Sunday, July 23, 2023
6:04 PM
Jason Blum, film producer, founder and CEO of the legendary Blumhouse, the studio behind franchises such as Insidious, The Purge, and Halloween, was in the office of his home in Hancock Park.
It was Sunday, so he hadn't stopped by the production company's offices.
His office maintained a refined and elegant style. Dark wooden bookshelves filled with books. Several framed posters of some of Blumhouse's most successful productions decorated the walls.
In front of a large window that let in the warm glow of the setting sun sat a sturdy wooden desk, perfectly organized, with only a laptop, a desk lamp, and a nearly empty coffee mug standing out.
Jason remained seated in his chair, his eyes fixed on the monitor.
YouTube was open on the screen.
More specifically, the trailer for Lights Out, uploaded on July 14 to Second Take Films' channel.
34,208,853 views.
'It doesn't make any sense...', Jason couldn't help but think.
According to everything circulating within the industry, this independent horror film had a budget of under ten million dollars.
It wasn't a major studio production. It wasn't a blockbuster. Nor was it an established IP or a Marvel or DC film whose mere announcement would guarantee a massively viral trailer.
And yet, there it was.
All of it had been achieved through the YouTube channel of a twenty-one-year-old who, besides being an actor, was also a producer and screenwriter.
Blumhouse had a YouTube channel as well. But it was nowhere near those numbers.
It had just over two hundred thousand subscribers, and, generally speaking, the most successful trailers uploaded there accumulated between one and four million views.
A perfect example was M3GAN.
The film, produced by Jason alongside James Wan, had released its first trailer on the Blumhouse channel in October 2022 and, since then, it had only reached around 1.7 million views.
Lights Out was about to surpass thirty-four million in barely ten days.
Although, to be fair, that didn't mean Blumhouse was inferior when it came to marketing.
Quite the opposite.
M3GAN, released on January 6 of that same year, had finished its theatrical run with a worldwide gross of nearly $181 million against a budget of just $12 million. An extraordinary return.
He had never intended for the Blumhouse YouTube channel to become a phenomenon. It was simply a place to upload trailers and promotional material.
Besides, Blumhouse wasn't even the company handling the advertising campaigns for its biggest hits.
For films like M3GAN or The Black Phone, his studio produced the feature film, while distribution and marketing were handled by Universal Pictures, one of the largest and oldest film studios in Hollywood.
Universal had a YouTube channel with over ten million subscribers. That was where the truly important trailers were uploaded. M3GAN's trailer had also been posted there, and that version had attracted the overwhelming majority of the audience, reaching around 38.5 million views.
In other words, they were the real experts in digital marketing, social media, and traditional advertising campaigns.
Not Blumhouse.
And yet, what Second Take Films had accomplished remained extraordinary and impossible to ignore.
In just a matter of months, it had surpassed Universal in subscriber count, already approaching 11.5 million. And now one of its trailers was about to match M3GAN's numbers on Universal's channel, in only ten days.
Of course, Jason knew better than anyone that a viral trailer guaranteed absolutely nothing.
Without a distributor behind it, without a well-executed traditional marketing campaign, and without a solid strategy leading up to release, the film could easily end up grossing far less than M3GAN or any other recent success.
But the potential radiating from Owen Ashford's film was, quite simply, enormous.
Jason and Universal had already put their offer on the table to secure the distribution rights for Lights Out.
Thirty million dollars allocated to marketing, a premiere at Fantastic Fest, just as Owen wanted, and a historic 50% share of post-theatrical net profits for Owen.
Why was Universal Pictures involved?
Because Blumhouse maintained an exclusive distribution agreement with the studio.
One of Jason's responsibilities, besides financing and producing films, was precisely to identify projects with potential, acquire their distribution rights, and bring them to Universal so the studio could handle their worldwide theatrical release.
This time, however, the situation was completely different.
Lights Out wasn't some hidden gem discovered at a film festival.
It was the next film from the actor who had just won the Best Actor award at Cannes and who also had the drama of the moment playing in theaters, a production that much of the trade press was already pointing to as one of the leading contenders for the upcoming awards season.
How did Jason make money from a deal like this if he wasn't the one financing the marketing or distributing the film?
His profit came through the production fee and his executive participation in the project.
Blumhouse provided its brand, its prestige, and oversaw the entire creative and executive management of the release alongside Universal. In return, it would receive a small percentage of the distributor's share of the profits.
It wasn't a particularly large percentage.
Only around ten percent of whatever Universal received.
After all, Jason wasn't risking tens of millions of dollars on marketing or buying the film.
But even that ten percent could translate into an extraordinary amount.
If Lights Out ended up surpassing one hundred million dollars at the worldwide box office, Blumhouse would earn several million dollars simply for being involved in the deal.
Money Jason could reinvest into new productions.
He himself had been present during the meeting with Owen and had the chance to meet him in person.
And for quite some time now, it had seemed impossible to stop hearing his name.
It had all started with Paranormal Activity, breaking the record for the highest ROI in history.
Then came the short films, which had already amassed millions of views and gone on to triumph at Sundance, the vlogs, the first Oscar, and shortly afterward, The Spectacular Now, distributed by A24, another independent success that had grossed over sixty million dollars worldwide.
But far from slowing down, his rise accelerated exponentially.
His relationship with Jenna Ortega, the actress of the moment, turned him into one half of Hollywood's most talked-about couples. Then came Cannes, where his new film received an extraordinary reception. And as if that weren't enough, that prestige drama also ended up winning over general audiences.
Jason couldn't help but find a certain irony in all of it.
The highest-grossing film Blumhouse had produced in more than twenty years of history was still Halloween (2018), with a worldwide gross of $255.4 million.
And now a guy who, just three years earlier, had been a complete unknown had managed to make a drama, not even a horror film, the most profitable low-budget genre, surpass $280 million at the box office, and it was still climbing.
Jason had thought that after such overwhelming success, the phenomenon would finally begin to lose momentum.
Instead, the exact opposite happened.
All it took was for Owen to upload two videos.
One was the Lights Out trailer. The other was a completely unexpected vlog filmed during someone else's premiere.
Between the two of them, they had broken the internet all over again. The vlog had already accumulated more than fifty million views in less than four days.
And during a quick interview on that very red carpet, Owen revealed that he already had his next project in mind: an indie-style superhero film, since he didn't have two hundred million dollars to spend.
Jason had his doubts about that.
With all the money Good Will Hunting was generating, whatever he was likely to make from Lights Out, and the TV series he was working on, the guy would have a considerable net worth.
Maybe he still wasn't in a position to finance a two-hundred-million-dollar blockbuster.
But a hundred-million-dollar production didn't sound all that far-fetched.
He had also noticed, and it wasn't particularly difficult to, that Owen had an almost obsessive need to control every one of his projects.
He financed his own films, retained ownership of the intellectual property, and made the important decisions without depending on any studio.
It was every filmmaker's dream.
The hard part wasn't wanting that level of freedom.
The truly difficult part was having enough capital to invest five, ten, or even more million dollars of your own money.
And even harder was doing it again and again without being paralyzed by fear and the risk of failure.
Owen, on the other hand, seemed to have absolute confidence in everything he produced.
So far, every gamble he had taken had proven him right.
But if he ever wanted to make a far more ambitious project, he wouldn't have to shoulder all the risk alone anymore.
With a résumé that already included awards at Sundance, an Oscar, two awards at Cannes, and a string of both commercial and critical successes, virtually any studio would be willing to invest millions in his next film with almost blind confidence.
In short, every few days there was a new headline, a new interview, another viral video, or another public appearance that kept fueling Owen's popularity.
It was as if the momentum surrounding him never faded. Whenever one story began to lose steam, another immediately emerged to take its place.
That was precisely why Universal had gone much further than usual during the negotiations. They not only saw enormous potential in Lights Out, but also the opportunity to begin a long-term relationship with someone who could become one of the industry's biggest figures.
Not just as an actor, but also as a producer and screenwriter.
Jason himself had warned them from the very beginning not to try to buy part of the intellectual property or impose clauses requiring Owen to produce a future sequel with them.
It would be a mistake. He knew from experience.
He had previously tried to secure the distribution rights for Paranormal Activity and later acquire the franchise rights.
In the end, A24 and Lionsgate had beaten him to it.
Jason let out a quiet sigh.
'That's water under the bridge,' he thought, slowly shaking his head.
His business model had always revolved around acquiring, at least partially, the intellectual property of promising projects.
And yet, the offer they had presented to Owen already broke away from much of that philosophy. They were offering a box office profit share to a newcomer while allowing him to retain part of the IP.
It was far more than he was accustomed to offering at the time.
But this deal was different, and they had a real chance of securing Owen's signature.
Now all that was left was to wait for the next few days and hear back from Owen's agency.
They would probably know by Monday or Tuesday.
His only concern was A24. From what he had been able to gather, the indie studio had entered the negotiations.
Owen already had an excellent relationship with them, and that could tip the scales.
Although, realistically, Jason doubted A24 could match Universal's offer in terms of marketing budget, the scale of the theatrical release, and international distribution.
'We'll see,' he thought.
With that, he pushed aside an anxiety that no longer served any purpose, shut down his computer, and left his office to make dinner with his wife.
...
North Hollywood, Los Angeles – 11:47 PM
Curry Barker, a twenty-three-year-old, opened the door to his modest apartment just a few minutes before midnight.
It certainly wasn't one of the most exclusive areas of Los Angeles, but the rent was reasonable and allowed him to keep pursuing his dream without having to devote most of his income to rent, while still living on his own.
Today was Sunday, just minutes away from becoming Monday, a day he would hardly ever forget.
Mainly because his short film, The Chair, had finally been screened at the LA Shorts International Film Festival.
The oldest film festival in Los Angeles and one of the most prestigious short film festivals in the world. Every year it screened hundreds of films and, on top of that, it was an Academy Awards, BAFTA, and Canadian Screen Awards qualifying festival.
The fact that The Chair, the first serious horror short he had uploaded to his YouTube channel, That's a Bad Idea, had come close to reaching five million views and had also been accepted into a festival of that caliber was absolutely insane.
After all, he was known for making comedy sketches.
He hadn't even reached half a million subscribers yet, and his audience had never expected, nor consumed, a horror short film.
And yet, it had worked.
Not only on YouTube. It had also impressed critics and the festival programmers.
All of that with a budget of less than a thousand dollars.
He had written and directed the short himself, and for the first time, he felt that all his effort was beginning to turn into something tangible.
Not so much in terms of money, beyond the revenue generated by YouTube views, but in terms of credibility within the industry.
For a director who was only twenty-three years old, having a credit like that was invaluable.
And that wasn't even the best part of the day.
That night, The Chair had been screened during the 8:00 PM horror block.
Not only was it the first time he had ever seen one of his own works on a movie screen, with the theater more than seventy percent full, but he had also received his first real offer from a producer.
Among those in attendance was James Harris, producer at Tea Shop Productions.
When the screening ended, he approached Curry, greeted his friends and the rest of the small cast who had attended the festival, and handed him a business card.
He got straight to the point.
He wanted to arrange a meeting to discuss the concept behind The Chair.
He was convinced it had the potential to become a feature film.
Curry set his keys down on the coffee table, pulled the business card from his pocket, and stared at it for a few seconds.
He still had trouble believing it.
He hadn't expected everything to happen so quickly.
He had imagined that, at best, during Tuesday's second screening, some producer might come over to congratulate him or perhaps ask for his contact information.
But that very same night, after the first screening, he already had a meeting on the table to discuss his first possible feature film.
'Yes!' he thought for the umpteenth time, unable to contain his excitement.
Up until then, the channel had been focused primarily on comedy sketches, where he himself acted and portrayed most of the characters he wrote.
He enjoyed acting, but he was also honest enough with himself to recognize his own limitations.
He had a knack for comedy.
Not for becoming a great film or television actor.
Behind the camera, however, as a director, that was where he truly felt he belonged.
How many directors could say they had come out of YouTube, financed a short film out of their own pocket, and then seen that very project screened at one of the most prestigious short film festivals in the world?
And how many of them had also received an offer to develop a feature film immediately after its very first screening?
Very few.
Although, now that he thought about it...
There was one case that was even more extraordinary.
Curry let out a small laugh as he remembered, "Right... there's always that damn genius," he muttered to himself.
After settling in, he walked over to his computer, dropped into his chair, and powered up his PC.
The moment he opened Discord, an incoming call appeared.
Cooper.
'That bastard is fast,' Curry thought with a faint smile as he accepted the call and put on his headset.
After the screening, which hadn't lasted very long since it was a short film, he and Cooper, his best friend, inseparable creative partner, and co-founder of their YouTube channel, had gone out to celebrate at a bar.
The original plan had simply been to raise a toast because The Chair had made it onto a movie theater screen.
But the producer's appearance completely changed the tone of the evening.
In the end, the celebration also brought together several friends and the small cast that had participated in the short film.
"Hey, Mr. Success!" Cooper greeted enthusiastically, already a couple of drinks in.
Curry let out a laugh, and the two of them began going over everything that had happened during the past few hours.
Once the initial excitement settled down a bit, they moved on to what really mattered.
Researching Tea Shop Productions.
They needed to prepare for the meeting.
After spending a few minutes browsing the internet, they found enough information to get a good idea of the company.
It was a niche British independent production company whose business model immediately reminded them of Blumhouse in its early years: genre films, mainly horror, survival, and thrillers, with very low budgets and a strong focus on profitability.
Among its best-known productions was 47 Meters Down (2017).
Budget: $5.5 million.
Worldwide gross: $62.2 million.
It was the company's biggest commercial success.
More recently, there was Fall (2022).
It had cost just three million dollars and finished its theatrical run with a worldwide box office total of $21.8 million.
The figure might not seem enormous compared to the major studios, but it had earned back more than seven times its budget.
And on top of that, a few months later it found a second life on Netflix, where it became the platform's number-one movie for several weeks.
"I'd classify them as a premium B-movie production company," Cooper commented. "The kind of smart producers who know how to squeeze every last dollar."
Curry nodded slowly, "They're looking for really strong concepts that can be filmed on a small budget... but no matter how much I think about it, I just can't picture The Chair working as a ninety-minute film."
That was precisely what James wanted to meet about.
However, the more Curry thought about it, the less clear it became how to turn that concept into a story capable of sustaining a three-act structure.
"Man, it's still your chance to make your first feature film with a production company. And while you're at it, hire me as a producer or something," Cooper joked with a laugh. "If we work the script properly, I'm sure we'll find a way."
Cooper also felt that the project was a little bit his.
He had collaborated as a producer on The Chair, contributing ideas and feedback during the script's development, even though the story and screenplay were primarily Curry's work.
In any case, they both agreed on one thing.
An opportunity like this was simply too good to let slip away.
If James saw feature-film potential in it, they had to explore that possibility.
They remained silent for a few seconds until Cooper spoke again.
"What if you tell him about that other script you're working on?"
"Obsession?" Curry replied.
He immediately shook his head.
"No. I'm not going to show up to the first meeting trying to sell him another project. Besides, the script isn't even finished yet. I have a first draft, which would be enough to pitch it... but there'll be time to talk about that later."
James had asked for a meeting to discuss The Chair.
That concept.
Curry didn't want to steer the conversation away by immediately trying to pitch another script. It would make him look desperate and, on top of that, shift the focus away from the very reason the producer had wanted to meet him.
After continuing to exchange ideas, they both reached the same conclusion.
At the meeting, Curry would simply remain open-minded.
He would listen to James's vision, try to understand how those kinds of negotiations worked, and find out what potential an experienced producer saw in The Chair as a future feature film.
Little by little, the conversation became less serious and drifted toward whatever topics happened to cross their minds.
At one point, Curry grabbed a can of beer while absentmindedly browsing on his computer and continuing to chat with his friend.
Eventually, he opened his email inbox.
It was an absolute mess.
Between YouTube notifications, sponsorships, social media, and messages related to The Chair, there were hundreds of unread emails.
His finger slowly scrolled the mouse wheel until it suddenly came to a complete stop.
"Second Take Films," he read, and his hand froze on the mouse.
[Subject: Second Take Films // Curry Barker (General Meeting Invitation)]
He noticed it had been sitting there for several days.
"What the hell?!" Curry blurted out, choking and spitting out part of his beer.
Cooper nearly jumped out of his chair on the other end of the Discord call, "What's wrong, man? Don't scare me like that!"
"Second Take Films sent me an email!" Curry replied, leaning closer to the monitor as if he believed he'd read it wrong.
"What?!" Cooper exclaimed. "Are you serious!? Could it be a troll?"
Curry opened the email. He read it once.
Then a second time.
Then a third.
Everything was written in an impeccably professional manner.
The email explained that they had been very impressed by the direction of The Chair and would like to meet him for an exploratory meeting.
"...An informal conversation of approximately fifteen to twenty minutes to get to know each other and discuss future projects or collaboration opportunities with our label."
The signature appeared at the bottom of the email.
Owen Ashford.
"No way!" Cooper exclaimed. "The indie genius himself emailed you!"
Neither of them needed to look up what Second Take Films was.
It had probably become the most popular film-focused YouTube channel in the world.
A channel created by Owen Ashford, a screenwriter, actor, and producer their own age.
Two years younger, actually.
Someone who, in less than three years, had gone from being a complete nobody to becoming one of the most influential figures in the film industry.
It was hard to argue with the nickname people had given him, the indie genius or Hollywood's golden boy.
Not only did he possess an extraordinary ability to write stories that resonated with both audiences and critics.
He had also proven himself to be an exceptional actor, capable of moving millions of viewers, first with Paperman without saying a single word, earning himself an Oscar, and then by conquering Cannes with the Best Actor award for Good Will Hunting.
And as if all that weren't enough, he had also demonstrated an exceptional talent for business.
He had understood, long before almost anyone else, how to leverage YouTube, social media, marketing, and algorithms to turn Second Take Films into a massive brand that just kept growing.
Curry ran both hands through his hair.
"They sent this on Friday..." he muttered, completely stunned.
"You made them wait three days?!" Cooper exclaimed in disbelief. "Well... it was the weekend. They'll understand, and they probably know you've been busy with everything at the festival..." he added, trying to calm him down.
"That's true," Curry said, nodding, feeling a little more at ease.
But Cooper's calm didn't last long.
"Man, this is huge! If you end up working with them, you're joining the hottest independent studio in Hollywood right now. Who knows why they want to meet you? They're producing that tech series, they've got that upcoming superhero movie... they're clearly looking for talented people."
After the initial shock wore off, the two of them set their excitement aside and began analyzing the email calmly.
They didn't want to reply impulsively and end up sending something they'd regret later.
Maybe they were blowing the situation out of proportion.
Or maybe they weren't.
For someone who had come from YouTube, receiving an email from Second Take Films was almost impossible to put into perspective.
It wasn't just a film production company.
It was probably the biggest inspiration for any creator who dreamed of making the leap from the internet into the film industry.
After discussing it for several minutes, they drafted a simple, professional reply.
Curry apologized for not seeing the email sooner, explained that it had gotten buried beneath hundreds of notifications, and confirmed that he would be delighted to meet with them.
He also sent them several available days and time slots throughout the week, with the sole exception of the meeting he already had scheduled with James Harris.
After sending the email, the two of them began drawing conclusions.
Tea Shop Productions and Second Take Films seemed interested in completely different things.
James Harris had been fascinated by The Chair.
What he wanted was that concept. He saw the potential to turn it into a profitable feature film.
Second Take Films, on the other hand, seemed interested in Curry as a director.
In his potential as a filmmaker.
Without realizing it, Curry opened the document for Obsession, his first feature-length screenplay.
The story followed an employee at a music store who acquired a mysterious supernatural toy capable of granting him a single wish: to make Nikki, his childhood friend, fall in love with him.
The wish came true.
But the consequences became increasingly terrifying.
Just imagining the possibility of pitching that story to Owen made his stomach tighten.
It was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
Though he quickly remembered what he himself had told Cooper just a few minutes earlier.
He couldn't show up to that first meeting trying to sell a screenplay. That wasn't the goal.
First, he had to build a relationship. There would be plenty of time to talk about projects later.
If Tea Shop Productions ultimately decided to move forward with a feature adaptation of The Chair, and the collaboration went well, he could always pitch Obsession down the road.
And if Second Take Films decided to hire him to direct a project under their banner, opportunities to show them that screenplay would come sooner or later.
Even so, both Curry and Cooper agreed on one thing: if they had a choice, they would much rather see Obsession end up in the hands of Second Take Films first.
Owen wasn't just a producer with money.
He had become an artistic benchmark.
Someone respected by both audiences and critics.
Having a project backed creatively and financially by Second Take Films gave it an immediate legitimacy that very few production companies could offer.
Cooper also pointed out another important detail from a production standpoint.
James Harris was a producer and the founder of Tea Shop Productions, but he wasn't the sole financier.
Even if he fell in love with the screenplay, that didn't mean he could simply write a check and greenlight the film on the spot.
He needed the approval of the other founder and would most likely have to seek co-producers or outside financing.
Which would likely turn into a lengthy process.
With Owen, it was different.
In a way, he was the studio.
He had sold the Paranormal Activity IP for a multimillion-dollar sum, negotiated extremely favorable deals, and accumulated enough wealth to finance projects with far greater freedom.
If he truly believed in a film, he could greenlight it that very day.
"This is a day we're going to remember for a long time!" Cooper said.
"No doubt..." Curry replied with a smile before yawning. He glanced toward the bottom corner of his monitor.
4:30 AM.
"Next week is going to be insane..." he added, his voice carrying a mixture of anxiety, nerves, and excitement.
Shortly afterward, the call ended.
He shut down his computer and went off to try to get some sleep.
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