Chapter 35: The Successful One
Just as Wayne wrapped up the film's promotional tour and returned to Los Angeles to continue working on his next script, across town, a portly man sat hunched over a stack of newspapers, his eyes fixed on headlines about Happy Death Day.
The offices of Miramax were unusually quiet that day. Everyone moved cautiously, trying not to make a sound. From behind the wall separating the open office area from Harvey's room, the unmistakable crash of glass shattering against a wall had already echoed out more than once.
Harvey was staring at the entertainment section—Happy Death Day was now number one at the North American box office.
It had earned $29.68 million over the past week, surpassing none other than Mel Gibson's Lethal Weapon 3, now in second place.
That low-budget horror film, which reportedly cost just over $1 million, had somehow raked in $19.83 million during the three-day weekend alone—catapulting it to the top of the charts.
A horror film, during Hollywood's quiet April season, achieving such numbers—and it was still in theaters, still gaining momentum.
Harvey had initially pegged its box office potential at $10 million, tops. Now he had to admit it—he'd completely misjudged it. If he'd known it would blow up like this, he should have bought it, even if that unknown young director had asked for $4 million.
He did a quick mental calculation: with previous earnings combined, the film had now grossed over $50 million. Fifty million, not five million. Harvey's chest actually hurt at the thought.
The profit margin was staggering—over 50 times the cost of production. A goldmine had slipped through his fingers.
Given his years in the business, Harvey knew: even if Happy Death Day was a niche horror film with a short theatrical run, it would still likely top out at $60–70 million. Add in video sales, TV rights, and merchandise licensing, and who knew what the final revenue would be?
Since breaking into Hollywood with his brother, Harvey had built a reputation on his sharp instincts. He'd shepherded plenty of successful films—but this? This was dizzying.
Worst of all, the young director had tried multiple times to sell him the film. That thought made it feel like he'd been slapped in the face—mocked for being short-sighted.
Wayne Garfield.
Even just thinking the name irritated him. Harvey paced around his office window a few times, trying to ease the pressure in his chest.
Since the moment Wayne's name had started appearing in the trades, Harvey had known he'd messed up. The kid had no name, no clout—yet clearly knew how to read the market. His film had a precise target audience and a distinct creative vision.
Harvey sat down again, grabbed a pen, and circled Wayne Garfield in the newspaper. Hard.
---
As a new week began, Wayne was back in his apartment. Technically, no matter how much money the film earned now, he wasn't getting another dime from Fox. His share had already been paid.
His earlier vacation plans were abandoned. Now, all Wayne wanted was to finish his project proposal and launch his next film.
In Hollywood, success was everything. If he didn't follow up this win with another hit, he'd be forgotten just as quickly. He knew it: if the next film flopped, he'd go right back to being a nobody.
He had to leverage the current hype to pitch a new project and secure funding. Investing his own money would always be a last resort—independent production was a narrow road, and it didn't align with how he saw his future.
Wayne wanted to be like Christopher Nolan—a director whose work thrilled fans and made serious returns for studios. Independent filmmaking was a good training ground, but the chaos and logistics left him no time to focus purely on directing.
"Wayne Garfield, the breakout star of Hollywood's new generation…"
"Young director Garfield's debut film has grossed $66 million—he's quickly becoming a model for aspiring filmmakers…"
Wayne tossed the newspaper aside and straightened his suit. Tonight, he was attending Fox's official celebration party. His name had been featured in the LA Times, NY Times, and Washington Post. The film was nearing the end of its run, but everyone knew it would easily surpass $70 million.
Fox had organized an intimate celebration. With the projected profits, they were in a generous mood.
Despite the early sunset, the weather hadn't cooled. By the time Wayne drove to the hotel, he was sweating. Only after stepping into the cool, air-conditioned lobby did he finally exhale in relief.
"Hey Wayne, ready? You're the man of the hour!"
Terry greeted him warmly as soon as he entered and immediately whisked him upstairs to the second-floor banquet hall—they had clearly been waiting for him.
As soon as Wayne entered, applause erupted. He knew exactly who those claps were for.
The room wasn't packed—mostly Fox distribution staff, a few cast members, and a bunch of unfamiliar faces. When Terry offered to introduce him around, Wayne politely declined. He didn't want to meet anyone without a clear purpose. Right now, it suited his long-term strategy to remain low-key.
"Director Garfield, thank you for this opportunity."
Just as he picked up a glass of champagne, Uma Thurman approached, polite and professional. In a place like Hollywood, she knew how important it was to stay close to a successful director.
Wayne glanced at her, raised his glass, and clinked it gently.
"You did a great job, Uma. You earned it."
"My agent said you're working on something new. Any roles for me? I'm confident I can handle any female lead."
Clearly, she was fishing. He hadn't settled on the next project's details, and to be honest, he didn't particularly like her. He gave a neutral response:
"Nothing's set in stone yet. If there's a part that suits you, I'll have Jimmy reach out."
Then he walked away and sat down in a quiet corner.
"What did that b*tch want from you?"
Naomi came over with a drink, staring daggers at Uma.
"Come on, Naomi, the job's done—can we leave that stuff behind?"
Wayne sighed. As long as the two women weren't together in front of reporters, neither would say a kind word about the other.
Naomi turned to him suspiciously.
"You haven't contacted me in days. You're not hooking up with her, are you?"
"Naomi! I've been working on my next project. Can't you stop thinking crazy stuff for once? And even if I were, that's my private life."
"Sorry, Wayne. I just didn't want you falling for that skank's looks."
Sensing his tone harden, Naomi softened hers quickly.
"So… what's the new film about?"
Wayne resisted the urge to roll his eyes—this woman knew him too well, knew he'd never actually get angry.
"It's another thriller," he said, "but I'm not sure any studio will want to invest. This one's going to cost more than the last."
"There absolutely will be, Wayne. Once you finish the project proposal, send it straight to 20th Century Fox. Trust me—Fox will be the first to review your project."
Wayne turned to see Terry, who had just finished greeting a group of people and now sat beside him. Clearly, he had overheard the conversation between Wayne and Naomi.
"I will. I'll send it to Fox the moment it's done. Just give me a bit of time—the proposal's almost ready."
While Wayne and Terry chatted about the new project, on the other side of the banquet hall, Harvey Weinstein sat with Tali, both watching Wayne from a distance. Harvey's eyes narrowed as he spoke.
"You're sure? Wayne Garfield registered a new script with the Writers Guild?"
Tali answered confidently, "Absolutely, boss. I found out he's registered three screenplays. His next project will definitely be one of them. From what I gathered, they're all thrillers and horror films—his specialty."
Harvey took a long sip of champagne, eyes locked on the young director across the room, as if making some internal decision. Then, without another word, he stood, wineglass in hand, and began walking over.
Naomi noticed the approaching figure and nudged Wayne's side with her elbow. He looked at her, confused, and she nodded in the direction of the incoming guest. "That fat guy's heading this way. I think he wants to talk to you."
Wayne looked up just in time to see Harvey Weinstein walking directly toward them. Under the curious stares of a few nearby guests, Harvey sat down without hesitation on the opposite couch.
"Apologies—mind if I have a quick word alone with Director Garfield?" he said, his eyes locking onto Terry with an unspoken but clear message: this was a private conversation.
Seeing both Terry and Naomi glance at him with concern, Wayne waved them off, signaling that it was fine. Once they stepped aside, he turned to Harvey and said:
"Mr. Weinstein, what can I help you with?"
Harvey studied the young man before him. There wasn't a hint of arrogance in his tone—it was hard to believe this was the same kid who had once tried so hard to sell him the rights to a film.
"I'm here to congratulate you, Wayne. Seems my instincts weren't too far off—Happy Death Day turned out to be a hit. You did a fantastic job." He raised his glass in a toast.
Wayne clinked glasses with him and took a sip of champagne. Then, without missing a beat, he asked, "Thanks. But I'm sure you didn't come just to congratulate me. Let's be direct—we're both busy."
Harvey smiled slightly. The kid was sharp.
"I heard you're working on a new project? Wayne, Miramax is interested. We're willing to invest. Believe me, big studios aren't always your best option. Their review systems are long and tedious. But with Miramax, your film would be greenlit fast. That's good for getting the cameras rolling."