In the screening room at Second Take Films, Good Will Hunting was playing for the fourth and final time that day.
Now it was Searchlight Pictures' turn. The teams from Focus Features had already come through at nine in the morning, followed by Neon at twelve thirty, then A24 at four in the afternoon, and this was the final screening. The day had been long, but interesting for Owen.
The room remained completely dark, lit only by the glow of the screen projecting the film. Surround sound filled the space. And in that contained environment, every reaction, no matter how small, became perceptible.
For Owen, the day was turning out to be more interesting than he had anticipated. Honestly, he had thought that watching the same cut four times, a cut that ran over two hours and twenty minutes, would become tedious.
But it didn't. What transformed the experience wasn't the film itself, which he already knew by heart, but the people. Watching how each team reacted, how the atmosphere shifted depending on who was sitting in the room, ended up being far more engaging than he had imagined.
He had expected to encounter colder profiles, people focused purely on the business, executives who would come in, evaluate the product, and leave thinking in numbers.
But that wasn't what he found. Within those teams, there were people who clearly approached the film from a creative and emotional perspective as well.
Executives who, regardless of their rank, understood cinema. And it made sense. You don't reach those positions without a genuine connection to what you do. It wasn't just industry. It was judgment.
And the film was cutting through that with ease. It was so good that it pierced that professional layer. It managed to draw out subtle reactions even from the most restrained.
Up to that point, the responses had been good. Very good. Not only during the screenings, but also in the conversations afterward, which usually lasted between fifteen and twenty minutes.
Not a single studio had shown any hesitation about the possibility of taking the film to the Cannes Film Festival. Everyone understood that this was Owen's goal, and no one tried to steer the conversation away from it.
That alone said a lot.
Because if any of them had felt the film wasn't at the level required to compete there, they would have said so. Maybe carefully, diplomatically, but they would have said it. They might still have wanted to distribute it, of course, but they wouldn't have validated that path so naturally.
But that wasn't the case.
On the contrary, the overall feeling was one of optimism. They didn't just see Cannes as viable, they treated it as almost a given. Because if they truly wanted to close a deal with him, Cannes had to be part of the offer. Not as a possibility, but as a promise embedded in the deal that would arrive in the following days.
The team Searchlight Pictures had sent to the screening was composed of three profiles, each covering a key area within the studio.
Walter Jackson was the highest-ranking. A man in his mid-to-late forties, serving as Senior Vice President of acquisitions.
Beside him was Laura Chen, around the same age, holding a senior role within the awards strategy and campaigns division.
Searchlight had a very defined reputation in that field. It was, arguably, the most consistent studio when it came to turning films into real contenders at the Academy Awards. And that wasn't just about the quality of the films, but about how campaigns were built. The department Laura belonged to was, in that sense, one of the studio's pillars.
The third was Ethan Cole, the youngest of the group, around thirty. A creative executive. His role was different from the other two. He wasn't there to think about numbers or campaigns, at least not directly. His weight came from the artistic side. He was the one evaluating the film from within: the script, the performances, the tone.
Even if he didn't have Walter or Laura's rank, his opinion was far from minor.
Owen watched each of their faces as the film progressed. Not in an obvious way, he didn't want to make them uncomfortable. It was subtler than that. Using the darkness of the room, and the fact that everyone was fully absorbed in the screen, he could do it unnoticed.
The scene playing was a conversation between Lambeau and Sean about Will, in Sean's office, one of the final sequences. By that point, Sean had already made significant progress in his relationship with Will, understanding his profile, his defense mechanisms, and everything beneath the surface.
[This is a disaster, Sean. I brought you here because I wanted you to help the boy. Not to make him run away,] Lambeau said, pacing back and forth, clearly agitated, unable to stand still.
[I know what I'm doing,] Sean replied from his chair, without moving, with that characteristic calm.
[I don't care if the two of you get along and laugh, even if it's at my expense,] Lambeau cut in, raising his voice, [but don't you dare ruin what I'm trying to do.]
[Ruin…?] Sean repeated, more intrigued by the word than by the accusation itself.
[This is a fragile moment for him…] Lambeau added, fixing him with a sharp stare.
Sean didn't let him continue. [I know it's a difficult time, alright? He's got problems.]
[What problems? That he'd be better off as a janitor, or in jail? Better off wasting time with a retarded thugs?] Lambeau shot back, his tone escalating as he began to lose control.
[Oh, do you have any fucking idea why he does that? Hm?] Sean shot back, no longer carrying the same calm.
Lambeau didn't answer. He avoided the question. [He can handle the problems and the work, and obviously he handled you.]
[Jerry, listen to me,] Sean said, standing up and stepping toward him, closing the distance, [why is he hiding? Why doesn't he trust anybody? Because the first thing that happened to him… he was abandoned by the people who were supposed to love him,] he emphasized, letting each word land with weight.
[Oh, come on, don't give me that Freudian bullshit,] Lambeau replied, dismissively.
[No, listen,] Sean insisted, following him across the office, forcing him to face the idea, [why does he spend time with those retarded thugs, like you called them?]
He didn't give him time to answer.
[Because any one of them, if he asked, would smash your head in with a fucking bat! Okay? It's called loyalty.]
[Yeah, very touching,] Lambeau muttered, dropping onto the couch, his tone dripping with sarcasm.
'Ethan Hawke is showing off too,' Walter thought, the Vice President of Acquisitions at Searchlight Pictures.
Throughout the film, the standout performances were Will, held together flawlessly by Owen, who completely surprised him with his acting level, and Sean, played by Bryan Cranston, whom he inevitably still associated with Malcolm in the Middle. Seeing him in such a different register from Hal carried a particular weight.
But Hawke was standing out as well, bringing a solid presence to his role as the demanding professor.
The argument on screen kept escalating with every passing second.
Owen stopped paying attention for a moment and glanced sideways at Ethan, the creative executive.
'What…? Is that a tear?' Owen thought, his expression shifting slightly.
It was minimal. Just a thin line in his right eye, almost imperceptible unless you were looking for it. But his eyes were glossy. Ethan wiped it away quickly with the back of his hand and, as if not wanting anyone to notice, cast a brief glance around the room.
Owen immediately looked away and fixed his gaze back on the screen, slightly surprised by the reaction. It wasn't what he expected. Not because of the intensity, it was just a tear, but because he hadn't expected one of the executives coming to evaluate the film to react like that.
On screen, the argument between Sean and Lambeau finally exploded, and just then, Will entered the room. The tension snapped instantly. Lambeau left, leaving him alone with Sean.
And after that, came that scene.
"It's not your fault."
Owen felt the urge to look at Ethan again, but held himself back. He didn't want to risk being noticed.
'I must've heard that line more than thirty times today,' Owen thought, keeping his eyes fixed on the screen.
The film carried on until the end, until the image slowly faded to black.
There were a few seconds of silence.
Then Walter and Laura reacted first. Measured but clear congratulations. They spoke about how much they had liked the film, even as a first cut, still unpolished and longer than the final version would be. Even so, they described it as immersive, the kind of film that doesn't feel long, that moves forward without you being aware of time passing.
But Ethan said nothing. He stood up from the couch rather quickly.
"Great film, excuse me, I'm going to the restroom."
Owen nodded as he turned on the lights in the room and, with a brief words, showed him the way.
Ethan stepped out. He walked down the hallway faster than usual, until he reached the bathroom. He didn't head for the stalls. He stopped in front of the sinks, facing the mirror.
He turned on the faucet and splashed water onto his face, a couple of times. Then he rubbed his face with both hands, as if trying to clear something away. And finally, he looked up.
His reflection stared back at him, water slowly running down his face.
'It's not your fault…' he thought. "No… it's not my fault," he repeated to himself.
And almost without meaning to, the other line came to him—the one from a few minutes earlier, before that line he knew would become iconic once the film was released:
[Why is he hiding? Why doesn't he trust anybody? Because the first thing that happened to him… he was abandoned by the people who were supposed to love him.]
The film had hit him harder than he expected. Much harder.
His father had abandoned him when he was a child. No explanation. He just left. The classic: going out to buy cigarettes and never coming back.
He grew up with his mother. He never lacked anything material. Education, stability, everything in order. But emotionally, it was something else. There was no physical absence, but there was distance. Coldness. There was never real affection in those moments that, with time, you come to understand were the important ones. He didn't blame her. But that didn't mean it hadn't left a mark.
That was why those lines of Sean's dialogue had hit him differently.
And the "it's not your fault," too.
He thought he had already dealt with it. That he had processed it, that he no longer carried that idea in the background. But hearing it like that, unfiltered, something still shifted.
Ethan let the air out slowly, placing both hands on the edge of the sink. "Don't compare yourself to a character in a movie…" he murmured to himself, with a faint, almost mocking smirk.
Will had gone through something far worse. Abuse, real abandonment, and a much harsher environment. There was no comparison.
His thoughts began to settle. And almost automatically, his mind shifted gears. It moved away from the personal and back to the professional.
The film.
If it had managed to make him feel that, him, someone trained to analyze and keep distance, then what they had on their hands was serious. Very serious. The performances, the script, the emotional weight… everything was outstanding.
Cannes? This had Oscar potential, and that was something Searchlight Pictures loved.
It was an opportunity, and not just any opportunity. They couldn't let it slip away.
Ethan narrowed his eyes slightly, now fully focused, already structuring in his head how to present it internally. How to explain it in a way that made it clear they had to go in strong, or they'd lose it.
He thought of David Greenbaum, the president of Searchlight. Not someone you convinced with empty enthusiasm. But he also knew how to recognize when something was special. He didn't just understand the business, he genuinely liked movies.
Ethan dried his face with a paper towel and went back out to join the others.
They spoke for a few more minutes in another room with Owen, Derek, and Lianne. A brief, measured exchange. Just enough to leave a strong impression without revealing too much. Then they said their goodbyes and left the offices.
Once in the car, Walter asked Ethan to drive. During the ride, he made a call, coordinating for an internal meeting to be ready as soon as they arrived.
And so it was. When they got there, they went straight into a conference room. Inside were already David, Matthew Greenfield, the head of acquisitions, and several key executives.
Without wasting time, they began.
Walter opened with a general overview. Laura followed, focusing on positioning and the potential path forward: Cannes Film Festival, campaign strategy, and awards narrative.
Then it was Ethan's turn. He spoke about the film. About the level of the script. About how, even if on the surface it might seem like the typical troubled-genius story, it worked perfectly. Because it had scenes with real weight. Dialogue that didn't feel written, but lived.
He talked about the performances. About Owen carrying the film with an unexpected naturalness. And how everything elevated the material.
Then they moved on.
The commercial potential. Because it wasn't just prestige. There was something there that could connect with real audiences. And that was territory where Searchlight had historically thrived, films that didn't just work with critics, but also found an audience.
Questions started to surface.
The conversation gradually slowed, until the room, little by little, fell into silence.
David adjusted himself in his chair. He clasped his hands together. "You made me want to see that film," he said with a small smile.
Soft laughter rippled around the table. Several of those who hadn't attended the screening nodded almost in unison, quietly agreeing.
It didn't take much more.
The decision was made right there.
They were going in, and not timidly. They already knew that Neon, Focus Features, and A24 were in the fight.
The tone of the conversation shifted almost instantly, from evaluation to action. They began structuring the offer without wasting time.
…
Two days passed since the four studios had watched the first cut of Good Will Hunting.
What followed was intense.
By the night of the 28th, Owen already had the four formal offers on the table. All of them arrived the same way: an email accompanied by a detailed document. Financial terms, marketing commitments, festival strategy, and awards positioning. Everything organized, clear, ready to be compared.
On one point, they all aligned. The goal was the Cannes Film Festival 2023.
Each studio, in its offer, committed to pushing the film there. It was almost a shared baseline.
Even so, within that agreement, there were nuances. The one that inspired the most confidence in that arena was Neon, with a very strong recent track record at the French festival.
Then came the numbers.
A24 was offering 55% of post-theatrical revenue to Owen. Simplified: if the film made $100 million, $50 million would stay with theaters, and the remaining $50 million would be split, $27.5 million for Owen, $22.5 million for the studio.
For marketing, they proposed $15 million. A solid figure, even higher than the film's budget. Their approach was clear: prioritize the Cannes Film Festival, build a strong awards campaign, but without going massive. More in line with their style, something that had already worked for them with Everything Everywhere All at Once.
Neon presented a very similar structure in percentage: 55% for Owen, 45% for them. But they raised the stakes in marketing, with $18 million, and especially in their aggressiveness toward Cannes. That was where they felt strongest. In traditional awards, their track record wasn't as consistent as others, but it wasn't weak either.
Focus Features opted for a more conservative model. A 50/50 split in post-theatrical revenue. Half for each side. More margin to cover their investment. In exchange, they increased their marketing muscle: $20 million. In festivals, they would also aim for Cannes, though without the same weight as Neon, and with a more classic awards campaign structure.
And then there was Searchlight Pictures.
A completely different approach.
A full buyout for $50 million. Owen would sell the film. The IP. Everything. No participation in box office or future revenue.
In return, he eliminated all risk and secured a powerful campaign: $25 million in marketing, with a serious push toward Cannes and a top-tier awards machine, especially heading into the Academy Awards.
That same day, the 29th, Owen met with each of them. Meetings just over an hour long. Explanations, and attempts to convince him. Each studio selling not just their offer, but their vision.
They were intense. It was clear they knew they weren't alone, and they wanted to close the deal as quickly as possible, offering those kinds of terms. They really wanted the film.
Luckily, Owen wasn't alone.
He was accompanied by his CAA agent, a lawyer from the agency, and Larry, his manager, who was very good at negotiating and whom he trusted deeply. They carried most of the negotiation. They understood the documents, the clauses, the fine details. Owen listened, stepped in when necessary, but left the technical side to those who knew what they were doing.
Being part of a top agency gave him those advantages. He didn't have to pay anything for it. Without an agency, it would have been extremely expensive. It was essentially one of the services that came with being represented by them.
There were small adjustments.
A24 increased its marketing investment. Focus gave a little more on the post-theatrical percentage. Neon also raised its bid, pushing its marketing up to $20 million. Searchlight, on the other hand, held firm on its core structure. They improved secondary details, refined conditions, but didn't touch the centerpiece: the $50 million buyout.
By the end of the day, Owen sat in his office, thinking about the four offers. He had to make a decision quickly.
The contrast with his first deal for Paranormal Activity was obvious.
Back then, he had managed only about 20% of post-theatrical revenue. And even that was largely because A24 had been relatively generous given the context. The marketing had also been minimal, half a million.
This was different.
Now he was negotiating from a completely different position. The film was already finished. A complete product. And the context changed everything:
An Oscar winner. Scripts validated within the industry. Much greater fame as an actor, producer, and writer. And, of course, four studios interested at the same time.
Plus, Paranormal Activity had been a minimal gamble, with an almost nonexistent budget.
Here, on the other hand, there was a much larger investment behind it, a stronger team, and above all, a completely different perception of value. This wasn't an experiment. It was a film with real potential for prestige, festival run, box office success, and even awards.
'Fifty million is insane…' Owen thought, considering Searchlight's offer.
They definitely had money. A lot of it. Not for nothing were they part of The Walt Disney Company.
For someone who had invested $13 million, it was a massive return. Even after taxes, the profit would still be enormous. A clean, immediate exit, with no risk.
Even so, it wasn't a simple decision.
Right then, his phone started ringing. He glanced at the screen:
Jenna.
"Hello?" he said as he answered.
"Do you know what time it is?" she asked, without greeting him.
Owen glanced at the time on his laptop. "Almost seven thirty… is that bad?"
Jenna let out a sigh on the other end. "Yes, because people usually eat between six and seven. And I clearly remember telling you I needed you as my kitchen assistant today."
Owen smiled faintly. "Oh, right… I'm coming. But can't you manage on your own? It's just cooking. I cooked yesterday and you didn't help me."
He said it just to tease her a little. Truth was, he wanted to go and cook together. But with the meetings, and the conversation afterward with Larry and the CAA team, he had ended up running a bit late.
"Right, because you needed help to make chicken and rice," Jenna replied, dripping with sarcasm. "This is tacos. There are sauces, seasonings, ground beef… it's more complicated. I can't do everything on my own."
Owen laughed and cut her off before she could keep going. "Alright, I'm on my way. Stop scolding me."
"Great," Jenna said. "And by the way I also want to talk about something."
Owen raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in his chair. "About what?"
"Something more serious. Not for a phone call. You'll know when you get here."
There wasn't much more. The call ended there.
Owen stared at his phone for a few seconds before setting it down on the desk. Then he stood up, grabbed his jacket, and slipped it on as he walked out of the office.
The phrase lingered in his mind.
'Something serious.'
Usually not a good sign.
'She's not going to break up with me, right?' he thought, raising an eyebrow slightly.
He dismissed it almost immediately.
It didn't make sense. Everything was going well. More than well. Since they had started dating in early January, the relationship had only moved forward. More trust, more closeness, everything trending upward like Bitcoin in 2020.
Besides, it would be pretty strange for someone to break up with you while you're making tacos together.
'I wonder what it is,' Owen thought as he walked through the halls of Second Take Films.
Before leaving, he stopped by the rehearsal room. The door was slightly open, and voices could be heard inside, lines being repeated, corrections being made. They were still there.
His mother and sister, Matt, Tyler, Eric, the cinematographer, a woman in her thirties that Matt had brought onto the project, and Anya Taylor-Joy. All focused.
They were taking the pre-production rehearsals very seriously. It made sense. In just a few days, they would be traveling to Georgia to begin shooting Lights Out. There was no room for improvisation. At this point, the fact that they were still rehearsing at this hour wasn't even surprising anymore.
Anya fit in perfectly. Not just because of her talent, but because of the dynamic. She was already getting along especially well with Sarah, who looked at her almost like a reference point, a kind of acting guide. And for good reason.
Owen stepped inside and said a quick goodbye to everyone, not wanting to break their rhythm.
A few minutes later, he was already on his way to his apartment.
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