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*****
Chapter 8 -
Nancy was stunned for a moment, her professional armor momentarily cracking before the sheer audacity of her nephew. Then, in a flash of classic Meyers family dynamic, she reached out and grabbed Marvin's cheeks, pulling the soft flesh apart until his mouth was a comical 'O'.
"You little rascal! What did you just say?" she barked, though her eyes were dancing. "Are you lecturing me on the industry? I changed your diapers, you tiny shark!"
Marvin tried to look toward his mother for help, but Linda was leaning against the marble kitchen island, sipping a mimosa with a radiant smile. She showed absolutely no intention of rescuing her son from his aunt's clutches; if anything, she looked like she was enjoying the show.
"The script is licensed to you for free," Marvin managed to squeak out through his pinched cheeks, his hands coming up to tick points off on his fingers like a seasoned WMA agent. "The film company pays your massive directing salary. You get the credit, you get the production rights, and you get to 'discover' a child prodigy who just happens to be your nephew. Auntie... you're having your cake, eating it, and charging me for the fork! You're trying to build a Disney movie on my back for the price of a hug!"
Nancy froze, the sheer logic of the boy's statement hitting her like a cold splash of Pacific water. She let go of his face and let out a sharp, delighted bark of laughter that echoed off the high ceilings.
She looked toward the kitchen door where Grant was standing, swirling his morning coffee with a smug, "I told you so" expression that only a brother could manage.
"Grant!" Nancy yelled. "Your son isn't eleven! He's a forty-year-old agent trapped in a boy's body! How did he figure out the backend structure from one sentence? Who have you been letting him hang out with at Morgan?"
Grant shrugged, leaning against the doorframe. "I told you, Nancy. He doesn't just write the stories; he reads the room. He's been like this since breakfast—shrewd, sharp, and entirely too observant for his own good. I think he's been reading my internal memos when I'm not looking."
Marvin straightened his collar and crossed his arms, the "little angel" mask completely evaporating. In its place was something cool, focused, and predatory—the soul of the self manifesting in a ten-year-old's stance.
"If Disney wants the copyright, fine. That's the cost of the machine," Marvin said, his blue eyes flashing with a light that felt far too ancient for his face. "But I want a 'Most Favored Nations' clause for my acting salary. I want a specific percentage of the merchandising for the Mike and Baker characters—not just 'net,' Nancy, but 'gross.' And I don't want a single syllable of the emotional core changed. I'm not just some 'kid actor' you found in the hills; I'm the one who gave you the keys to the place."
Nancy stared at him. The amusement in her eyes was being replaced by a profound, professional respect. This wasn't just nepotism; this was a partnership. "You mentioned the editing room earlier, Marvin. You're ten years old. Most kids your age can't even sit still for a 90-minute movie, let alone help cut one."
"I'm an eleven-year-old with a 15% royalty at Random House and a localized global release plan," Marvin countered, stepping into her space with a magnetic confidence. "I think I can handle a Moviola. I grew up in Mom's USC labs, remember? I know the language of the cut."
Nancy looked at Grant, then back to Marvin. She slowly extended her hand. "Alright, you little shark. We'll discuss the specifics with the lawyers tomorrow. But Michael Eisner wants a meeting. He wants to see the boy who out-thought his creative department."
Marvin took her hand, his grip firm, dry, and surprisingly strong. Eisner, he thought, a cold, hungry satisfaction settling into his bones. The King of the Mouse House. He could almost taste the massive harvest of public desire and adoration that was about to come.
"I'll be ready," Marvin said, his magnetic smile returning. "But Aunt Nancy? Next time you try to lowball me, bring a better offer than 'free'. This cashmere wrap is nice, but it isn't that expensive."
The house erupted in laughter again. Marvin let the "shark" persona soften just a touch, leaning back against the sofa. "Oh, dear Aunt Nancy, as I said, I'm willing to license this to you for free, I'm willing to play the twins, and I'm even willing to be the leverage you need to secure the Producer-Director hyphenate with the studio."
He gave her a cheeky, dimpled grin. "After all, who told you to be my favorite aunt?"
"That's more like it!" Nancy laughed, then paused, her eyes narrowing. "But really... where did you learn all these butter-ups? This level of flattery is a professional skill."
She looked at Grant. Grant raised his hands in a 'don't look at me' gesture. "I didn't teach him that. In my world, we just use money."
"Okay, back to Disney," Nancy said, her tone shifting to business as they sat down for a late lunch. "I've already sent a copy of the script to their senior review office. Along with my 'strongest personal recommendation' as a producer."
"Yes, the famous Nancy Meyers has provided her comments," Marvin said, mimicking his father's executive tone with a touch of naivety and mischief. "It seems the script will pass the review without any problems. The Mouse will be very happy to have a guaranteed hit."
Nancy's eyes lit up. She watched Marvin's little shrug—the way he combined a childish gesture with a sharp, calculating gaze. 'That move,' she thought, 'I have to use that in the movie. It's perfect character work.'
"Aunt Nancy, I have another idea," Marvin said, leaning over his plate. "A screenplay written by an 11-year-old boy—it's the ultimate marketing hook. But we should be strategic. We should talk to Random House and ask them to keep my age a secret for the initial book launch. Let the work stand on its own first. Then, when the movie is about to be released, we reveal the 'Genius Author' as the 'Star Actor.' The synergy will be massive. We'll save the studio and the publisher millions in marketing because the press will do the work for us for free."
Nancy sat back, her fork halfway to her mouth. She looked at Linda, who was nodding slowly. The plan was flawless. It was a multi-platform media blitz conceived by a child who should have been worrying about the fifth-grade science fair.
Nancy left the Meyers' household later that afternoon, feeling a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. She had come to dote on her favorite nephew; she was leaving with the biggest project of her career.
As her Mercedes wound down the hills of San Marino, she thought about "the old Marvin." The family had always known he was bright, but he'd mostly been a "lazy bump"—a mischievous, pampered boy who preferred lounging by the pool and being fed grapes by Mrs. Aranda. Because he was the only son, the whole family had doted on him, ignoring his lack of focus because, after all, he was just a child of privilege.
But this new Marvin? He was a force. He wasn't just a mischievous rascal anymore; he was a miniature titan who seemed to understand the "Hollywood Ledger" better than most agents at CAA.
Nancy's mind raced through the production logistics for The Parent Trap. Marvin's storyboards were terrifyingly professional—clearly, his time in Linda's USC film labs hadn't been spent just napping. With those storyboards as a guide, she could shoot the film in record time. And his plan for the "Age Reveal" publicity was a stroke of genius.
'This movie won't just be a hit,' Nancy thought, her ambition igniting into a bright, hot flame. 'It's going to be a moment.'
She gripped the steering wheel, her eyes fixed on the road. "No," she whispered to herself. "I'm not waiting until Monday. I'm calling Michael's private line tomorrow morning. We're fast-tracking this."
---
The elevator at Disney's Team Disney building in Burbank ascended with a quiet, expensive hum. Inside, Nancy checked the contents of her leather portfolio for the fourth time. She wasn't nervous—Nancy Meyers didn't do nervous—but she was precise. In this town, precision was the difference between a green light and a "we'll get back to you."
The doors slid open to the executive floor, revealing a reception area that screamed "Corporate Magic." Polished wood, subtly placed Mickey motifs, and an air of hushed, high-stakes power. George Brown, the President of Touchstone Pictures, was already leaning against the mahogany desk. He looked capable, a man in his thirties who had mastered the art of navigating the shark-infested waters of a Disney subsidiary.
"Hello, Nancy," George said, offering a genuine smile. He had seen the script, and he knew they were standing on a iron mine.
"Hello, George," Nancy replied, her heels clicking with purpose as she joined him.
"Let's head into the conference room. Mr. Eisner is on the warpath today, but he's right on schedule."
The conference room was vast, dominated by a table that had seen more billion-dollar decisions than most small countries' parliaments. At exactly 10:00 AM, the heavy double doors swung open. Michael Eisner, the CEO and Chairman who had resurrected the Disney beast, strode in. He was imposing, his presence filling the room with the kinetic energy of a man who viewed the world as a series of acquisitions.
"Nancy, long time no see. You look like you've been enjoying the San Marino air," Eisner said, flashing a shark-like smile as he took his seat at the head of the table.
Nancy gave him a professional nod, the kind of balanced response that acknowledged his power without ceding her own. "Not bad, Michael. Not bad at all."
"Very well, let's get to it. Time is money, and we're in the business of making both," Eisner said, gesturing toward George. "George, you've lived with this script for forty-eight hours. Give me the breakdown."
George cleared his throat, sliding a sleek black folder across the table. "Mr. Eisner, the Touchstone editorial and creative teams have performed an exhaustive review. The consensus is unanimous: The Parent Trap remake is not just a worthwhile investment; it is the quintessential Disney property for the mid-nineties. It hits every demographic—family-friendly, kinship, humor, and a heart-tugging happy ending. It's a low-risk, high-reward play that fits perfectly into our slate."
Eisner picked up the report but didn't open it. His eyes remained fixed on Nancy. "That's the studio perspective. Nancy, you're the one who brought this to my private line. Why should I care about a remake of a thirty-five-year-old movie right now?"
Nancy leaned forward, her voice dropping into that melodic, persuasive tone that had convinced dozens of stars to sign on the dotted line. "Because, Michael, the story isn't the only thing we're selling. We're selling a phenomenon. You may not know this, but this screenplay—this professional, tightly paced, emotionally resonant script—was written by my nephew. He's eleven years old."
The room went momentarily silent. The hum of the air conditioning seemed to grow louder.
Eisner's eyes sharpened, a flicker of genuine interest—or perhaps predatory instinct—igniting. "An eleven-year-old? Nancy, I've heard a lot of 'prodigy' stories in this office. Can you guarantee, on your reputation, that he wrote this himself?"
"I guarantee it with every movie I've ever made," Nancy said firmly. "But it gets better. He hasn't just written a script; he's written a children's book that Random House is launching with a massive 200,000-copy first printing this November. We have a window here for a synergistic marketing blitz that would make a Madison Avenue firm weep. An eleven-year-old boy who is a Random House author and a Disney screenwriter? The media won't just cover it; they'll obsess over it."
She paused, letting the "gimmick" settle into Eisner's mind. "And here is the final chip: my nephew, Marvin, is a natural on camera. He's handsome, he's magnetic, and he's perfect for the twins. A genius author writing and starring in his own Disney debut? That's not a movie, Michael. That's an event. We can promote the book and the movie together, saving millions in traditional ad spend because the curiosity factor alone will drive the box office."
*****
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