Dreams of Stardom (Hollywood SI)

The three men sitting in front of me, all wearing confident grins, made it clear that this negotiation wouldn't be easy.

"I think half a million would be the perfect remuneration for you," David Friendly, the man on the far left, said. He was in his fifties, with a stocky build and a round face.

"Absolutely," Peter Saraf, seated in the middle, agreed. He looked similar to David in terms of age and build. "You know we only have an $8 million budget after accounting for state subsidies. So half a mil comes to about 6% of the total. No one's getting paid more than that, so you will be the top-billed star in this ensemble."

While that might have been true, it couldn't be ignored that I wasn't an ordinary actor. My name on the film would sell tickets—that's why they offered me the role. But I couldn't come across as too aggressive and risk alienating these producers. Beside me, Tobias fidgeted nervously. He had volunteered to negotiate on my behalf, but I'd declined. Between the two of us, I was the better negotiator any day.

Had they offered me at least $2 million, I would have gladly accepted the pay and gone ahead with rehearsals. But half a million was far too low. My expenses during the production—private plane, security, hotels, and staff salaries—would already exceed that amount. Adding a great film to my repertoire was valuable, sure, but I wasn't exactly short on offers.

After [The Perks of Being a Wallflower], I'd been receiving offers from multiple studios, none of which offered me less than $5 million—one even went up to $15 million. Some studios had tried to book me in advance for next year, once [Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix] and [Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince] were wrapped. But I'd turned those offers down; I didn't want to commit to scripts or in some cases just ideas that I had no idea about.

"How about we eliminate an upfront salary entirely?" I offered. "Instead, give me 25% of the film's revenue, and we'll call it even. For the upfront, just pay me basic SAG rates."

The way the three producers exchanged glances told me immediately they wouldn't agree. Nor did I want them to. I had a much better proposal in mind, but to push them toward it, I needed to suggest something impossible first.

"Twenty-five percent is too much," Mark Turtletaub, the third man in the group, said. "At most, we can do 10%."

"That's too low for me," I replied with an apologetic smile. Before they could interject, I continued, "Try to see it from my perspective, Mark. Every other studio is offering me at least $5 million, and that's on the lower side. I understand this is an indie film with a limited budget, so I'm willing to forgo an upfront salary if I can expect solid profits. I'll accept 10% if you give me a $3 million upfront salary. That's the minimum extra revenue you'll make because of my presence in the movie."

David shook his head without even consulting his partners. "That's preposterous. We'll be screwed either way. We don't have $3 million for you."

I smiled inwardly. It was time to reveal my trump card.

"Then I can suggest an alternative. How about I pay you $8 million to take over the film production under my production house, Phoenix Studios? All of you can stay on as producers, and I'll pay you a fixed salary for it."

The three exchanged glances. I knew they'd need to discuss this among themselves before reaching a decision. Film production was inherently risky, but if I bought them out before the film was even made, it would save them from all that uncertainty.

"We have two more producers involved," Mark said. "Albert and Ron. We'll have to talk to them as well before making any decisions."

"Alright," I said, rising from my seat. "Think it through and get back to me. I've given you three options—decide which one works best for you." Then, turning to Tobias, I added, "Come on, we've got a meeting with Sony Columbia as well."

I caught the flicker of confusion on Tobias' face, but he wisely stayed silent in front of the three men. Only after we were outside their office did he ask, "We have another meeting?"

"No," I replied with a grin. "They just need to think I have other films I'm considering. It'll push them to make a quicker decision."

"Then why didn't you say it was with Warner?"

"Because they might assume it's about [Harry Potter]. I haven't done any films with Columbia yet, so they'll think it's about a new project."

Tobias looked at me, surprised, as we walked toward the car. After a moment, he said, "You're very devious."

"I'll take that as a compliment," I said with a grin.

"This just proves I made the right decision quitting as your manager," he quipped. "By the way, don't you think you should get a new manager or agent?"

"What's the need?" I asked. "I already have a good lawyer to draft and review all my contracts, and I'm doing a decent enough job managing myself. Maybe when [Harry Potter] is over, I'll consider it. Right now, what I really need is an internet manager to handle my online presence."

Tobias gave me a dubious look. "There's no such thing as an internet manager."

"I know," I said with a nod. "I'll create the role. Your job is to find me someone who is easygoing, dedicated, good with computers, and has solid writing skills. Their writing should be relatable to regular people."

"I'll see what I can do," Tobias said, jotting something in his notepad. "Anyone else you want to hire?"

"Not at the moment," I replied as we reached the car.

(Break)

"That fucking brat!" David growled. "Who does he think he is? Coming in here like a prancing peacock and demanding we hand over our movie to him."

"Calm down, David," Mark said in a soothing tone. "Troy didn't demand anything. He just offered us a few alternatives to make it worthwhile for him."

"Worthwhile?" David shot back angrily. "Is half a million too little for him? If he'd just been a bit more patient, we would've raised his pay to a million."

Mark met his gaze evenly and said, "He has a net worth of around $400 million. He's already one of the wealthiest actors in the world—definitely in the top three. Do you think he cares about money at this point?"

David gaped at Mark in disbelief. That was an obscene amount of money for a teenager—more than the combined net worth of all five producers. No wonder Troy didn't hesitate to offer to buy the movie outright.

Peter hummed thoughtfully. "Mark's right. I think Troy wanted to buy us out from the start. That's why he quoted such a high fee for the movie."

David rubbed his forehead. "Then what should we do? We can't just hand over the film at cost."

"He offered us a salary as well," Peter reminded him. "But I have a better idea. How about we let him buy us out for $10 million and a 10% cut of the revenue later on? That way, each of us can recover our original investments—not to mention the residuals. Troy's films tend to do great business so that can only be good."

Mark nodded thoughtfully. "That's a good offer. If Troy accepts it, that is. I have no doubt he'll try to bring it down. It's better if we ask for 20% from the start."

David interjected with another suggestion. "What if we go back to Paul Dano for the role? He was very good." David had been Dano's strongest advocate initially, but the other producers had overridden him, forcing his hand.

Mark shook his head. "We don't have any other superstar attached to the film. Who knows Steve Carell? He's a TV actor. Alan Arkin, Toni Collette, and Greg Kinnear are character actors at best. We need someone like Troy to put this movie on the map. With him involved, we could easily sell the film to a big studio for $20 million at least, before it's even shot. He's offering us this money because he knows exactly what he's worth."

Peter nodded along. "You're right. Let's float the idea with Albert and Ron and see if we all want to sell. Personally, I'm in."

"So am I," Mark agreed. "As long as he agrees to give us residuals."

They both turned to David, who mulled it over for some time before finally nodding. "Let's sell."

With the majority vote cast, the film was as good as sold to Troy Armitage. The only thing left to discuss was the price and profit participation.

(Break)

Back at my LA home, I was rereading the script for [LMS], immersing myself in my character, when Mum interrupted my concentration.

"I think you paid too much for this movie," she said, sitting beside me on the living room couch. "The script is very good, but these types of movies rarely even break even."

"That's what people said about [Perks] too," I replied. "Besides, $8 million is its production cost. I only paid $1 million more than that, so I don't think it was excessive."

The five producers had initially demanded an outrageous $12 million plus 20% of the revenue. That offer was laughable. After intense negotiations, we finally agreed on $9 million plus a 10% revenue share—2% for each producer. As per our deal, I'd pay them $7 million upfront and the balance upon receiving the completed film. If they saved some money from the initial $8m, good for them. If they go over budget, then they will have to pay from their own pockets.

At first, I'd considered offering them a fixed salary instead of a profit share. But after some thought, I realized they wouldn't give their best unless they had a stake in the project's success. Producers, unlike actors, don't necessarily face direct repercussions for poor performance, but profit participation has a way of motivating them.

I looked up from the revised script for [Little Miss Sunshine] when the main door opened, and in walked Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris. The husband-and-wife director duo seemed awestruck by the extravagance of my home. I blamed Mum for that.

I personally disliked ostentation, but redecorating had become her favorite pastime. Without any budget constraints, she tended to go overboard, filling the house with antiques and artwork she considered investments. According to her, these pieces were just as valuable as stocks in top companies because their worth only increased over time.

I still couldn't fathom why anyone would want the hideous horse statue by the entrance—it was ghastly. And worse, it had cost a small fortune.

"Jon! Val! So good to see you," I greeted, standing up to shake their hands before motioning to the seats. "Please, make yourselves at home." Turning to our maid who had just come in, I added, "Martha, could you bring our guests some refreshments?"

"Just water will do, thank you," Valerie said quickly before Martha could leave. She then turned to Mum. "You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Kloves."

"Thank you," Mum said, beaming. "It's a green home—completely sustainable with solar energy."

The directors looked genuinely impressed. Before the conversation veered too far into home decor, I steered it back to the reason for their visit.

"I assume Peter, Mark, and David have updated you on the recent changes?" I asked.

Jonathan grinned. "Of course they did, Mr. Producer."

"Executive Producer," I corrected, smiling. "This is just an investment for me. I won't be participating in the filmmaking in any other capacity. And please, let's keep this arrangement under wraps until filming is completed. The other producers have agreed to that condition as well."

I didn't want my fellow actors or crew members to treat me differently. It was better for them to think of me as just another cast member. Typically, there are two types of producers: those who oversee production and those who merely finance it. The latter are called Executive Producers.

In rare cases—usually with indie films—the roles of Executive Producer and Producer overlap, which almost happened with [LMS]. However, I chose to avoid the additional stress of production responsibilities, especially with less than two months to shoot the film.

"Of course," Valerie agreed easily. "Other than Jonathan and me, no one in the cast or crew will know."

"That's all I ask," I nodded, steering the conversation forward. "So, what was it you wanted to discuss that couldn't wait until rehearsals in two days?"

Valerie glanced at Jonathan and nudged him lightly. He nodded, looking a bit like an obedient puppy, before speaking. "We understand that every actor brings a unique perspective to their role, and we respect different acting methods. However, your role is quite distinct—especially in the first half, where you have no dialogue. We wanted to discuss your approach to the character. Even without speaking, we want to ensure the focus on you is equal to, if not greater than, the other characters."

I hummed thoughtfully. Their emphasis on my character was likely a nod to my dedicated fan base, which wouldn't take kindly to me playing a minor role in an indie film. But with only two weeks until filming began, major script changes weren't realistic.

"I've prepared reactions for every scene," I said after a moment. "Take a look."

I handed Valerie my copy of the script. It was printed only on the left side of each page, leaving the right side free for my notes. On these blank pages, I had detailed what I believed my character would feel and do in each scene. This method helped me dissect and understand my role better, especially in the early stages of filming. By the time we were a few weeks in, I would know the character better than anyone else—even the writer.

"This is good," Valerie said, passing the script to Jonathan, who looked equally impressed.

"Anything you'd like to add?" I asked.

"Just one thing," Valerie replied. "It's something Paul, the actor cast before you, suggested while preparing for the role. You don't have to do it—it's just an idea."

"What is it?"

"He was planning to take a vow of silence himself," Jonathan explained. "His idea was to refrain from speaking to anyone until the day we filmed the scene where the vow is broken. Because of this, we had planned to shoot all the scenes of the first half before we shot the second. So we wanted your opinion about how you will proceed because we would adjust the direction of the film based on that."

"That's some serious dedication from Paul," I noted, raising an eyebrow.

"It is," Valerie agreed.

The more I thought about it, the more the idea intrigued me. I had never gone a day without speaking—not even in solitude. Even when I was away from home promotions or something, I would usually hum, sing, or practice lines, always engaging my voice in some way. Taking a vow of silence would be difficult, but it was precisely the kind of challenge I relished.

Before I could respond, Mum interjected, "I think that's unnecessary. Troy doesn't need such stunts. He gives incredible impressions even without speaking. He can even imitate Charlie Chaplin perfectly. What more do you need?"

I smirked, grabbed a notepad from the table, and scribbled down a sentence. Turning it toward them, I revealed the words: Challenge accepted. I won't say a single word until the day we film the scene.

"Troy, don't do this," Mum pleaded. "You're not a method actor."

I shrugged and wrote another quick reply: I am now.

Mum's glare could have melted steel, but I was unbothered by it. The directors seemed both amused and impressed by the turn of events. They quickly excused themselves, leaving me to bask in my resolve—and Mum to grumble about my decision.

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