He even visited two of them in person. But the result had always been the same—not one company was willing to give the film a chance.
"What about New Line, Jimmy?" Luke asked, walking over. "I remember one of their screeners came to our early screening."
"Same deal," Jimmy sighed. "They were actually the first I contacted. They turned us down flat—wouldn't even take a meeting."
He shook his head in frustration. It wasn't the physical exhaustion that wore him down—it was the psychological defeat. The growing sense of hopelessness was what really crushed a man.
Wayne helped Luke carry a suitcase as the group walked toward their motel. He spoke as they moved:
"Looks like Miramax is the only mid-sized company at this festival that's even remotely interested in distributing our film. I just don't get it—why is Harvey so damn sure I'll come crawling back? He definitely knows something we don't."
"It's pointless, Wayne," Jimmy said, waving his hand dismissively. "You're never going to squeeze a straight answer out of that fat bastard—unless he wants to tell you. Right now, the situation favors him, and that makes it even less likely. The only way he opens up is if you sign with him and let him bleed you dry."
"We'll head back to L.A. first. If there's still no breakthrough, I'll go studio by studio, screening the damn thing myself. I refuse to believe every single distributor in this city would turn down a profitable project. That's not how Hollywood works."
The three of them fell silent. No one knew what the real issue was. In truth, they didn't even know where the problem lay. There wasn't a single lead to follow.
---
January 28, 1991
Wayne returned to his long-neglected apartment in Los Angeles. The place hadn't changed a bit—still the same cluttered mess it had been when he left in a rush ten days earlier.
Back then, he never imagined it would all end like this. He thought the hard part was behind him. Naively, he had underestimated how tough distribution would be.
Shaking his head, he set down his luggage and pulled out a large trash bag. It was time to clean up the place and reset his space. The film not getting picked up wasn't the end of the world. Wayne believed that if he could get through this challenge, the rewards would come later.
Knock, knock.
Hearing a knock at the door, he dropped the rag he'd been using to wipe the table and walked over.
"Hey, Naomi. Didn't expect you here. I'm cleaning up—place is a disaster," he said, opening the door and stepping aside.
"I heard some noise and figured I'd check in." Naomi stepped in with a smile. "I followed your advice and enrolled in an acting workshop. It's going well—though it is a little pricey." She picked up a trash bag near the door and set it outside before plopping down on the couch.
Wayne wasn't in the best mood. But then he caught a glimpse of her long, white legs draped casually over the coffee table, and his spirits lifted just a little. She wore a soft pink long-sleeve top with a tight pencil skirt that showed off her curves in all the right places.
Her toned legs crossed elegantly on the table, and the thin material of her shirt clearly hinted at her figure underneath. It was distracting, to say the least.
Realizing his own thoughts were veering into dangerous territory, Wayne chuckled bitterly to himself. Maybe I really am under too much pressure...
Using the excuse of getting her some coffee, he took a moment to calm himself down before returning to the couch with two mugs in hand.
"Don't ask about the film," he said, cutting Naomi off before she could say anything. "I'm not in the mood. Let's just say the Utah trip didn't go the way we hoped."
"Alright, boy. Relax. You're putting too much pressure on yourself," Naomi said gently. "Is there anything in the fridge? I could cook something."
Wayne shook his head and grabbed his car keys. "Nothing at all. The fridge is empty. Want to go out to eat?"
Just as they were about to leave, the phone rang.
Wayne paused, set down his keys, and returned to the couch to pick it up.
"Hello, this is Wayne Garfield."
"Director Garfield, this is Tali from Miramax. I called your motel today, and they said you checked out this morning."
"Yes, we only rented the screening hall for nine days. Is there something I can help you with, Ms. Tali?"
"I just wanted to follow up. Have you given it more thought? Mr. Weinstein asked me to let you know that his offer still stands: $800,000 for full rights to your film."
Wayne motioned for Naomi to sit down—it looked like this call would take a while.
Speaking into the receiver, he replied firmly:
"I'm open to a buyout deal, but Miramax needs to sign a formal agreement with Garfield Studios."
Wayne continued pitching his admittedly shaky idea:
"Let's agree on a benchmark figure—if Happy Death Day makes more than that at the North American box office, then as the director and producer, I should be entitled to a share of the profits."
There was a pause on the other end of the line, followed by a new voice—Harvey Weinstein himself:
"I can give you a share of the profits, Director Garfield," he said, sounding unusually generous. Then, as expected, his true colors showed. "But only the percentage mandated by the Directors Guild."
In Hollywood, the Directors Guild had long-established agreements with the Producers Alliance of all major studios. Under those agreements, Guild-affiliated directors were entitled to a small share of box office and home video revenue. However, the percentage was notoriously minimal.
"Mr. Weinstein, I'm not even a member of the Directors Guild yet. I'm still finishing up at USC. I was planning to apply after graduation," Wayne replied, completely unimpressed by Harvey's terms—he saw right through the man's attempt to pull a fast one.
"Well then, I'm afraid I can't help you," Harvey replied, though his voice betrayed not even a hint of actual regret.
But he didn't hang up. Instead, his voice continued over the line, now colder and more domineering:
"Let me remind you, Director Garfield, that no distributor would accept the kind of deal you're proposing. Happy Death Day is a low-budget indie film—not some $10 million mainstream blockbuster.
You're in a position where you have no other options. No one but Miramax will touch your film. And if we do take it to theaters, there will be substantial upfront costs—marketing, physical film prints—we're talking hundreds of thousands, if not millions.
Tell me, how do you plan to guarantee that Miramax recoups that investment? Why should we believe your film will make money? You're a first-time director with zero proven track record. Think carefully, because your only option is Miramax."
The line went dead.
Wayne leaned back into the couch and instinctively lit a cigarette. His mind wasn't stuck on Harvey's manipulative pressure tactics—he was thinking about something else. Was Harvey right? Was it really true that no one else was willing to distribute his film?
He had to get to the bottom of this. Even if he was eventually forced to go with Miramax, he needed to know why Harvey was so confident. What did he know that Wayne didn't?
Turning to Naomi, he said, "Naomi, I'm sorry, but we'll have to postpone dinner. I just thought of something—something I need to do right now. I'll make it up to you tonight."
"No problem. I'm just across the hall. Come get me when you're back," Naomi replied, watching him rush out the door.
Wayne went downstairs and drove straight to Burbank. Parking in front of a two-story office building, he wasted no time walking up to the manager's office.
That's right—he suddenly remembered. Most people wouldn't tell him anything, but Jennings would know something. After all, they nearly closed a deal with Castle Rock, and it was Jennings who had made the connection in the first place.
Two knocks on the door. A voice called out. Wayne entered and sat directly across from Jennings at his desk.
"Wayne. I knew you'd come," Jennings said with a calm smile, completely unsurprised. "Alright, ask. I don't know everything, but I'll tell you what I can. Honestly, I thought your film had real potential—I wouldn't have recommended it otherwise. But they felt the need to explain it to me afterward."
Wayne exhaled in relief. As long as he could identify the problem, he could start working toward a solution.
"Jennings, what happened? Why did Edward suddenly back out of the deal right before signing?"
Jennings looked serious for a moment, then leaned in:
"Edward got a phone call. From the higher-ups. They told him to drop the project. And it wasn't just us—every distributor with a screener at the Sundance Film Festival got the same call from the same place—telling them not to work with you."
"Wait, what? Who was behind it?" Wayne asked, trying to stay calm.
"Alright, listen to me carefully," Jennings said. "What I'm about to tell you—once you walk out of this office, I'll deny ever saying it."
"You've heard of Universal Pictures, right? Yeah—it was Universal who made those calls. And no indie studio out there is willing—or brave enough—to go against a powerhouse like Universal."
Wayne sat still for a few seconds. Though he was surprised, everything suddenly made perfect sense. If all the smaller companies were backing off, the pressure could only have come from a major studio. Miramax, however, was backed by Disney. And Harvey Weinstein? He was never one to follow the rules or play nice.
Now it all added up.
"Jennings, who exactly made the call?" Wayne asked, fixing him with a direct gaze. "This is really important to me—I need to understand what they want. I swear, whatever you tell me here stays in this room."
Jennings hesitated, then leaned in closer.
"It was Ferren Goodman. He's the head of film production at Universal."