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Chapter 140: The Screenplay Competition
🕑 Added 2025-01-01 08:59:17 +0000 UTCEthan renewed his agreement with CAA.
From Edinson's perspective, this agreement seemed worthwhile. He believed Ethan's so-called film investments would ultimately amount to nothing.
Every year, countless people invest in movies, but only a handful actually make a profit. Even major studios face significant risks of losses.
Let alone Ethan, an individual investor. Even if he had money, how much could it really be? A few million dollars?
Could such small-budget films even make it to theaters? Could they yield exceptional returns? Edinson doubted Ethan could replicate the miracle of The Blair Witch Project, even though Ethan was an Oscar winner.
Edinson guessed Ethan only wanted to make niche art films to win awards at Cannes, Berlin, Venice, and other top-tier film festivals. After building a name in the directing world, he could then helm projects for major studios.
It was similar to what he had done in the music video industry, following the same trajectory many Hollywood directors took to rise to prominence.
Thus, Edinson didn't think this contract could cause CAA significant losses—at most, a few hundred thousand dollars.
These costs could easily be recouped through the subsequent film projects Ethan would manage.
Both sides also added several detailed clauses. For instance, for films with a budget exceeding $10 million, Ethan had to invest at least 50% of the funding for the contract to be valid.
Otherwise, Ethan could invest $1 million of his own money and recruit ten other investors contributing $900,000 each to exploit CAA's resources.
After all, the higher the film's cost, the greater the risk for CAA and the more budget Ethan would have left for himself.
After the meeting, Ethan returned to his company.
"Jimmy, is the advertisement I asked for ready?" Ethan asked as he pushed open Jimmy's office door without knocking, only to find Jimmy passionately making out with Lilina.
"Oh! Ethan, you're back!" Jimmy jumped up in a panic. The next second, his pants fell to the floor, revealing pink Hello Kitty underwear.
"Seriously, Jimmy." Ethan squinted and averted his eyes. "I never thought you'd be into pink."
"Don't misunderstand!" Jimmy awkwardly pulled up his pants. "I didn't choose this."
Lilina, tidying her clothes on the side, lowered her head even more.
"Leave," Jimmy said, ushering Lilina out before turning to Ethan. "It was just the first time—"
"Enough, Jimmy. I don't care if it's the first or the hundredth time. Just don't mess around during work hours, and remember to lock the door next time." Ethan waved his hand to dismiss the topic quickly. "Is the ad ready?"
"It's ready." Jimmy rushed to his desk, turned on his computer, and played the advertisement Greta had filmed at Ethan's request.
The screen showed a stage draped with red curtains. The camera zoomed in quickly, and the curtains parted to reveal a line of text: Norton's Eye Screenplay Competition!
A slender hand emerged from behind the curtains, grabbed the text, and Caden stepped out, smiling as she explained the competition rules.
The rules were simple: any screenplay with full copyright ownership was eligible for submission, whether the writer was a professional or not.
After explaining the rules, Caden picked up a pointer and introduced the prizes for the competition.
Ethan nodded in appreciation after watching the video. "Good. Greta did a nice job. Release it."
"Alright. But do you really think this will bring in good scripts?" Jimmy was skeptical. He doubted people chasing a mere $10,000 top prize would submit anything groundbreaking.
Although it was true that a few niche works occasionally made waves, they were usually discovered at major film festivals.
Hollywood studios preferred selecting raw gems from public screenings at festivals rather than gambling on submitted screenplays.
Even if a screenplay seemed promising, producers typically opted for an option agreement rather than buying the full copyright.
An option agreement gave the producer the right to purchase a script within a specified period, such as a year. During this time, the writer couldn't sell it to anyone else unless the producer declined, at which point the agreement would expire.
Hollywood deals were vast and intricate, with contracts covering everything from production to distribution. There were at least 25 types of agreements, and negotiating them was a key skill for agents.
While Ethan didn't fully grasp these complexities, Carl did. Edinson had assigned Carl as Ethan's exclusive agent.
This meant Carl's previous smaller celebrity clients were reassigned to others.
Carl wasn't sure whether to feel lucky or burdened. But based on his time working with Ethan, he doubted the company would profit much from him.
Hearing Jimmy's doubts, Ethan raised a finger. "Jimmy, never underestimate the miracles Hollywood can create. Many scripts aren't bad; they just haven't had the chance to be seen."
"But I'm afraid we'll be drowned in bad scripts before we find a good one," Jimmy quipped. He'd picked up many new phrases from Ethan.
"You're not wrong. That's why we need people with a good eye for screenplays to help out."
"Who?"
"Who else?" Ethan gestured toward the advertisement on the computer screen.
"You mean me as a judge?" Greta exclaimed inside the studio. As a regular ad director, she was shocked by the suggestion.
"Yes, Greta. Both Ethan and I think you're up for it," Jimmy said confidently.
Besides her, the judges included Jose, a familiar face, as well as Carl and Jimmy.
As for Ethan, he would only review scripts pre-selected by the panel and the complete list of submitted entries.
"Well, honestly, it sounds interesting," Greta admitted. She had always wanted to direct her own film but lacked inspiration for a script. Perhaps the competition could spark some ideas.
However, that hope was crushed within a week of the ad's release.
"What the f***?!" Jose cursed loudly as he scanned the scripts. Carl and Greta, sitting nearby, wore equally frustrated expressions.
The group was in the Angel Proclamation office. Norton Pictures, still in its infancy, didn't have its own physical space. For now, Ethan had merged the two entities.
The pile of scripts they received within half a day had already formed a three-layered mountain on the table. It seemed as if all of Hollywood's screenplays had converged here.
Jimmy couldn't imagine how many more they'd receive if they waited longer.
But the sheer volume wasn't the biggest issue. The quality was abysmal.
Many scripts were chaotic, introducing over a dozen characters at the start, leaving readers feeling lost. Others had inconsistent characterizations—one moment speaking crudely, the next behaving like a gentleman.
Some were so poorly written they resembled a child's work, riddled with spelling mistakes and awkward phrasing.
Even those with decent writing often lacked plot development, focusing excessively on internal monologues that took pages to describe simple events.
The most infuriating were the terrible plotlines. For example, a script titled The Avenger started promisingly, with a retired assassin seeking revenge after fugitives broke into his home, killed his pets, and humiliated him.
But midway through, the protagonist was captured, had a hand and leg amputated, and became disabled.
Despite overcoming tremendous challenges to find his enemies, he inexplicably chose to forgive them—because one of them had fed a stray dog a sausage.
"F***! F***! F***!" Jimmy screamed, nearly tearing the script apart.
A script like that was unbearable, yet Jimmy spitefully approved it, hoping to annoy Ethan later.
The rest of the scripts weren't much better. About 50% were explicit, featuring protagonists behaving like perpetually aroused animals.
The other 50% were overly political or darkly horrifying.
By evening, an exhausted Jimmy tossed another script aside and asked the others, "Any decent ones?"
"Unfortunately… no," Jose sighed, clearly worn out.
Carl shrugged, sipping his tea. "I feel like I've wasted days doing nothing. It's the scariest thing."
"True. And thinking about wasting even more days is even scarier," Jimmy agreed, turning to Greta.
The group pinned their last hopes on Greta, but she shook her head after rubbing her eyes. "All pretty average. Nothing stands out."
She had specifically chosen scripts by female writers, thinking they might offer a different perspective. Yet the bold narratives she found only added to the absurdity—such as three men spending an entire day in bed or two men chasing a woman only to fall for each other.
Although LGBTQ+ themes were now common, the explicit details still left people red-faced.
With a week left before the deadline, the group had little faith in the competition's success. Finding a gem amidst this mountain of garbage seemed impossible.
Just as they were about to give up, the doorbell rang, and a white man carrying a briefcase walked in.
"Hello, is this Norton's Eye?"
