345 - Hollywood: Blueprint (Patreon)

345 - Evan Has a Long Memory

After speaking with Evan, Jack Nicholson hurried back to the bar and took his place beside Brad Pitt. Brad looked puzzled. Cameras surrounded them, and the crew was ready to roll.

At Guillermo's signal, the second assistant camera held up the slate. "The Departed, scene thirty-six, take one." The clapper snapped shut.

"Action."

Evan sat behind the monitors with his arms folded. This was Nicholson and Pitt's first scene together, and he wanted to see what they would give him.

Their faces filled the screens. Jack reached beneath himself and brought out the revolver. He pointed it briefly at his own head, an ugly little flourish, then relaxed and turned the muzzle on Brad.

"Something you want to ask me?"

The gun was nowhere in the script. The crew had known Nicholson might improvise; they had not known he would bring a real, loaded weapon into the scene. Guillermo and Robert both glanced toward Evan. He said nothing, and the cameras kept running.

Brad knew at once that something was wrong. They had rehearsed this exchange without a gun. Now he could see cartridges in the cylinder, and Nicholson was aiming at his head.

Fear broke through his expression before he pulled it back under control. His eyes betrayed him for another moment. The cameras caught it all.

No one called a halt. With the director still watching, Brad forced out his line and held Nicholson's gaze. All he could think about was the trigger and whether the older man was reckless enough to touch it.

"Cut!"

After what felt far longer than a few seconds, Evan finally stopped the take. Brad leaned against the bar. Sweat stood out on his forehead.

"We have it. Fifteen-minute break, everyone."

"Jesus Christ, Jack. What the fuck were you doing?" Brad's voice was low, but there was no mistaking his anger. He was still shaken.

Even an unloaded gun had no business being aimed at another person casually. This one had been loaded. Jack had put his scene partner in a position no actor should have had to accept, and everyone on set knew it.

"Hey. Easy." Nicholson looked toward the monitors, hoping Evan would come over and explain. Evan lowered his head to his notebook instead.

"It was a joke, Brad. A stupid little joke. I wasn't going to fire it. And we got the scene in one take, didn't we?"

The two men talked under their breath for several minutes. Whatever Jack offered by way of apology, Brad eventually let the matter drop for the moment. Nicholson looked less pleased with his improvisation than he had before the cameras rolled.

Evan came over carrying the megaphone. "Feeling better?" He patted Brad on the shoulder and offered him a cigarette. "For what it's worth, I wouldn't let the old man off that easily."

Without waiting for Jack's response, he raised the megaphone. "Makeup, touch up our leading man. Let's move. They're both in the scene now, and I want to finish this location today."

As two makeup artists hurried after Brad, Evan headed back to his chair.

Jack watched him go, then looked at his costar. "Shit. Evan holds a grudge. I swear to God, he does."

Brad turned toward the makeup artists. The cold sweat had wrecked his face makeup, and they needed a clear look at it.

"Then maybe don't complain about the director," he said. "If Christian Bale hears you, he'll take it seriously and come over swinging. Have you seen what playing Batman did to him?"

Nicholson glanced around before remembering that Christian had the day off.

"Don't start on that humorless Englishman. He lives and breathes the work." Jack paused. "Then again, people like that usually get somewhere."

Directors valued actors who came prepared, worked hard, and committed completely. Christian had all three qualities, along with enough talent to make them matter. His costars did not always find him much fun between takes, but neither questioned how seriously he approached a role.

The crew also knew how grateful Christian was to Evan. Before Evan cast him as Bruce Wayne, worldwide recognition had seemed remote. He had signed on for The Departed at a fee of roughly a million dollars without hesitation.

It would probably be the last time he worked for that little. A second Batman film would command a substantial raise. A successful franchise gave an actor leverage, and replacing its face carried risks a studio could not dismiss.

Evan had planned for that when he negotiated long-term deals for the main cast. Their pay would rise, but on terms Warner could anticipate. He did not intend to discover at the second or third film that a lead actor could demand a share of the box office.

He remembered what Johnny Depp would earn from the later Pirates of the Caribbean films, even without Disney agreeing to a percentage. He remembered, too, the extraordinary sums Robert Downey Jr. would command for relatively brief appearances in the Avengers era. Those were lessons from another life. In this one, Evan wanted the contracts settled before success gave anyone a reason to reopen them.

"Among Hollywood professionals under thirty, Evan Rosenberg may be the best at turning a film into personal wealth. Publicly available figures suggest that Batman Begins alone could pay him more than a hundred million dollars."

"Nor does his income end at the box office. Rosenberg began buying Microsoft and Oracle stock in 1992 and 1993 and holds a smaller position in Cisco. Conservative estimates put those holdings above two hundred and fifty million dollars, with the companies' values still climbing."

"His Warner-related stake is harder to measure. Some financial observers believe he owns at least seven percent, perhaps making him the studio's largest individual shareholder. Warner remains one of Time Warner's most important businesses."

"The young man once held up as an American success story now faces allegations sharply at odds with that image. A former girlfriend has accused him of controlling and abusing women. Whether money played a part in concealing his conduct remains unknown. Several women's advocacy groups have offered Katie legal assistance, urged other potential complainants to speak, and called on audiences to boycott his films."

At Miramax, Harvey Weinstein tossed the newspaper onto his desk and rubbed his chin.

He looked from the article to the British director sitting across from him. Anthony Minghella had been staring at the same story.

"Anthony, don't tell me you and Miles Rourke arranged all this." Harvey shook his head before Minghella could answer. "No. You couldn't have. This is bigger than either of you."

"I swear we didn't," Minghella said quickly. "Rourke and I wanted to make his life difficult. The rest had nothing to do with us. We don't have the reach for it."

Before Harvey could reply, the television that had been running in the office switched to a strange piece of footage. A distorted score played over darkened images of Evan. What had begun as a familiar performance on a set now looked unsettling.

It was airing on CBS, one of the country's largest broadcast networks.

"Fuck," Harvey muttered. "You two didn't do this. I couldn't put together a piece like that on my own." He leaned toward the screen. "Someone's spending real money."