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This transition towards mediocrity was not the vision Marvin had for the industry. He was determined to change this trajectory, even if it meant introducing fresh talent and new actors into the industry. Despite the challenges ahead, he believed in the possibility of revitalizing cinema and was committed to pursuing this goal, even if it required significant efforts and time to reshape the future of filmmaking.
However, that task was intended for his future self; at present, he was merely performing as an actor, and he likes this deal.
"Hey, don't act like I'm robbing you, Harvey. That's a bargain," Jeff said with a grin, straightening his tie. "Macaulay Culkin was already commanding a flat $8 million base salary back in 1991. And let's not forget, Marvin's $3.8 million completely encompasses his pay as the sole screenwriter. Furthermore, regarding the total backend profit..."
Jeff leaned in, delivering the final, fatal blow of the negotiation. "...let's not forget that we are officially executing a co-financing agreement. The Zenith Trust is taking a 50 percent equity stake in the production budget. We are sharing the investment load. Your studio's actual financial risk is microscopic."
That is the reason he received such a great contract.
Marvin dabbed his lips with a linen napkin. He was internally satisfied.
The base amount wasn't sky-high, but it was phenomenal for the current 1997 market—it entirely depended on who you compared him to.
Even with his lucrative 5 percent share of the North American box office revenue for *The Parent Trap*, his total earnings from that film would cap out between $10 million and $12 million. But at a guaranteed $3.8 million base for a sophomore film, Marvin was already earning more upfront cash than many established, adult B-list actors in Hollywood.
The income disparity among Hollywood stars in the late 90s was an gaping chasm.
A-list titans—the Tom Cruises and Julia Roberts of the world—could easily command $20 million base salaries. But the moment you dropped to the B-list, the fees plummeted to around $5 million, and that was only for actors possessing significant, proven commercial appeal. As for the critically acclaimed actors who lived in the realm of independent or art films—the exact sector Miramax usually exploited—their upfront income was pitifully lower, often working for scale just to secure an Oscar nomination.
Macaulay Culkin had been an anomaly among child stars. He had commanded a near A-list salary of $8 million solely because *Home Alone* had been a cultural atom bomb. It grossed nearly $300 million in North America alone, and over $500 million globally, all on a budget of just $18 million. It shattered global records, became 20th Century Fox's most profitable film at the time, and secured a Guinness World Record as the highest-grossing live-action comedy of its era.
But Marvin also knew the tragic trajectory of Culkin's career. Once he stepped outside the *Home Alone* franchise, his box office gravity collapsed, and his exorbitant fees dropped significantly.
Marvin was building an ironclad, diversified empire. He didn't just want a massive acting fee. He wanted to own the underlying asset. By securing exactly what he valued most—a 50 percent equity investment share in the film's total profits through the Zenith Trust—he was transitioning from an employee to a studio boss. He was going to own half the movie.
It's just sad he can't own his own movies just yet, as it would create too many insurmountable problems. In 1997, Hollywood was an impenetrable fortress fiercely guarded by the major studios, and trying to bypass them to completely own and distribute a massive blockbuster meant declaring war on an entire industry.
First, there was the nightmare of booking cinemas. Theater chains didn't negotiate with rogue, independent entities; they relied on the massive, year-round film slates provided by the studio oligopoly. If Marvin tried to self-distribute a major feature, the theater cartels would simply lock him out. They weren't going to risk their relationships with Warner Bros. or Disney by giving up prime screens to an outsider, no matter how good the movie was.
Then came the brutal logistics of physical distribution. This wasn't the digital age where a high-definition movie could simply be emailed or beamed to a projector via satellite. In 1997, movies were still printed on highly flammable 35mm celluloid. A wide theatrical release required manufacturing three to four thousand physical film prints at roughly $1,500 to $2,000 a pop. You had to pack them into massive metal canisters and coordinate a fleet of secure trucks to physically ship them to thousands of cinemas across the globe. It was a logistical ground war that only the established studios had the infrastructure to handle.
And all of that was before the weight of Print and Advertising (P&A). Without the internet, social media, or viral marketing, driving audiences to theaters was purely a game of out-spending the competition. It meant buying wildly expensive primetime television spots, full-page newspaper spreads in every major city, and securing billboards across the country. A standard marketing budget for a wide release could easily burn through thirty to forty million dollars in a matter of weeks.
If he tried to completely own and distribute his movies right now, the unions would bleed him dry, the theaters would blacklist him, and the major studios would sabotage his release dates. For now, it was a necessary evil. He had to play their game, use their distribution networks, and bide his time until Meyers pockets were deep enough to swallow the old system whole.
This was the best deal he could get without upsetting anyone.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Harvey," Jeff smiled, extending his hand across the table.
"The pleasure is entirely mine, Jeff," Harvey sighed, shaking the agent's hand with a firm grip.
With the exhausting business of millions of dollars officially settled, the tension in the *Spring Blossom Hall* evaporated. The corporate raiders vanished, and they were all polite, civilized friends once more.
Harvey picked up his glass of wine, leaning back in his chair. He looked at the twelve-year-old boy, who was calmly pouring himself another cup of tea. The impossible presence of the kid still sent a low-level shiver down Harvey's spine.
"Marvin," Harvey said, his voice dropping into the conspiratorial, passionate tone that had seduced countless actors into working with him.
"Listen to me. This may be categorized on paper as a horror film, but I see real, undeniable Academy Award potential hidden in the subtext of this script. The Academy loves a tragic psychological drama disguised as a genre piece."
Harvey pointed his wine glass at the boy. "If we execute this correctly, with the right director and the right marketing campaign, you need to bring your A-game to the performance. We aren't just going for box office receipts. I am going to run an awards campaign. We are going to try and snag you an Oscar. I want you up on that stage as the second youngest Best Actor nominee in the history of the Academy."
Marvin met the titan's gaze. He did not flush with excitement. He did not stutter his gratitude for the opportunity to be validated by an elite, exclusive club of Hollywood voters.
The Incubus simply offered a cool handsome smirk, radiating the absolute certainty of a man who already owned the world.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Weinstein," Marvin replied smoothly, taking a final sip of his tea. "I will simply do what I always do. I will be flawless."
---
The evening shadows stretched long and elegant across the manicured lawns of the Meyers' San Marino estate. Inside the vast, sunken living room, the atmosphere was far less tranquil than the twilight outside.
Linda Meyers was pacing. The staccato *click-click-click* of her designer heels against the polished hardwood floor betrayed a frantic, maternal anxiety that no amount of luxury could soothe. She crossed her arms tightly over her silk blouse, coming to a sudden halt in front of her husband.
"Grant, I simply do not understand how you can sit there and be so relaxed," Linda vented, her voice tight with exasperation. "We just celebrated his twelfth birthday, Grant! twelfth! And you are just... letting our precious son walk into a closed-door restaurant meeting to negotiate with Hollywood vultures over multi-million dollar profit margins? Do you know the kind of men who run Miramax? They chew up seasoned adults and spit them out before breakfast!"
Grant Meyers sat comfortably in a deep, tufted leather armchair, the golden amber liquid of a twenty-year-old single malt scotch swirling gently in his crystal glass. He did not look like a man whose child was currently swimming with sharks. He looked like a man who knew his child was the apex predator of the ocean.
He took a slow, appreciative sip of his drink, his eyes crinkling with a mixture of pride and lingering disbelief.
"Come on, Linda, sit down," Grant said soothingly, gesturing to the sofa opposite him. "You are worrying about the sharks, but you completely forget that our son is a leviathan. Our boy is... well, he is entirely special."
Linda let out a frustrated sigh, sinking into the plush sofa but keeping her posture rigid. "Special does not mean invincible, Grant. He is a child navigating an industry built on exploitation."
Grant leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his expression turning serious. The easygoing Hollywood father vanished, replaced for a moment by the razor-sharp senior executive of J.P. Morgan.
"Linda, you don't fully comprehend the sheer scale of what Marvin is orchestrating outside of the film studios," Grant murmured, his voice dropping to a hushed, conspiratorial volume. "You don't know the numbers he is pulling out of the Asian markets right now, or you absolutely would not be asking me this question. He will handle a studio executive just fine."
Linda's brow furrowed. She knew Marvin traded stocks—the boy had an uncanny knack for numbers—but she had deliberately kept herself insulated from the gritty mechanics of his offshore accounts. "What do you mean, the Asian markets?"
Grant shook his head, still trying to fully process it himself. "Every few days, Marvin holds these international conference calls from his study. He has four separate teams of elite executives deployed in Tokyo, Beijing, Seoul, and Taipei. Linda... the Eastern economies are currently in total, catastrophic freefall. The currency markets are collapsing. And our son? Our twelve-year-old boy saw it coming months ago. He shorted their currencies, and soon he will be directing his teams to buy up the foundational pillars of their entertainment and tech sectors for pennies on the dollar."
Grant took another sip of scotch, staring into the fireplace. "When I sit in on those meetings to provide banking oversight, I get chills. He doesn't just read the spreadsheets. He commands the room. The unshakeable authority he projects... the intelligence. Grown men with Harvard MBAs and decades of Wall Street experience fall completely silent when he speaks. He treats international economic warfare like a game of chess, and he is entirely undefeated."
Grant looked back at his wife, offering a reassuring, albeit slightly weary, smile. "Believe me, Linda. Harvey Weinstein is not going to exploit him. If anything, I pity Miramax. Besides, Jeff Raymond is there to guide the contractual minutiae. Marvin is safe."
Linda slowly relaxed her posture, the tension draining from her shoulders as she absorbed the gravity of her husband's words. But Grant wasn't finished.
With a furrowed brow, Grant stared into his glass. "Honestly, Linda? My deepest worry isn't that he is too immature for this world. My worry is that he is far, far too mature."
Grant let out a soft, self-deprecating sigh. "Sometimes, when I sit down to talk to him about his day... I get this strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. I feel like I am conversing with a senior peer, or a mentor, not my own flesh and blood. He never asks for advice. He never needs me to fix a scraped knee or a broken toy."
Grant looked up, a wistful sadness in his eyes. "I haven't even had the chance to properly enjoy my son's admiration. The traditional dynamic is completely backwards. I am already becoming his admirer!"
Linda's maternal anxiety melted away, replaced by a deep, empathetic affection for her husband. She laughed—a bright, ringing sound that filled the living room—and walked over to sit on the arm of his leather chair, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.
"Well," Linda teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she ran a hand through Grant's hair. "If you are feeling so deprived of the traditional fatherhood experience... maybe we should just have another one?"
Grant's eyes instantly lit up, a broad, genuine grin breaking across his handsome face. He set his scotch down on the side table and wrapped his arm around her waist. "That is actually a fantastic idea, Mrs. Meyers. Lord knows the house is big enough. Let's just pray we don't end up giving birth to another terrifying little prodigy. One global player in the family is quite enough for my blood pressure."
Now it was Linda's turn to grimace. She playfully slapped his shoulder and stood up. "Are you out of your mind? Absolutely not! Do you know how hard I worked to get my career on track? My career is finally just getting started again!"
*****
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