The flight back home turned out to be rather anticlimactic. I had expected something noteworthy to happen, some kind of dramatic farewell or surprise, but nothing did. Julie sat beside me in first class, and we spent most of the time talking when we weren't dozing off. The rest of the senior crew members, Randal, Nestor, and a few others, were seated in business class. My two friends, along with everyone else who wasn't considered essential to the production, were tucked away in economy. It was a ridiculous kind of segregation, one that made the hierarchy of the film industry glaringly obvious. Truth be told, even Julie and I would have been seated in business class if our lawyer hadn't fought to include first class in our contract.
After more than half a day in the air, we finally touched down in Los Angeles. The plan was simple: wait a few hours during the layover before heading on to New York. Unfortunately, things never went according to plan. A mechanical issue grounded the plane, delaying the connecting flight by nearly half a day.
"I want to punch someone," I muttered loudly, pacing near the terminal windows. The sterile glow of the airport lights made the fatigue in my body feel even heavier. "Twelve hours? We've already been flying non-stop for that many hours! What the hell are we supposed to do here all this time?"
Julie reached for my arm, her voice calm and steady. "Relax, Noah. Look at it this way—it's better they grounded the plane than risked flying with a problem."
Peter laughed from where he sat sprawled in one of the stiff leather lounge chairs. "Bet you forgot, in all your privileged first class, that delays affect everyone equally. Economy, business, or first class, it doesn't matter. And you're complaining while you've got access to a first-class lounge? Come on."
I brushed his arm off, annoyed but unable to deny the truth of his words. Their situation was worse than mine, yet none of them seemed half as frustrated.
I exhaled sharply and sat down beside Julie. "Sorry. I just hate waiting for no reason."
"You don't have to," came a voice from behind us.
We all turned at once. Standing there, casual yet carrying that air of authority he always had, was Randal Kleiser.
"What do you mean, Randal?" I asked, straightening in my seat.
"I just got off a call with Douglas Day-Stewart," he said, adjusting the strap of his carry-on. "He's here in Los Angeles, working on revisions to that script you wrote, Risky Business. It's received a tentative approval from Columbia."
For a moment, I froze. My chest tightened, and I wasn't sure whether to feel elated or worried. The news settled in awkward silence around me until Ash broke it with a thump to my back.
"I told you it was a masterpiece!" he boasted, grinning ear to ear.
"Congrats, man!" Peter chimed in.
"Wow, that's amazing!" Julie added, her face lighting up. While she had not read the script, she was aware of its existence.
They all might have focused on the main part where my script had been approved, but one word echoed louder in my mind.
"Tentative?" I asked quietly, my voice edged with apprehension.
Randal nodded. "I don't know the details, but the studio probably attached conditions to the deal. You'll need to go and talk it over with them. And, as luck would have it, this delay is perfect timing. I'm staying in L.A. for a while to start post-production for Blue Lagoon. If you want, I can drop you off at Columbia's headquarters. Douglas will be there, and you'll have the chance to meet Frank Price, the CEO, and talk about the terms directly."
It felt strange when I realized that I had already signed a three-picture deal with Columbia without ever meeting the company's CEO.
"Alright, let's go quickly then," I said. "No point in prolonging the meeting."
"And what will we do until then?" Julie asked, her brow furrowed.
"You're welcome to come along if you want," Randal offered. "But it wouldn't be wise for you to sit in on the meeting. If you just want to wait in the lobby while Noah talks, that's fine too."
Julie shook her head almost instantly. "No, I'd rather stay in the lounge."
Ash and Peter agreed with her without hesitation, and I couldn't blame them. After such a long flight, sitting around in some corporate lobby sounded more like punishment than support.
I followed Randal through the sliding glass doors of the terminal toward the exit, where a sleek black BMW with tinted windows and a driver in uniform was already waiting.
"Whoa, this is nice," I remarked as I slid into the cool leather seat.
"Enjoy the company perks," Randal said with a faint grin. "We may not sit in cubicles, but make no mistake, we still work for a multi-billion-dollar corporation." Then he became serious. "Listen, Noah, I'll drop you off at the office, then head to my hotel. I don't have to start my work until the day after, so I could use some rest."
I couldn't help the small pang of disappointment that hit me. Randal wouldn't be there to help guide me through the meeting. Not that I needed him to negotiate for me, but he understood the industry far better than I did. His support, especially as someone who had seen me work on set, would have carried weight.
The car hummed softly as we drove through Los Angeles, the city flashing by in bursts of palm trees, billboards, and traffic lights. After a few minutes of silence, I finally spoke.
"What do you think makes the approval tentative? You don't know the details, sure, but you must have some guesses."
Randal turned his head and met my eyes, his expression calm but serious. "I don't have a guess. I know for certain. They liked the script, but they don't want you directing it. That's the most likely condition Price will set. He'll let you star in it, but he'll assign someone else to direct."
I narrowed my eyes. "How are you so sure if Doug didn't tell you?"
He gave a casual shrug. "Because my agent sent me a letter while on the island, about Columbia offering me a directing role. They didn't mention which film it was, but I turned it down. I needed a break after The Blue Lagoon. If I had to bet, I'd say the movie was Risky Business."
It made sense. Even on the island, Randal sometimes received memos and studio notes whenever supplies arrived. The studio could easily have slipped in an offer for him to helm my script.
After another few minutes, the BMW turned into a wide driveway flanked by manicured hedges and fountain-lined walkways. The sprawling Columbia Studios building loomed ahead, its glass and steel façade gleaming in the California sun.
"Here we are," Randal said as the car rolled to a stop.
I stepped out, staring up at the imposing structure. A wave of intimidation washed over me, making me feel very small against its towering walls.
"All the best!" Randal called out as the car pulled away, leaving me standing alone at the entrance.
I drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. That trick had always worked to calm me down, and it did its job this time as well.
Inside, the lobby buzzed with activity. Assistants in sharp suits hurried past with folders and coffee cups, while secretaries answered phones in brisk voices.
Getting a meeting with the CEO should not have been easy, especially on such short notice. Yet, when I gave my name at the front desk, the receptionist smiled politely and said, "Mr. Price will see you on the top floor."
Strange.
The moment I knocked on the door of the cabin and peeked inside, I froze in place. I had expected to see two men, but there were three here. The one behind the intricately designed desk was clearly Frank Price, CEO of Columbia Pictures. One of the others I recognized instantly was Douglas Day-Stewart, the screenwriter for The Blue Lagoon. It was the presence of the third man that made my stomach lurch.
I didn't know his name at the time, but I knew exactly where I had seen him. Years later, he had given an interview on the anniversary of Risky Business, a video I had seen on YouTube. He was the original director.
A sickening thought struck me.
Did they find out I copied the script? Has he already written it? Will I be facing charges for plagiarism?
"Noah!" Doug got up at once, striding over with a warm smile and a firm handshake. "I hope your flight wasn't too unpleasant?"
"It was alright," I replied, forcing calm into my voice even as panic tightened in my chest. "Could've done without the extended layover, but some things are out of our control."
"True," he said with a sage nod, before gesturing toward the others. "Come in. Meet Frank Price, CEO of Columbia Pictures, and Paul Brickman, a good friend of mine who's helping me refine the script for Risky Business."
Relief hit me like a tide. The stranger wasn't here to accuse me of plagiarism. He was here as a collaborator.
Frank stepped out from behind his desk, his movements sharp yet welcoming. He shook my hand with firm authority. "I've been wanting to meet you for a while, Noah. Doug and Randal both had a great deal to say about your work."
I inclined my head gratefully. "The feeling is mutual. I've heard so much about you that when I learned about the layover, coming here felt like a no-brainer."
I turned to Paul next. He shook my hand eagerly, his enthusiasm disarming.
"The script you wrote is fantastic," Paul said, his voice brimming with genuine admiration. "I'm not making this up, but for years, I've been thinking of a story quite similar to what you have written, but I just couldn't get around to starting to write it. After reading your work, I know I couldn't have done it better myself."
"Thank you," I said, the knot in my chest loosening slightly upon knowing that.
Frank motioned toward a sofa set arranged in the corner of the office, its cushions plush and inviting. "Let's have our meeting there."
We moved across the room, the soft carpet muffling our steps. A secretary soon arrived with a tray of refreshments, setting down glasses and a small spread of fruit and pastries.
Once everyone was seated, Frank leaned forward, his tone shifting into something far more serious.
"Noah," he began, his sharp eyes locking on mine. "I'll be blunt with you. I love your script, and I'm very interested in greenlighting it today. But there are conditions we need to address. Specifically, I need a competent director attached. While I've heard from Randal that you contributed valuable input on the set of The Blue Lagoon, I cannot in good conscience allow you to star and direct this project at the same time."
His words sank heavily into me. Just as Randal predicted, the hesitation was about my desire to direct.
"Even seasoned directors struggle to juggle multiple duties on set," Frank continued. "Handing that responsibility to someone with virtually no directing experience is not a risk I'm willing to take."
I understood his reasoning. I even respected it. But I wasn't ready to surrender without a fight.
"With all due respect, Mr. Price," I said, straightening my posture, "Orson Welles did it with Citizen Kane. And that film is now considered the greatest movie ever made."
"That's not true," Frank countered at once. "Citizen Kane may have been Welles's first feature film, but he had already made several shorts. On top of that, he came from a rich background in theater, both as a performer and a director. He didn't walk into the business empty-handed. You, on the other hand, have very little experience in either. I don't doubt your determination, Noah, but if you're sprinting from behind the camera to in front of it every two minutes, production will turn into chaos."
I did not argue further. Deep down, I knew he was right. Even part of me feared I was rushing headlong into this industry far faster than I should. The conflict lay within me: most of me was still a teenager, eager but inexperienced. Yet another part was older, and burdened by memories of struggle. That part was desperate to grab the opportunity while it lasted. The boy in me could wait. The man in me could not. Unfortunately, I had to. At least this time.
"So what do you suggest?" I finally asked.
"Actually…" Paul Brickman, who had been quiet until now, spoke up. "I suggested to Frank that I take over as director. I've shot several short films, written multiple screenplays, and I've wanted to direct a feature for years. That is—if you're open to it."
That…was something I had not even thought about because I didn't know that the mother of all coincidences would happen, and I'd run into Paul.
"I've seen Paul's work," Frank added, taking my silence for contemplation. "It's strong. I believe he could shape this script into something remarkable."
I closed my eyes, finally considering the offer. Fate had a twisted sense of humor. Of all people, it had to bring Paul Brickman into the picture, the very man destined to direct Risky Business in another timeline. Part of me wanted to refuse outright, to cling to my vision. But the rational side reminded me of the consequences.
I could walk away, take the script elsewhere, but that would create new problems. The guilt would eat at me for stripping Paul of something that, in a sense, was already his. And then there was my contract: three pictures with Columbia. If I rejected this compromise, they could retaliate by pushing me into another project I wanted no part of.
I couldn't afford that.
"Alright," I said at last, meeting Paul's eyes. "You can direct."
His face lit up as though Christmas had come early. "Thank you, Noah. I'll take the utmost care of your story. I promise you that."
I gave a single nod, then turned to Frank. "What are the rest of your conditions?"
Frank's grin widened, sharp and satisfied. He turned toward Doug and Paul. "Gentlemen, can you give us the room?"
Neither argued. Both men rose and quietly slipped out, leaving Frank and me alone. The silence that followed was thick, a contest of will. Neither of us spoke, neither willing to blink first.
At last, Frank leaned forward, his voice measured. "I had someone look into your background, Noah. Especially after I learned you managed to write a full script while shooting your debut film."
"Oh?" I asked, curious despite the tension curling in my gut. "And what exactly did you find?"
He had a gleam in his eye as he leaned back in his chair, speaking with measured precision. "The man I hired told me that you are the most likely candidate to win a gold medal at the Olympics next year. I don't follow swimming myself, but your national record is too impressive to ignore."
"What exactly are you trying to imply?" I asked, my tone cautious.
"I'm asking why you are doing this," he replied bluntly. "I refuse to believe that you are naive enough to be unaware of the amateur rules. Once your movie comes out, you will not be allowed to participate in the Olympics."
I considered his words before answering. "Would you be willing to postpone the release of The Blue Lagoon until after the Olympics? If I win a gold medal, it would be the perfect promotion for the film, and it would cost nothing."
"We already have a June release planned," Frank explained, folding his hands neatly on the desk. "It would be a significant inconvenience to move the date."
The Olympics were set for late July of the following year.
Frank's face remained calm and collected, but there was something predatory in his eyes, a glint that betrayed calculation. I suspected he was using this supposed inconvenience as leverage to push for a cheaper contract on Risky Business. Unfortunately for him, I was not about to fold so easily.
I shrugged lightly. "It won't be perfect, but it won't be a huge setback for me either. There are already discussions in the international circuit about relaxing the amateur rules. If not next year, then certainly by 1984 or 1988 I would be allowed to compete."
Frank blinked at me several times, his expression caught between surprise and disbelief that I didn't argue with him any further.
"Can we move on to Risky Business now?" I asked, my voice sharper than before. "I came here straight from a long flight, and I would love to rest in the lounge or a hotel room."
He cleared his throat and sat straighter, regaining his composure. "Ahem, of course. The script you have written is strong. I believe it will resonate with young audiences, and that is exactly what we need for our future roster. Since this is your first attempt at screenwriting, I am prepared to offer you $100k. Keep in mind that it is three times what the WGA recommends for new writers. This is, of course, separate from your acting salary, which has already been set at $150k as per your three-picture deal. A quarter of a million for the entire project does not sound too bad, does it?"
I kept my expression neutral, though inside I frowned. The offer was far too good to be true. During the shoot for The Blue Lagoon, I spoke to several people who told me that a first-time writer would be lucky to secure fifty, and that only after difficult negotiations by an agent or representative.
There had to be a catch.
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